Narcissus

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

The End

About the Book

Enter the financial heart of Europe – London – just before the financial crisis and meet Tristan: investment banker and celebrated playboy. Young, successful and devastatingly handsome, Tristan, one of the greatest seducers of our time, sets out to become King of the City.

About the Author

Paul Sandmann is a confirmed traveller, dreamer, and lover of classical music and the fine arts. He has been writing since he was twelve years old and in recent months has been reading his tales to his girlfriend. He has been working on this novel for six years.

Paul Sandmann is all of thirty-three years old.

www.twitter.com/paulsandmann

Paul Sandmann

Narcissus

A modern love story

Imprint

Narcissus: A modern love story

Paul Sandmann

Translated by Gordon C. Wells

Cover Design: Paul Sandmann

Cover Motif: El Ángel Rebelde by Salvatore Buemi

Published by: epubli GmbH, Berlin, www.epubli.de

Copyright of Translation: © 2012 Gordon C. Wells

ISBN 978-3-7375-2716-3

Praise for Narcissus:

“Tristan is successful, young, beautiful and in search of the perfect - in search of the one true love. After the first few sentences I was already enthralled by Paul Sandmann’s writing style. I think I have never read a more beautiful description of a kiss than in this novel. … You cannot read this book without being deeply moved by it - as I was, even if I did not fully understand Tristan: on the one hand hopelessly romantic and on the other cold as steel. But maybe that is what lends this man his attraction … he is fascinating and abhorrent at the same time.

It is a book of extremes. It is a very emotional book and it is a book full of suspense. Paul Sandmann enchanted me with the poetry of his words. It lingers over this novel like the breeze of a wonderful scent.”

- Martina Meyen, Eselöhrchen

“Tristan, a modern Dorian Gray? … The description of Tristan, especially his inner conflict and his relationship with others, is thrilling and beautiful. … This is a remarkable novel by a talented indieauthor.”

- Harald Faisst, Bücher und eBooks

“The narrative style is passionate, the characters well developed, the atmosphere and setting wonderful. Particularly interesting are the changes of narrative tone when the story shifts from Tristan’s private life to his uncompromising business life. In scenes of Tristan’s private life, the reader can’t help but notice the protagonist’s thirst for love. … I was deeply impressed by this modern Greek tragedy.”

- Elsa Rieger, ebook salon

“This is something different - a love story in which the focus is not on the female character, but on the male protagonist.”

- Monica Heidt, Leseleidenschaft

To my readers, who tweet, talk and write about this book.

Together we can change first ourselves and then the world.

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank Gordon C. Wells for his beautiful translation of “Tristan“. I feel grateful for having found such a talented man for this challenging task.

I

Sensuously undulating curves, with their taut covering of silky skin. So tender! Salmon pink, the flesh beneath shines through. Thirsty, it swells outwards. Demanding of love, greedy, insatiable. Across it flow tiny filigree lines – to the shadows of the opening, so microscopically fine that they are imperceptible to all but lovers, who immediately fall under their spell. Each individual line runs in only one direction, towards the opening. Like sirens they seize the beholder, commanding him to come closer. So close that his breath is almost grazing the skin. Then it happens: the shadows open and the breath of both of them mingles. All at once their flesh is as close as only a kiss can make it. With only a breath between them to hold back the hot blood pulsating through the body. How much closer can you get to a person than when you’re kissing, he asked himself.

He straightened his freshly knotted tie, then stepped back from the mirror. Fine, light-blue stripes ran through the pink of the Chinese silk. He slipped the jacket round his shoulders and pulled the sleeves of his white shirt, with their silver cufflinks, an inch or so out from under the black material. Then he looked at himself again and flared his nostrils, as a puff of scent from his freshly shaved neck below the prominent chin wafted up. On that particular morning, its fragrance, which gradually unfolded around him, was unable to dispel the troublesome thoughts that tormented him. His gaze was drawn back to his own broad lips.

How many mouths had they already kissed?

And how many merely for the taste, not for love? Just like last night.

Are such questions even allowed, he thought. Or could you then never kiss anyone again?

I want to kiss her, he thought to himself. Want her laughter to belong to me – when the little lines vanish as though by magic and the white teeth smile at me. Is kissing this mouth the longed-for promise? Does kissing someone mean anything any more? For someone who is as free with their kisses as I am, that would be more than I have a right to expect.

He smiled nervously.

Have I only ever kissed women I loved? Definitely not. If I had, I should probably have died of thirst. Do you let the buds of youth fade because you’re too serious about love? Should you not be content with affection, which can grow into love later? Those who keep the first kiss for their true love have bartered a passionate yesterday for a safe tomorrow. They were too fearful to risk falling. Wouldn’t follow their dreams. If they acted in this way, they could never be disappointed or hurt. Because if you let your counterpart carry on regardless, embraced by your own dreams and wishes, disappointment can be the result. Does this mean you regret the kiss when the cocoon that holds the illusion together bursts open?

At that moment the sound of water from the shower stopped and his visitor stepped out. Seconds later her naked body appeared in the mirror behind him, the white skin covered with hundreds of tiny droplets of water.

“Hi handsome, what’s all this about then? If I’d known you had to get up so early, I wouldn’t have come home with you,” said the stranger, resting her head on his shoulder and trying to make eye contact. He felt the material of his jacket soaking up the dampness of her chin.

“Yes you would,” he replied, without looking at her. He adjusted his tie once more, then he turned round and wiped a droplet of water from the tip of her nose.

“The bank calls, you can go back to bed. Just close the door behind you when you leave. There should still be some sushi in the fridge for breakfast.”

She pulled a face. Her blue eyes and pouty mouth had really affected him – yesterday. Now she looked rather tired. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then picked up his black briefcase from the chest of drawers and went out; he had almost completely shaken off the gloomy thoughts of that morning. Outside the lift they came back in force, but once he had said hello to the lady next door and the porter and entered the lift he began to wonder whether he ought to feel ashamed of that passionate yesterday. After so many disappointments, should he simply bid farewell to all hope?

No, no! Each morning, when you wake, you should hold fast to your dreams before they escape. Keep them safe till the day has fully dawned. Each day afresh. And if the world tries to destroy your dreams, hacks away at them till they bleed, then protect them with everything you’ve got. Give them the night for healing and guard their presence with you – each day anew. You must never betray them, never lose hope of love. Or your heart will die. At that moment he thought of her wonderful body, and how it had been silhouetted under the bed sheets that morning, while she was still asleep.

He sucked his cheeks in a little between his slightly parted teeth, looked up at the polished metal door of the lift, and a captivating smile crept over his face, making his elderly neighbour sigh.

II

She heard the door shut. He had gone and she was alone. But she was not overwhelmed by any feeling of loneliness or of regret that he had left her so soon. Yesterday they had got to know each other in a trendy bar. He was good-looking, in top physical form, his smile irresistible. Moreover, he had charm. Hearing him talk reminded her of one of those stars of the films she was so fond of. Every phrase had been just right. So why shouldn’t she go with him? True, she had only known him for a few hours, yet the temptation had simply been too great. She went into the kitchen to look for some juice. The apartment was smart, furnished with every facility imaginable. Over there, next to the door, was a symmetrical area let into the marble floor, filled with black pebbles, with three bamboo plants that reached right up to the ceiling. The shower-room, where, as well as the shower itself, she had been targeted by spray from all four walls. The living room with the glass front, through which the early morning sun shone – and through which there was a marvellous view on to the London streets and surrounding area. And the black leather couch, where she was now sitting cross-legged and naked, drinking her orange juice. She had left the sushi in the refrigerator untouched – she didn’t care for this exotic stuff. Her glance fell on the wall shelving filled with CDs and records. She found everything unusually neat and tidy for a man’s apartment. Not one of his dark hairs, which would have shown up on the white floor, was visible – and even the toilet seat had been down! She could not immediately put into words the feelings all this aroused in her, so she pushed the thought to one side.

Marie put the glass down. She went back into the bedroom to get dressed. As she stood at the foot of the bed the word she had been looking for suddenly came to mind: sterile. That was the word that described the atmosphere in Tristan’s living room so precisely. The apartment was not welcoming, but rather too clean and tidy – at least to her way of thinking. She could scarcely imagine how anyone could live here. Although at first sight everything looked modern and stylish, she found the coldness she sensed there frightening. She wondered who did the cleaning here – but she comforted herself with the thought: He’s a man. Men are only concerned with necessary and practical things and have no time for accessories like candles, plants and so forth. He probably has a hyperactive Mexican cleaning lady, too. Her friends were fortunate in that respect – Miranda, a small, stocky mid-forty-year-old from Puerto Angel even smoothed the bedclothes over the children after they had gone to sleep.

Then her thoughts returned to this man, who she scarcely knew and with whom everything had happened so quickly. Tristan came across as sensitive and charming; she would not have believed it possible that she would ever meet a man like that. The night had been fantastic; until yesterday she had never experienced such waves of ecstasy. He always seemed to know exactly what she was thinking and wanting. It went beyond words – he was right on her wavelength. It was as if there was a transparent connection between them, something that was completely new to her. But, it wasn’t every day that she went home with a stranger either. After dressing she picked up her handbag from the sofa and walked towards the door of the apartment. She opened it and cast a final glance back into the living room. With a satisfied smile she closed the door behind her.

The warm feeling she had experienced vanished as soon as she stepped out on to the street. One glance at her watch was enough to transform her inner calm into anxiety. It was a quarter to nine. She looked around for a taxi, but of course there was none in sight. It was as though they were all conspiring against her. She had to be at work at nine o’clock, so she hurried down the street and turned into a quiet side-road. After an eight minute walk she finally found a taxi and asked to be taken to Brompton Road. When she arrived at the store, completely exhausted, and made her way to the perfume department, she was greeted with a wink from her work-mate Angelina.

“I’ve already told them you had a doctor’s appointment and would be late. So you’re excused and there’s no need for an awkward meeting with Mr Howard.”

“You’re a sweetie, Angie. You’re always looking out for me. – Shall we have lunch together today?”

“Great idea – if you’re paying.”

They laughed.

“See you at one then. Ciao.”

Marie moved on. She started arranging new items on the shelves, then carried on stacking the rest of the shelves. Lunchtime arrived in a flash, because she kept thinking about the evening she spent with Tristan, and all the sweet nothings he had whispered in her ear. She had already forgotten those troubling thoughts about his apartment and now she just enjoyed the lovely memories of the previous night. Of course, she knew only too well that it had been no more than one single night and that he might well be flirting with another woman at this very minute. All the same, she wasn’t the type to give up so soon.

She had left him a short and open-ended note on the kitchen table, hoping that sooner or later he would contact her again. Marie was still rather old-fashioned in this way; she never made the first move, but always waited for the man to take the initiative. Consequently, many a time men had slipped through her fingers, simply because she was too passive. But old habits die hard, and she tried to convince herself that Tristan would call anyway, because he had enjoyed their night together too. She just had to believe it.

Suddenly a customer roused her from her reveries: “Where can I find a shower gel that goes with this scent?”

Tristan slammed the receiver down and typed something into his computer. He narrowed his eyes as he followed the trajectory of an insurance company that had just nose-dived.

“Whatever happened there?” he whispered to himself and switched to a different window to try to find the cause of the collapse. But none of the data could explain it.

“What’s going on here?” he called out to his colleague Marcus, who was sitting only a few feet away from him. Marcus quickly typed a few characters, pressed the Enter key and pushed his chair over to Tristan on its castors. In doing so he almost knocked over a rubbish bin crammed full of left-overs from a Chinese take-away that was positioned between them.

“Ah, Fensec. Yes, Tom was just sending his positive analysis for the next few months by video link to New York and Tokyo. As he was doing it, though, he suddenly had the mother of all nosebleeds and that put the mockers on it. The dealers switched off like a flash, and this,” Marcus pointed to the flickering line heading diagonally downwards, “is the result.”

“Congratulations!” exclaimed Tristan with a sardonic smile and shook his head. But Marcus had pushed himself away again and rolled back to his desk laughing.

At lunch in one of those little French street cafes near the City, Tristan was chatting with two colleagues about Tom’s misfortune.

“You’re an idiot, Tom,” said Steve straight out – he was a gaunt-looking man with short, cropped, fair hair.

Tom, who was visibly irritated, scratched his nose and cast a furious glance at Steve. Before the others had stopped laughing, he retorted loudly and clearly, addressing the whole group: “It could have happened to any one of you. So why don’t you just go fuck yourself?”

But his words only made the others laugh all the louder. George picked up the ketchup bottle and turned away, and when he turned back to face Tom he was sporting a thick, blood-red moustache above his upper lip.

“See, Tom, that’s how you looked in Tokyo!”

He turned away briefly and then looked back at the others. Nothing had changed. The tomato puree was still dripping from his nose.

“And that’s how you looked in New York!”

Tom went scarlet. Through half-closed eyes he shot poisoned arrows in the direction of the others. His pale-blue eyes blazed with anger. Then the blood spurted out of his nose again and on to his clean new tie.

“And that’s what you looked like in Frankfurt!” cried George and banged on the table, giving one of the waitresses a fright and making her drop a knife. Tristan bent down and picked up the knife, which had fallen near his shoe, while the noisy guffaws of the other two reduced the whole cafe to silence. As he raised his head and looked at the embarrassed waitress, a smile flickered across his lips. The girl was wearing white socks to the knee under her dark skirt. Her white shirt was adorned with a black bow tie. Her arms, projecting from her short sleeves, were a delicate pink, like fine china. His fingers brushed lightly against hers as he placed the knife in her hand.

“Look at that, it’s an absolute scream and Tris isn’t the least bit interested,” one of them shouted as the others all laughed.

“Of course I am, it’s hilarious,” said Tristan, with a wry grin. He took a look at Tom’s shirt and bit into his baguette. Tom realized that dabbing with his serviette was never going to rescue his shirt or his tie. So he put it aside and looked at Tristan.

“By the way, what was going on yesterday with you and that bird?” he asked.

Tristan looked up from his salad and allowed his gaze to rest for a moment on the expectant face of the banker.

“With us? Not a lot,” replied Tristan finally, then looked away and sampled the salmon pâté.

“Don’t bother to ask, he never talks about his affairs. He takes his pick-ups home one after another, but he’d like us to think that nothing ever actually happens.” Steve gave Tristan a slap on the back. “Tristan is a monk, didn’t you know that?”

“Me, I had a ball yesterday,” George interjected. “The little darling screeched like a harpy, but I’m telling you, my friends, it was a night to remember.” As he spoke, he made an unambiguous gesture, which left Tristan choking on his pâté. This looked like the start of one of those conversations that normally led to general fraternization, as each of them in turn, like a hunter with his kill, deposited the game on the table, raw and bleeding, and began to tell the rest of them all about his conquests. And as they gutted the prey all over again to satisfy the wide-eyed curiosity of the brothers, the cafe gradually emptied – the lunch break was nearing its end. Relieved it was all over, Tristan agreed to take care of the bill while the others went ahead to have a smoke, then said to the girl as he got up to go: “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. I hope you can forgive these yobs.”

“No problem.” She smiled shyly.

“Are you new in town?” he asked.

She nodded.

He contemplated the blonde for a moment. She didn’t seem to believe that he could possibly want to ask her any more questions. So he just smiled, nodded to the girl and opened the door of the cafe.

Tom pushed past George and Steve as he went through the door, jostled a passer-by and hurried off with an angry look on his face. He ran past the display windows of the bistros and cafes that lined the street.

Tom’s face was that of a fine-looking man. However, a persistent tension was gradually beginning to leave its mark. His jaw was permanently thrust slightly forward, and this had affected the muscular structure, strengthening the filaments at the side of his face, while weakening those in the cheeks that controlled the action of laughter. As long as the fibres of his teeth and bones were still young, these filaments had retained their shape. Now, though, his cheeks were beginning to look hollow. To the side of his mouth the skin bulged and sent vertical creases down from the corners of his mouth, bespeaking prolonged dissatisfaction. He liked to think that this was a genetic predisposition, but no face is proof against tens of thousands of hours of the same facial expressions constantly repeated, and sooner or later these inevitably leave their mark.

What was more, Tom’s skin colour seemed to be no longer as fresh as that of his colleagues of a similar age. But can the skin be expected to be radiant when the tissue underlying it is exposed to such continual stress? Tom’s face lacked spontaneity thanks to this ingrained grim determination. He regularly smiled a few seconds too late, and his laugh was never able to completely free itself of a certain mask-like rigidity.

Unconsciously reacting to this blemish in order not to alienate his conversational partners, Tom tended to support whatever it was that his interlocutor was saying by affirmative nodding or interested murmurs. This was apt to suggest insecurity, although this would have been a mistaken impression.

On the other hand, Tom’s eyes had never lost their brightness. Even if for most of the time they were focused on the other speaker, they reacted to any touch of humour with a smile. It was perhaps due to the keen intelligence of this man that his eyes revealed this reaction more quickly than was the case for other people, which meant that there was an odd mismatch between the eyes and the mouth region when the conversation took a less serious turn. All in all, Tom was self-contradiction personified. His handsome appearance, his intelligence and athleticism ought to have made him the centre of attraction in any society. But his highly strung mentality, constantly close to breaking point, and his restless nature, prevented this. In the end, this was bound to lead to his downfall.

This was also reflected in the way Tom spoke. His voice sounded distorted, like a discordant whine proceeding from the consciousness of his inner conflicts. It was as though half his vocal cords wanted to give expression to what was being said – shrill and emotionally charged – while the other half sounded dark and was intended to convey the impression of strength.

Again, Tom bumped into a pedestrian, then apologized politely, took a few more steps and disappeared into the bank’s high-rise office building.