She noticed him at once behind all the people. They moved towards her, passed by, disappeared in the hot air of the Sunday afternoon. She couldn’t see him, but she noticed that at one spot people disappeared as if they were falling on their knees and then standing up again. Those who passed by had their fists clenched and an empty desperate look in their dark eyes. Who else could it be but the colonel? He was an old man who, having lost all his wars, was still fighting his hardest one, the war against loneliness – she thought.
He was a true legend. She knew that they loved him and treated him as if he was a holy man. She certainly knew that he wasn’t. No colonel ever is. Besides they told her that he, who had fought many cruel wars, never fought the cruel war of love, never felt the cold hatred of a lover. Sometimes she felt sorry for him, and when all the grown-ups were talking about him in lowered voices as if the colonel was already dead, she thought that they never knew the man behind his cold eyes, never saw the colonel behind the crowd.
The procession was still moving and seemed to have no end. Now she saw him. He looked exactly as she had imagined many years before, when she had first heard his name. Golden light rose in the air around the place where the colonel was sitting. People kneeled, whispered something – maybe a prayer? – picked something up from the ground near the colonel, and went away. They were silent.
She waited the whole day for the end of that crowd. The air was still hot and stuffy and the procession grew thinner. At last when the dark sky covered the streets, the rest of the disappearing crowd, the colonel, and leached away the strange lighting from the ground, she went towards him. He didn’t seem to notice her and looked at the tree on the other side of the street. His eyes were old – she thought. His trembling hands held a small goldfish, but he wasn’t looking at it. The ground around him was covered with such golden fish, that was where the glow came from. Nothing holy, just an old man who had nothing to wait for and still was waiting.
“It’s warm colonel,” – she said to him, never knowing how to start. He remained silent. “They all came to see you?” She noticed that he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. His eyes grew narrow, he looked beyond her, beyond the tree, beyond his own unbounded loneliness.
– It’s raining – he said, and she felt warm heavy drops falling on her face. Her colonel was silent. What would you do? She took a golden fish, as a souvenir, and went away.
The procession was still moving and seemed to have no end. Now she saw him. He looked exactly as she had imagined many years before, when she had first heard his name. Golden light rose in the air around the place where the colonel was sitting. People kneeled, whispered something – maybe a prayer? – picked something up from the ground near the colonel, and went away. They were silent.
She waited the whole day for the end of that crowd. The air was still hot and stuffy and the procession grew thinner. At last when the dark sky covered the streets, the rest of the disappearing crowd, the colonel, and leached away the strange lighting from the ground, she went towards him. He didn’t seem to notice her and looked at the tree on the other side of the street. His eyes were old – she thought. His trembling hands held a small goldfish, but he wasn’t looking at it. The ground around him was covered with such golden fish, that was where the glow came from. Nothing holy, just an old man who had nothing to wait for and still was waiting.
“It’s warm colonel,” – she said to him, never knowing how to start. He remained silent. “They all came to see you?” She noticed that he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. His eyes grew narrow, he looked beyond her, beyond the tree, beyond his own unbounded loneliness.
– It’s raining – he said, and she felt warm heavy drops falling on her face. Her colonel was silent. What would you do? She took a golden fish, as a souvenir, and went away.
Creative Writing Bielefeld 
Leave a comment