7. Glenn and Mathilde

Fair Warning: This is in the POV of a certain “Glenn”…Sr., who is Glenn’s father. Mathilde is his mother. Also…I don’t think there are any porny things here…eh. Enjoy anyway.

…

Hands in my hair, pulling at the strands angrily. Fingers at my scalp, picking at it furiously. Rain beating on my entire self, saddening me furthermore.

I’m both mad and sad at myself, by the way — for I have left my umbrella at home when the rain seems to be out for death.

Home. I ran away from home half an hour ago — but I know I’ll be back by the end of the night.

The conversation I had with my father less than an hour ago replays in my mind — repeatedly, endlessly.

“I’m an incubus, Glenn,” my father had said so abruptly, interrupting the silence between us.

I had been reading Goethe’s Faust, but abandoning the large novel down, staring at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Pardon me, Vater, but — did you just say you’re an–”

“Incubus. Yes, an incubus. I am your father the damned incubus.”

“Am I–?”

“No. You are not an incubus. It skips a generation, usually.”

“Does that mean–?”

“Your middle child will be an incubus. So have an odd number of children. Make sure the middle is a boy.”

My jaw dropped — not because he is an incubus (well, apart from that), but because he was telling me how many children I was allowed to have. An odd number he said! The middle must be a boy, he said! As if I could control the number and gender of my children. The number, yes. The gender? Absolutely not!

“Your middle boy is going to be an incubus,” he continued straightforwardly. “My father was no incubus; neither are you.” My father paused. He looked at me sitting, my legs crossed elegantly. “That dress-shirt looks flitty. Why do you dress so…oddly?”

“Why are you an incubus?” I countered, a frown forming on my lips.

My father sighed, picking up a glass of some sort of alcoholic beverage. He replied, “I truly don’t know. Because my grandfather was an incubus? My grandfather’s grandfather was an incubus? My grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather was an incubus? So on and so forth. I do not know. I only know that I am an incubus and your child will be an incubus.”

I gulped, panic taking over, consuming me.

My father is an incubus!

I have lived with him twenty-two years — how could I have not noticed?

He is an incubus!

“Can you — die?”

Fragile voice? Check.

His eyes bore into mine.

“I can. The age span of an incubus can reach up to two centuries. After the quarter-century mark, one stops aging. If we die sooner, it’s because our heads were lopped off.” He made a swift movement that imitated someone chopping something off. The image was disturbing. “As for demons, though, that’s something entirely different. A concrete wall can squash those weak creatures. They can pick them up, though. The irony.”

His chuckle sounded slightly menacing.

He mentioned demons.

“Demons? We live among demons?” I had asked.

He shook his head, his lips curling up at the edges.

“No, Glenn, they live among humans, like you. You live under a demon’s roof. What do you think of that?”

“I thought you were an incubus,” I said plainly.

“An incubus is a form of demon. A high-class demon, if you will.” He sipped from his glass before continuing. “Your mother’s a demon as well. I turned her after you were born.”

How could they deceive me so? Not deceive, no — not that. They kept such a secret from me — me, Glenn — their own and only child! How could they do that?

“Mother’s a demon?” I stupidly uttered.

“She is. Now what do you think? Don’t avoid my question.”

He was always insensitive.

“Hurt. Very hurt — and confused. I’m hurt because they hadn’t told me earlier. I’m confused because — I hadn’t imagined demons existed. Little did I know I lived with them my entire life.”

“Well-put. Now continue reading your epic tale of Mr. Faust — or is that Doctor Faustus? I can never keep track of literature…”

That’s how the conversation played — on and on again.

I close my eyes, blinking back tears.

The coat I have isn’t warm enough.

I seek shelter under a small building’s roof in Schwarzkirsch Park. Crouching in the cramped space, I nap. The nap is short-lived — only ten minutes or so.

I stand, shaking leaves and other particles off my clothes. I walk under the cold rain homebound — at least it’s warm there, I admit. Home is crossing the park and down the street. I’ll drag myself there. It’s too cold to run or walk at a normal pace.

I walk and walk, my leather shoes dragging against the wet ground.

A girl sits on a bench. She looks to the sky under an enormous black umbrella. Her heavily lined eyes joyfully gaze at the invisible stars — at the rain pouring endlessly.

I can’t help but stare at her.

She’s very pretty.

Her lips are perfectly black and her skin is flawlessly white. Her hair flows velvet-like. Her fringe just about reaches her eyebrows. Her puffy dress looks girlishly right.

She’s very pretty.

Her eyes catch mine. She looks alarmed. I would be alarmed, too, if a stranger was staring at me unexpectedly. She smiles anyway.

“The weather is lovely, wouldn’t you agree?” she speaks.

Her voice is delicate and melodious. Very human — warm and human.

“Very lovely,” I agree. Curiosity killing me, I ask, “What is a pretty girl of your grandeur doing here without company?”

“You mean to flatter me, sir?”

“If only you allow it, grand lady.”

I smile idiotically. Her smile can’t be idiotic — it’s sweet.

We both laugh.

“I’m Mathilde and I don’t usually speak in that manner,” she says.

“I’m Glenn and neither do I,” I respond.

Mathilde looks to the sky again, her tongue peeking out to taste the water.

“Would you like to join me Glenn?”

“In what, may I ask?”

“A stroll though the park. Where are you headed?” she inquires.

“Homeward. The rain is sickening,” I mutter.

Her eyes enlarge in mock shock.

“But the rain is lovely!” She pauses. “You dislike the rain, yet you stand there jadedly getting wet.” Putting some thought into her words, she says, “Come under the umbrella.”

I can’t possibly reject her.

“Only if you dance in your lovely rain and enjoy it freely,” I say with a mocking smile.

The rain decreases slightly.

She stands from the bench and comes toward me, handing me the massive umbrella, stepping into the wet coldness, and begins to dance.

Slow and slow. Around, around. Twirling prettily under the Kassel night, under the dark Kassel sky. She twirls, whirls, turns, and swirls, roundly and soundly. I admire her. Clearly she cares neither of her painted face nor the possibility of catching a cold. She does not mind; she continues to move freely yet stiffly in her corseted dress.

The clacks and clanks of her pointy boots sound dully on the ground.

I merely stand under the umbrella and watch, immensely amazed.

She sneezes.

I immediately reach for her, pulling her body below the shield. I give her the handle and remove my coat, offering the sorry-excuse to her.

Mathilde says, “Oh, no, I possibly couldn’t. What will you wear?”

“This thin shirt I’m already wearing,” I reply.

“No, no, I mustn’t. I’ll be just content with being seen home — will you walk me home?”

“Why the Hell wouldn’t I? Which way, madam?”

I offer my arm instead, which she gladly takes, clinging tightly to it.

We speak idly through the park grounds.

“So what were you doing there all alone?” I inquire.

“Nothing, really — just sitting and gazing up at the sky. It’s a pretty murky color right now — wouldn’t you agree?”

She looks up at me as I glance at the sky. I only see water falling.

“Yes, very pretty,” I murmur, lying through semi-closed lips.

“Oh, Glenn — you needn’t lie,” she gaily tells me, laughter playing in the back of her throat.

I chuckle as we approach a shoddy townhouse close to the park. She lives so close to me — I wonder why I’ve never noticed her.

“Here it is.” She pauses, looking at me uncertainly. “Glenn, I — am in a relationship right now, but if you need company for tea or coffee or anything — should we exchange our numbers?” she finally sputters.

Smiling, I respond, “Yes, of course.”

“Shoot. No supplies on me — I’ll run in and grab some stuff if it’s alright with you?”

“Yes, of course,” I repeat, re-noticing how pretty she looks — especially under the light.

Mathilde goes off with a gentle smile only to come back a minute later, pen and slip of paper in hand. She scribbles her number, giving it to me, handing over the supplies. I write my own.

“It was a real pleasure meeting you, Glenn. I hope our next meeting comes soon!”

Her grin blinds me. I force a smile.

“A pleasure as well, Mathilde.”

I grab her hand carefully as if made of glass and peck it lightly, but enough to make her blush.

She curtsies quickly, running up the stairs, stumbling on her own pointy boots.

Sighing, I trek homebound. Half-way over, I remember one thing: Mathilde’s umbrella. I still possess her umbrella.

I will return it to her when it is not raining.
˜™XXX
Twenty-six years later…

Mathilde’s flailing arm nearly smacks me on the head as I turn around. She’s quite excited.

“He’s found him!”

“Found who?” I inquire, looking up from Hardy’s Jude the Obscure. “Who found who?”

“Glenn! He found a stable man!”

“Ah — the queer one,” I mutter.

She slaps my arm with an unfolded fan.

“Don’t call our son queer!”

“I mean it as ‘odd’! You have seen his way of dressing, nein?”

“In that case, you are queer as well!” she counters, turning away.

“Look who’s talking,” I mumble, going back to the great novel. After a small silence, I ask, “What’s the boy’s name?”

“Schweitzer!” she shouts, covering her mouth daintily.

“I meant his first, Mathie.”

“Oh — um — K-Kraven, I think Glenn said. Kraven Schweitzer I believe it was–”

“Very unique. He means to bring him — or will he keep him secretive and away from us again?” I bitterly ask.

I’m only bitter because he’s my incubus-son. He’s meant to have children so the next incubus may be born. When my incubus-son is interested in men — the Detlev line of incubi is surely to die off.

“I’m sure Glenn will bring him. He hasn’t mentioned any of that, though. He says it’s love. He really likes Kraven — a lot, he said.”

“Ah,” I utter lowly, turning away from her, wondering what the Hell happened over the years — and whether any of it was worth it.