Chapter 7: Gutenberg’s Other Book

21 May 2016

Spending Sunday with Carl and his kids on the promised tour of Bavaria helped to lift my black mood some. In the past two days, I’d been back to the train station three times, ready to board a train and return to Brno. I desisted. What was I going to do? Go back and sit on her steps until she agreed to come with me? Prolong our parting? Skip my trip to Berlin to meet my daughter and her boyfriend? Fall more deeply into a hopeless love?

Instead, Carl drove me two hours from Munich to Hohenschwangau to tour the Disneyland castles, eat curry wurztl, and talk. It was a good time. I learned about the German education system that Carl’s kids were in. We discussed alternate pathways through LNDtH. I found out about German politics and economy. We examined my creative process and how I come up with story ideas. His twelve-year-old daughter was practicing her English skills by joining in the conversation and by translating bits for her younger brother. I tried out my German on the boy and he laughed at my pronunciation and syntax. It was good.

The next day, I decided to visit an art museum and spent two hours wandering around lost thanks to a needed software update for my GPS. When I finally reached the museum, I was hot and sweaty and tired. But I enjoyed three hours of fantastic art, complete with an audio guide to important pieces. I took my time and often sat to simply ponder what the artist was saying in the painting. I especially enjoyed a series of landscapes painted over a ten-year period.

I headed back to my flat, knowing that I needed to find a place for dinner soon. And a beer. I was beginning to get a little weak and shaky.

I made another wrong turn trying to get to my flat in Munich. It proved to be fortuitous as a Mecca appeared before me. The Löwenbräu Beer Garden. I was saved. In Munich, there are seven breweries that dominate the market. Löwenbräu is not necessarily the top of the line. But it had a special place in my heart that took me back to Paula. I found a seat outside and soon found out what a mas was.

A Long Time Ago: Löwenbräu Dark Special

My first ex-wife to be had taken a summer job in New Jersey and a week before our senior year in college I drove out to bring her back to Indiana. Yeah. That was the summer of Lori. Remember? Well, Paula had a cooler packed with sandwiches and drinks that we put in the backseat of the Corvair, and we tossed her bags in the front trunk with the other gear I had. We were on the road by nine in the morning and off the road by noon.

I had an ancestor who fought in the Civil War and I wanted to see the famed Gettysburg Battlefield. We found a campground located practically on the battlefield and set up our tent. As soon as our sleeping bags were unrolled, we crawled into the tent and fucked like bunnies. We were good at that.

Only we didn’t fuck. Chances are you were frustrated as hell in Living Next Door to Heaven when nobody actually fucked until the fourth book. Ever wonder where the idea for that rubbing without penetration came from? Yeah. The story of my life. Paula was a virgin and intended to stay that way until the knot was tied and we were on our honeymoon. So we didn’t fuck—exactly. We did every possible thing we could think of that would get our genitals in touch with each other without penetrating. Had a few close calls, but a week before graduation, I took my new bride to a secluded inn and popped her tattered cherry. I never told her I wasn’t a virgin, too, but she never actually asked.

So, we depleted a lot of fluids in the tent that August afternoon and Paula opened the cooler. Along with the sandwiches, there were six bottles of Löwenbräu Dark Special—a gift from her former employer. I’d just turned twenty-one and Paula was a few months behind me, so neither of us were very experienced beer drinkers. But Löwenbräu Dark Special was the ambrosia of the gods to us that afternoon. Löwenbräu has had a special place in my heart ever since drinking it on that hot August afternoon with my fingers rubbing Paula’s clit.

Back to Munich

“Ein Dunkel, bitte.”

“Kleine oder grosse?”

“Grosse.”

All through Europe, I’d become used to beer being offered in two sizes. The small was a third of a liter—roughly the size of a 12-ounce can. The big was a half-liter, like ordering a pint at an English pub. I was definitely a thirsty cowboy this afternoon and figured a half-liter would go down easy.

The mug of dark beer the waiter brought me was huge. In Munich, and by extension much of Germany, it’s too much work to keep refilling half-liters of beer. So that is considered the small size. The large size, or mas, was a full liter. During Oktoberfest, I was told, you can’t even buy the small size. It made no difference. It was the perfect size to wash down their Beef Stroganoff.

I sat in the beer garden for two hours, relishing the flavor of the food and beer, and the memories of Paula’s pretty little pussy.

My next stop was Berlin where I met up with my daughter and her boyfriend. He treated her well and got my stamp of approval. When they found out that it was an eight-hour train ride that would cost them more than €500, they decided not to go to Munich. Instead, we had a good time visiting the sights in Berlin, my last stop in what I considered Eastern Europe. We visited the Mauer Park Market, the Brandenburg Gate, and the Reichstag or parliament.

A Long Time Ago: The Wall

I was raised during the Cold War. My entire concept of Berlin was shaped by JFK shouting ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’ over the wall—which roughly translated means ‘I am a jelly roll’—and by the James Bond movie, A View to a Kill. Not exactly the best of the genre.

Still, nothing epitomized the division of East and West like the Berlin Wall, der Mauer. It was the physical representation of the Iron Curtain. I was in rehearsal for a play that had been optioned by a small theater company in Honolulu in November of 1989. It wasn’t a big deal and the entire pay that I got was getting a ticket and housing for a week in Honolulu while I watched dress rehearsals, fucked the leading actress, and attended the premier. We were in dress rehearsal Wednesday night, the eighth of November, when the house manager interrupted the show.

“They’ve opened the Berlin Wall,” she said. “People are breaking down the wall!”

It was November 9th in Germany. The government announced that East Berliners would be allowed to cross the wall to visit relatives and friends in the West. The wall was mobbed. The checkpoints opened. People on both sides began pounding on it with hammers. The wall didn’t officially come down for two more years, but November 9, 1989 is one of the two dates in history that I will always remember. It was the day the Berlin Wall was breached.

Back to Berlin

Twenty-seven years later, I stood at Checkpoint Charlie. It wasn’t nearly as impressive as I imagined it all those years ago. A box in the middle of the street and a sign announcing ‘You are leaving the American Sector.’ A couple old guys in surplus U.S. Army uniforms holding an American flag charged tourists three euros for a picture with them. From the sound of it, the guys were German. You can even have your passport stamped.

A few sections of the wall still stand as a sort of memorial, and the entire length of the wall is marked by posts so people can see how the city was divided. I didn’t walk the whole thirty-four miles, but I did visit several sections. In Mauer Park, there is a section of wall a hundred yards long that graffiti artists paint every week. It is temporary art. Each Friday, the park maintenance people paint out everything on that section of the wall with gray or white paint. Saturday and Sunday, the artists start with a new canvas and tag it again. Graffiti is a real art form in Berlin.

Another section of wall, about a mile long, is in the center of Berlin along the River Spree. It’s called the East Side Gallery and preserves a huge amount of the graffiti art that had decorated the west side of the wall in the 80s. I spent more than an hour walking along this section, then let my daughter and her boyfriend go on while I went back along the wall on the east side, through the killing field along the river.

I had to sit.

And some people in our country want to build one.

I stayed in Berlin for a couple extra days to attend a party at the women’s prison and go swimming at the nude beach. An interesting experience.

Frauengefängnis Lichterfelde is an old prison in the American Sector that was used for women during the cold war. It’s such an iconic place that it’s been used as a location for prison movies since it was decommissioned in the early ‘90s. The new prison was built and opened a few miles away. The old prison was acquired by a private investor who is turning it into an artists’ colony. For some exorbitant fee, you can rent a cell in which to create or display your art, whether it is painting, sculpture, music, writing, or whatever. A little of the facility is being updated—like restrooms—but the cells are essentially still six by eight rooms that were big enough for a cot and a sink.

A musician friend was playing a couple sets at the opening celebration of the new facility so I stayed in town to attend with my Rent-a-Bed host, Giselle. Mostly we had a great time wandering around exploring the various studio cells, watching musical performances and a little dance, and eating from the half dozen food vendors. We didn’t get back to the apartment until after two in the morning and I wished my daughter had been able to stay one more night. She’d have loved the event.

I didn’t get to the kitchen to make coffee until nearly seven the next morning. That’s pretty late for me. Even when I stay up late the night before, I tend to rise between five and five-thirty in the morning every day. It goes back to my days as a newspaper carrier with a morning route. Does that sound familiar? Well, bits and pieces of the real me sneak into my characters’ experience. Then I doctor them up to make it look like it was exciting and significant. Kind of like the news media.

Giselle was even later emerging from her room, thankful that I had coffee ready. We didn’t speak until she’d had two cups and a cigarette on the deck. Eventually, she asked if I had plans for the day.

“I’m just kind of hanging around today,” I said. “I want to catch up on some writing, but other than that, finding coffee and food are the top of my list.”

“I have some work to do this morning now that my eyes are open. There’s a beach not far from here. We could take the bikes this afternoon. Interested?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said.

Great idea since the afternoon turned out to be about the hottest that I’d had since I left Thailand.

Giselle and I had hit it off like old friends from the moment I entered her apartment north of the Hauptbahnhof. It was like we had all this catching up to do since the last time we’d seen each other, even though we’d never met before. It wasn’t a sexual thing at all, surprisingly enough. We certainly had plenty of opportunity to indulge ourselves that way if we wanted. Mostly, though, it was just as if we were two long-time friends sharing an apartment.

What she’d failed to mention to me was that the stretch of grass on either side of the bike path that they called a beach was the favored hangout for the local naturists. Water access was down a muddy path and through a hole cut in the fence. It wasn’t much of a beach, but the scenery was great! Giselle wasn’t bad, either, though we’d developed more of a partners-in-crime relationship than one of potential bedmates. Maybe she was laying the groundwork for a future visit. Neither of us could see the other’s eyes behind our dark glasses, but after surreptitiously checking each other out, I think we both enjoyed looking at the other bathers.

Monday morning, I boarded a train headed West to the little town of Mainz, Germany, thirty minutes west of Frankfurt and across the river from Wiesbaden. It was a pilgrimage. Mainz—the place where Gutenberg printed the Bible and started the printing revolution.

A Few Years Ago: Bestseller

I wrote a book—big surprise—about printing. As a hobby, I studied printing history for twenty years and even lectured on it on occasion. I was as fascinated by what wasn’t in the history as what was. Why, exactly, was the goldsmith Gutenberg fooling around with lead, tin, and antimony so that he accidentally came up with a dimensionally stable alloy that would be hard enough to resist the pressure of the printing press but that would melt at a low enough temperature to be cast in the shape of characters of the alphabet. Could it have been that he was actually an alchemist? Lead, tin, and antimony were known to be the principal ingredients alchemists used for their experiments in turning lead into gold.

I wove that possibility into a contemporary thriller about two rare book librarians who race time, terrorists, and homeland security across three continents to find and preserve a legendary ‘other book’ supposedly printed by Gutenberg. It actually won an award and became my best selling commercial work.

Before you jump to conclusions about what that means, let me remind you that there are a million books a year published in the U.S. and it takes only 100 sales to be in the top twenty percent of sellers. The Gutenberg Rubric made it up into about the top fifteen percent when I was on my book tour back in ‘11. Hot shit, huh?

But this is about the pilgrimage to Mainz. I’d been there once before and actually had a framed page of the Bible that I got to print on a refurbished press of the fifteenth century. But in 2000, celebrating the 550th anniversary of the birth of printing (in western civilization), they had completely renovated and remodeled the Gutenberg museum and library. That was the façade that was featured in my story and I’d never seen it.

Back to Mainz

I enjoy walking, so it didn’t bother me that the hotel I finally managed to get was located two miles and across the river from downtown Mainz. It was next to the U.S. Army base in Wiesbaden and I was willing to walk along the Main River to get to where I wanted to go. I reserved the day on Tuesday to go explore the museum and set off in the morning. Little did I know, this particular Tuesday was some kind of religious holiday that is celebrated in Mainz and everything was closed, including the museum.

Everything except the Dom. The various Archbishops of Mainz played into the history of printing as well, so I did spend an hour or more touring the cathedral that had stained glass memorials to its bishops dating back well into the first millennium. After having seen my fill of dead people, I found a wine bar and had a pleasant late lunch before hiking the two miles back to my hotel to write.

I was nearly finished with the do-over, Not This Time, and was trying to figure out how to wrap it up. People would either love it or hate it, but that seemed to be pretty standard for what I write. I’m fine with that. Even when readers write anonymously to tell me that I’m a “sick puppy who maybe likes to trick people into reading his sick fantasies.” That’s better than my last ex-wife’s indifference. Sorry. Didn’t mean to let that slip out.

Breakfast at the hotel was a high point, even if it was high-priced. After three months in Europe, I finally learned how to eat a hard-boiled egg in an egg cup. First off, I decided I really like hot boiled eggs.

All my life, boiled eggs in my family have been served cold. Well, there were only two occasions for serving boiled eggs in the first place. We colored boiled eggs at Easter, hid them, hunted them, and sat with a salt shaker as we peeled and ate them. Two or three months later, we’d find one that had been missed and see what target outside we could hit with it.

The only other time we boiled eggs was to make deviled eggs for picnics.

Setting a boiled egg, still hot, in an egg cup (big end down) and tapping around it to remove the top half of the shell took a little skill. But then you simply use your egg spoon to eat the hot egg out of the bottom half of the shell. Quick and easy! And boiled eggs don’t splash grease all over the stovetop. I was definitely going to be eating a lot more boiled eggs in the future. Complete with cold slices of ham and cheese. And thick slices of fresh bread. I was beginning to like the idea of how breakfasts would change when I moved back into my trailer.

Nonetheless, even writing during breakfast only stretches the meal out so long and I was off on my second hike to Mainz to see the museum.

“Why are they different?” a woman to my left asked.

I was standing in front of the display case in a dimly lit room looking at two different copies of the Gutenberg Bible open to the same page. I’d been standing there staring at them for at least fifteen minutes. They were, indeed, different.

“When Gutenberg printed the Bible, he left a blank space for the large capitals,” I said automatically. “Because of the consistency across the books, we’re assuming that he printed the red letter type at the beginning of some of the chapters, but the decorative capitals were left for calligraphers to paint on individual copies of the book. The person who acquired a Bible got a stack of pages and a guide to rubrication, or the letters that the calligrapher needed to add. Different buyers had different tastes and budgets. This copy was done in a fairly plain style with just one additional color of ink. This one, apparently acquired by a wealthier patron, was painted with ornate capitals and tails—the decorative parts that extend down the page—and even makes use of gold leaf.”

“Huh. How do you know this?” she asked. I tore my gaze away from the incredible works of both art and craftsmanship to look at her, bending over the glass. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t the substantial woman that I met. She straightened up and looked me straight in the eye. We were about even in height. And by substantial, I don’t mean fat or even heavy. She was broad-shouldered, big-breasted, and wide at the hip, but she looked to be absolutely rock solid.

“Well, I studied it. Read all the little placards and stories on the exhibits here in the museum. That sort of thing,” I said.

“Tell me more. Do you mean that they actually just got a stack of printed pages? Who put the covers on?” she asked.

“That would be the work of a book binder. If you look at the bindings, you’ll see that they are as different from each other as the calligraphy. In fact, this one was rebound in the nineteenth century. We really don’t know what the original binding even looked like,” I said. Okay, I’m a bit of a showoff when it comes to print history. Having an interested—and really very pretty—audience triggered my pomposity gene and I started telling stories about printing. She followed along as we went through the exhibit and I pointed out other works that were of interest in the museum, which was about everything to me.

“The Hypnerotomachia Poliphili was the first of what we might call dime novels.”

“What is that?” she asked.

“A popular romance novel. Not sure how it translates into German. In English, it’s roughly Poliphilo’s Dream of Love and Sex. Supposedly a very sexy book, though I’ve never seen a translation. I might rewrite it someday in a contemporary version if I ever do find a translation. The unique part about the book, aside from its blatantly secular nature, was the size. It was said to be the first book that would conveniently ‘fit in a saddlebag.’ You can see that it’s about the same size as a contemporary hardcover novel,” I said.

I am a pompous ass. My companion, however, had possessively latched onto my arm as she asked questions about the various works in the museum. I loved this stuff! And she wasn’t bad, either. She asked questions and it prompted me to launch into legends and stories surrounding the printing of the first Bible that had circulated for generations.

“Gutenberg’s one-time business partner, Johan Fust, is said to have taken a wagonload of Bibles into France where he attempted to sell them as manuscripts—copied in a monastery rather than printed. The city fathers met to look at the pages and compare them to their own city Bible. What they discovered, though, was that the Bibles Fust was offering were all exactly and perfectly identical. This disturbed the city fathers and they determined that the only way this could have been accomplished was by witchcraft. They pursued Fust out of the city and out of France, attempting to capture him to burn him at the stake,” I said.

We’d been walking around the museum for a couple hours, including sitting through a demonstration by a master printer who cast lead type, set a page, and pulled a proof from the inked type. An excited ten-year-old boy got to pull the handle on the press and was rewarded with the page he pulled. Before I realized it, the museum was closing and I was almost hoarse from talking. I hadn’t even found out the name of my attentive listener.

“I’ve monopolized your time, I’m afraid,” I said. “I am aroslav. May I ask, though belatedly, your name?”

“I think it is I who have pressed you,” she smiled. Brilliant white teeth, perfectly aligned. “My name is Frieda. It is a pleasure to meet you.” She offered her hand and I took it. Her grip was warm and firm.

“May I invite you to dinner?” I asked. “It seems we must leave the museum and I find myself reluctant to part from your company.”

“I suppose that would be all right. I’m visiting my aunt and she insisted that I come to the museum to get educated. And I certainly have!” I held the door for her as we left and as soon as we were outside, she took my arm again. We strolled away from the museum.

“Are you German?” I asked. “Your English is superb. I’m afraid that when I try to speak German I stumble all over myself.”

“I am from Wittenberg, but I live in London. I work in fashion merchandising for a men’s tailor on Savile Row. Of course, that won’t last long. If the UK votes to leave the European Union, I’ll probably lose the right to work there and have to return here.”

“Men’s fashion? Are you certain you want to be seen with me?” I asked. I was wearing a plaid flannel shirt and black jeans with my usual hiking shoes and Panama hat. It had turned a bit chilly and wet today. I’d pulled my daypack over one shoulder.

“It’s why I spoke to you,” she said. “No, I don’t mean I want to improve your wardrobe. I mean you don’t look like the stuffed shirts I usually deal with. It’s refreshing.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard my wardrobe referred to as refreshing,” I laughed. “I’ve been living in the same clothes for nearly eight months now. I haven’t been able to find a coin-op laundry since I got here and I might need to buy a new pair of jeans tomorrow just so I have something clean to wear.”

“I’ll help you shop. I do know where to buy clothes!” she laughed.

We found a place to eat that didn’t look too pricey and I ordered a bottle of wine to go with our meal. We were practically in the heart of the Rhineland and I felt obligated to have a Rhine wine, even though they were a little sweeter than I usually prefer. I ordered what was billed as the fresh catch of the day and wondered if they’d been fishing in the river. Nonetheless, it was a tasty meal, made better by the company.

A Long Time Ago: Blown Away

I wonder if there is a better or more common way to move from casual acquaintance to lover than by sharing a meal. Of course, I’d known one woman back in my dating days who went absolutely silent when food was served. She didn’t look at me. She didn’t respond to me in any way. Once there was food in front of her, that was the only thing she saw.

Debra was otherwise sweet and engaging. We dated through most of senior year in high school. I liked spending time with her and I especially liked the fact that she liked to kiss and pet. The drive-in movie was our place to bond ... as soon as the popcorn was gone. I learned soon enough to get the small size box plus a drink to wash her mouth out. I can think of nothing more disconcerting than having a popcorn kernel floating around on a girl’s tongue while she’s giving you a blow job.

Deb always wore short skirts and pullover tops when we went to the drive-in. The only place I drove was on dates and Mom’s big Ford Galaxy had plenty of room to play. Dad made a snide comment once that a girl who wore pants to the drive-in was ready to wrestle. A girl who wore a skirt had already conceded the match.

Well, I watched The Dirty Dozen just until it started actually getting interesting, which is when Deb finished her popcorn. Neither of us watched the movie from that point on. She had nice, soft round boobs and never had them harnessed in anything more than a lightweight nylon bra that was more for show than for support. And she liked to show it to me. The Galaxy had a big backseat and as soon as we were settled back there, her pullover would be pulled over her head. That flimsy bit of nylon she called a bra could be quickly pushed aside and I’d feast on her glorious nipples.

While my mouth and hands were occupied with her boobs, Debra would free my cock. She liked to get it out of my pants before I was hard and then just hold it in her hand while I firmed up. That’s a feeling I still like. Going from soft to hard while a girl is just holding my cock in her cool little hand. Nothing better until said girl bends over and takes the hardened flesh in her mouth. Somehow, that position would always clear the way for my hand to get up under her skirt and into her panties. She’d keep sucking and I’d keep diddling her until we both exploded.

Usually, we had time for another round. She liked to keep my cock in her mouth after I’d softened with one or two of my fingers buried in her twat. She’d just keep squeezing her pussy muscles on my fingers while she held me in her mouth, lips tight against my pubic hair. Of course, I’d start to get hard. She’d keep her lips as tight against my crotch as she could get them as I gradually expanded in her mouth and down her throat. She said she couldn’t take me down her throat when I was already hard, but somehow, having me grow down her throat made it easier.

Whatever. My second come of the night was always a lot stronger than the first and it shot straight down her throat. As soon as I was depleted, Debra would roll to her back in my lap so I had clear access to her breasts and pussy. While I sucked on her nipples, I plunged my fingers in and out of her pussy and rubbed her clit. Debra wasn’t a quiet comer. More than once, several horns started up near us after her climax. Everyone enjoyed it.

Then Deb wanted more popcorn and we wouldn’t interact again until I kissed her goodnight.

We talked about going all the way, but never did. “Do we really want our first time in the backseat of a Ford?” Deb asked me. It was never a question about us going all the way. “Let’s go camping or something this summer and then we can just fuck until we’re exhausted, where we can be naked and not worry about being interrupted,” she said. We assumed we would screw eventually—just not in the backseat of the Galaxy. Somehow, the timing never worked out and I left for college a very well-sucked virgin.

Back to Frieda

Frieda gloried in the sensuality of eating. There was no question that she enjoyed every bite, but she made sure I enjoyed watching her, as well. You know there is the sloppy and gross way of making a sexual object out of food, like sliding a hotdog in and out of your mouth or something. That wasn’t what made Frieda’s enjoyment of food sexy. It was far more subtle. Of course, picking up Spargel in your fingers and eating it from the end before licking each of your fingers clean could be considered obvious. It was the season and we were offered Spargel—oh, that’s asparagus—in both white and green varieties, steamed, grilled, raw, in soup, dipped, and once I even saw it at a market fast food vendor breaded and deep fried. And it was good! What we had on our plates was lightly sautéed and drenched in melted garlic butter. I have to admit, it would have been a different experience if she had been the type to stab and cut her spears.

“What do you mean by saying the earlier printers were incestuous? You mean they were fucking their daughters? I didn’t think Gutenberg had any family. You never hear about Mrs. Gutenberg,” Frieda said. She kept circling around to the stories of printing and I had to admit that I enjoyed telling them. I hadn’t had the opportunity since I finished my book tour for Rubric.

“More ‘commercially incestuous, ‘ not sexually. Exactly. Well, a little. Gutenberg was a brilliant man from what we know, but he wasn’t a particularly good businessman. We think he’d gone bankrupt in Dusseldorf before he came back home to Mainz. Maybe more than once. He was sued a couple of times, too—once for breach of faith when he refused to marry his fiancée. Anyway, he had some equipment and was apparently able to show the concept of printing to some potential investors in Mainz, which is how he met Johan Fust. A joint venture was formed. A joint venture is said to be a situation in which a man with experience joins a man with money and at the end the roles are reversed. Well, Fust had money and invested a lot of it into Gutenberg’s Bible printing business. We think that Gutenberg had as many as five presses working at the peak of operations, printing around 280 copies of the twelve-hundred-page Bible.”