Chapter 4

“Do you need any help?” Felix asked as he walked into the kitchen. His towel was slung over his shoulder, and a few strands of hair on his forehead sparkled with droplets of water.

“I made lasagna, and it’s already in the oven,” Erik replied, placing the used pots and ladles into the dishwasher. “I’m going to take a shower now. If you’re willing, you can set the table. When the oven timer goes off, take the lasagna out. The cutlery is in the first drawer, and the oven mitts are in the second.”

“No problem.”

Erik walked past him, heading toward the bathroom.

“Oh, and you should dry your hair,” he turned back to say. “There’s no heating right now, and it’s still quite cold in the house.”

“I’ve already noticed. Why is there hot water but no heating?”

“The central heating system isn’t turned on when the venue is closed. It’s expensive,” Erik replied. “I’ll light the fireplace tonight.” With that, he disappeared into the bathroom.

When he returned to the living room, the sky outside had turned into a heavy, opaque blue-black. Only one wall lamp was on in the living room, and a dozen small tea candles were placed on the windowsill and dining table, glowing golden and emitting a soft light. The lasagna was already on the table, and the tableware was set. The room was filled with the aroma of baked cheese.

Felix looked up from the dining table and smiled at him.

“We can start eating,” he said, taking off his headphones and placing his phone aside. One end of the phone was connected to a charger. “Sorry for borrowing your charger without asking.”

“You’re free to use anything in this house,” Erik said. He glanced around, feeling somewhat uneasy. “I didn’t know we had tea candles.”

“I found them in the corner of the kitchen cabinet. There’s a pack of 200, and more than half are left,” Felix said casually. “But I couldn’t find any napkins, so I had to make do with tissues from the tissue box.”

Erik sat down at the dining table. He felt that lighting candles for dinner between two men was indescribably awkward, but in this situation, he couldn’t exactly protest by turning on the ceiling light.

“What would you like to drink? Sparkling water?” Felix shook the bottle in his hand.

“Apple soda.”

“Good idea, I’ll have that too.” He poured half a glass of sparkling water for each of them. Erik picked up the carton of apple juice to fill them up. The soda fizzed in the glasses, turning a pale, translucent gold in the candlelight.

“I noticed that the only drinks in your kitchen are sparkling water and pure apple juice. A model of simplicity and health,” Felix said.

“The orange juice ran out a few days ago,” Erik replied, then realized something. “Did you want to drink some alcohol? There’s no alcohol in this house. Not a drop. Sorry.”

“Not at all. Apple soda is just fine.”

After wishing each other “Guten Appetit,” they began cutting the lasagna. The lasagna was perfectly baked, with a semi-crispy layer of cheese covering the rich and savory French sour cream and the wide pasta sheets soaked in tomato meat sauce.

“It’s delicious,” Felix praised. “I have to say, this is quite unexpected: I never would’ve guessed you could cook.”

“I didn’t know that was something you could tell from someone’s appearance,” Erik said. “I’ve been the one cooking here ever since my mom left. Fritz doesn’t even know how to use the oven.”

“Who’s Fritz?”

“Oh… Fritz is my stepfather. This place is his.”

Felix put down his fork and knife, looking at him. “I think you mentioned he passed away?”

“Yes, two months ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s in the past,” Erik replied. “The bedroom you’re using was originally his.—Of course, he didn’t die in that room.” He quickly added the last sentence.

“That’s fine. I’m not superstitious,” Felix said.

He took another bite of lasagna. “It’s amazing. Where did you learn the recipe?”

“YouTube. They have everything there.”

“I thought it was your mother… Oh, I’m sorry.” He looked at him apologetically.

“It’s fine,” Erik replied. “She didn’t die. She’s just… not here anymore.”

They finished the meal. Felix gathered the tableware and put it in the dishwasher. Erik opened the fireplace door, placed the kindling on the already stacked firewood, and lit it. The flames rose, spreading across the thin pieces of wood, gradually catching the end of a few larger logs. He waited patiently until he was sure the logs were burning, then closed the fireplace door.

He sat down on the sofa, watching the bright flames dance behind the glass.

“There are a few things in this world you can look at endlessly and never get tired of,” he remembered Fritz used to say. “Campfires, forests, streams in the valley, every sunrise and sunset.”

The fire gradually grew stronger. For a while, neither of them spoke, mesmerized by the flames in the fireplace.

…Erik suddenly felt the room was too quiet. So quiet that he could almost hear the sound of breathing: his own, and Felix’s, so close by.

“Felix, do you want to watch some TV?” he said, eager to break the inexplicably unsettling silence.

Felix turned to him.

“No, I’m fine just watching the fire,” he said naturally, as if “watching the fire” was an alternative to “watching TV,” like choosing between coffee or tea.

Erik didn’t know how to respond. He felt a certain uneasy atmosphere enveloping him—specifically, this unease had started when he returned to the living room and saw the dozen lit tea candles, like spider silk in the half-light, weaving a transparent yet intricate web. He was caught in it, restless, almost wanting to reach out and brush those invisible threads aside; yet, on the other hand, he secretly felt he was overreacting, that it was unnecessary.

He looked at the clock on the wall. It wasn’t even nine yet. Saying “Goodnight” and parting ways at this time seemed a bit early, but sitting here with Felix without doing anything other than watching the fire didn’t feel right.

“Do you want something else? Dessert?” He tried to find something to say. “There’s chocolate pudding and Greek yogurt in the fridge.”

“No,” Felix replied.

He seemed to sense something and reached over to pat Erik’s hand. “You don’t have to go to so much trouble. I don’t need anything—thank you for your hospitality.”

His friendly gesture didn’t put Erik at ease. He sat there stiffly, starting to think of a way to politely retreat to his room and shut the door tightly.

“But, if it’s alright,” Felix mused, “maybe we could listen to some music together?”

“Of course,” Erik said, quickly standing up. “But there’s no player in the living room. We’d have to go to my room to listen.”

He stopped, realizing the mistake he’d made in his haste; but it was too late, and the other had already stood up.—He had no choice but to walk to his bedroom, with Felix following behind.

A few minutes later, Erik found himself stuck in an even more difficult situation than before. He sat at his desk fiddling with the computer, connecting the speakers, while Felix sat on his bed.—How did this happen? Just moments ago, he had been trying to think of an excuse to retreat to his room to avoid being with him.

“What do you want to listen to?”

“Just play the ‘My Favorite Songs’ playlist.”

“I don’t have that,” Erik said. “I usually shuffle my album collection or pick a few songs to make a temporary playlist.”

“What’s in your collection?”

“Nothing special, some classical music, Chopin, Schubert, Brahms… and then some recent pop singers.”

“Who are they?”

“Just the usual ones, Namika, Sarah Connor, Mark Forster, Adel Tawil, Wincent Weiss, Max Giesinger… and of course, Apache 207*.”

“I don’t know any of them, except Sarah Connor,” Felix said.

“I thought they were all pretty famous,” Erik said, surprised. “I often hear their songs on the radio when I’m driving.”

“Hmm, I guess I’m just out of touch. And the radio stations where I’m from play completely different stuff,” Felix said. “Are those all German singers?”

Erik nodded. “I don’t usually listen to English songs,” he admitted somewhat sheepishly. “My English isn’t good enough to understand the lyrics. So I don’t listen much to German singers who mainly sing in English.—Falco’s* songs are an exception.”

“Ah, Falco I know,” Felix said. “But it’s nice to listen to new songs. Just play me some of your favorites.”

Erik hesitated. He often listened to the band “Das Lumpenpack” from Stuttgart, but their cheeky and bold (and very folksy) humorous songs didn’t seem appropriate for this moment. Humor, when the wavelengths don’t match, can come off as offensive or rude—and he really didn’t want to appear rude in front of Felix.

In the end, he chose Johannes Oerding’s “Anfassen” and “An guten Tagen,” Wir Sind Helden’s “Nur ein Wort,” XAVAS’s “Schau nicht mehr zuruck,” Peter Fox’s “Haus am See,” Max Giesinger’s “Legenden,” and the ever-reliable Mark Forster’s “Einmal” (even though “Das Lumpenpack” had publicly mocked him in their songs, at least Mark’s songs were harmless and not “too German”).

As these songs played, he felt a slight unease, secretly paying attention to the other’s reaction. Fortunately, Felix listened quite attentively, showing no signs of impatience. When “Haus am See” came on, he smiled, indicating he’d heard this one before.

“Play a few more,” he requested. “Play the ones you’ve listened to a hundred times in private.”

“Only if you promise not to laugh at me,” Erik said.

Felix’s smile faded, and he said very seriously, “I would never laugh at you.”

So he played Mark Forster’s “Sowieso”—a song he’d listened to many times over the past two months. Even though it was a mainstream pop song. The lyrics were somewhat clichéd (Mark’s songs often had this problem), but they were comforting clichés, like an adult patting a child and saying, “Everything will be alright”—and he had indeed found comfort in it.

The song ended. Felix didn’t comment. After a moment of silence, he said, “Play one more.”

“That’s enough,” Erik protested, throwing the mouse at him. “Now it’s your turn: play me your favorite song.”

“No,” Felix said bluntly.

Erik couldn’t believe his ears. “What? Why not?”

“It’s too personal,” Felix said lightly. “For me, letting someone listen to my favorite music is almost like standing naked in front of them.—I don’t think we’re that close.”

Erik was speechless. “Then why did you ask me to play my favorite songs for you?”

“Different people have different needs for privacy. You obviously don’t mind being naked in front of others.”

“Of course I mind!”

“Don’t get worked up, it’s just a metaphor.” Felix laughed. He picked up the mouse and walked over to the computer.

“Here, listen to this,” he typed quickly on the keyboard. “I have to preface this: it’s definitely not my favorite song. But I’ll let you listen to it.”

Erik looked at him, puzzled. Then the low prelude began, followed by a thin, reedy sound of an oboe, which instantly made him forget his annoyance with Felix. The music was light, melodious, and enchanting, murmuring a few phrases before suddenly ascending in pitch. It was just the sound of one instrument, but it was so rich and beautiful, containing endless possibilities of emotion: loneliness, tranquility, joy, solitude, melancholy… piercing the listener’s heart and soul.

“What is that?” he asked after the song ended.

“Gabriel’s Oboe**,” Felix said. “Do you like it?”

Erik nodded heavily. “I think it’s incredibly moving.”

“It’s from an old movie called ‘The Mission.’ Father Gabriel, the one who plays this piece in the movie, is played by Jeremy Irons.—You don’t know Jeremy Irons?” Erik shook his head honestly.

“Ah, well, it’s one of those old, strange movies about Catholic missionaries going into the South American jungle to convert the natives. Father Gabriel takes out his oboe in the jungle and plays this piece. The music attracts some of the natives, who gather around him to listen.”

“Did the natives like his music?”

“A few seemed quite interested, but the leader didn’t like it and smashed his oboe,” Felix shrugged. “Then they kidnapped him, but didn’t kill him. Later, he managed to persuade a few natives to convert to Catholicism, singing hymns and such. Of course, it was all for naught, because soon the Spanish and Portuguese armies came and killed them all.”

“What happened next?”

“There is no next. That’s the ending: they all died.”

Erik stared at him in shock.

“Honestly, the story is both dull and depressing,” Felix said. “But precisely because of that, I particularly like the part where he plays the oboe in the forest.”

Erik said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand at all.”

“Hmm, how to explain it?” Felix said. “You like this piece, I like it, Father Gabriel likes it, and maybe one or two natives like it. But it doesn’t matter, because a violent man will break the oboe; then more violent men will come and kill everyone. No matter how moving the music is, it’s useless. In the face of men with guns, those who only know how to play music, those who love music, are powerless. This is how it always is.

“But before the final doom arrives, there’s still a little while, in the forest, sitting by the stream, taking out the oboe to play. Just those few minutes. It’s so beautiful, and no one can take it away. It’s a bit of self-comfort, but it’s all we have, and it’s better than nothing.—Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Erik said.

He looked at Felix. “Can you play it again?”

“Sure, the one I just played was Hendrik Goldschmidt’s version. We can listen to it again, and then listen to the version played by the composer, Ennio Morricone himself.”

They listened to it again, then Morricone’s version with the Munich Radio Orchestra, followed by Andre Rieu’s violin version, “2 Cellos”‘ cello version, Sarah Field’s saxophone quartet version… and finally, Hendrik Goldschmidt’s oboe version again.

“I still like this one the best,” Erik said.

“Of course,” Felix said in a knowing tone. He rested his head on his arm, his green eyes smiling as he looked at Erik.

“Now, play me some more of your favorite songs,” he whispered.

Erik couldn’t resist the command. He played him “Das Lumpenpack”‘s “Ford Fiesta,” and to his surprise, Felix seemed to quite enjoy the jokes. They listened to “Don des Dorfes,” “HausKindBaum,” “Guacamole,” and “Mein Hass” together. Felix laughed so hard he rolled around on the bed.

“I think you’ve successfully recruited a new fan for your local band. They’re so much fun,” Felix said. “Now, play me one last song. Then we’ll end the night and go to sleep.”

Erik agreed. The clock on the bedside table was already pointing to eleven.

“Make it your favorite,” Felix sat up straight, looking serious. “I promise I won’t laugh.”

“Your promises are worthless,” Erik complained. “You said the same thing earlier, and then immediately compared me to an exhibitionist.”

“I think you’ve completely misunderstood me,” Felix smiled. “I meant that it takes extraordinary courage to expose yourself in front of others, something I could never do. But I wouldn’t laugh at someone braver than me—I do have that much sense of decency.”

Erik wasn’t sure if he was joking or serious. There was always something elusive about Felix’s tone: he seemed very easygoing, but beneath that soft demeanor there was something sharp that occasionally pierced through the surface.

He hesitated for a while, then finally opened a folder and moved the mouse to the first line of the list.

“One last song.”

He played Adel Tawil’s “Ist da jemand”***. He liked many of Tawil’s songs, but none had struck him as deeply as “Ist da jemand.” From the moment it came out, he had loved it from the bottom of his heart, revisiting it every now and then.

But as soon as the music started, he regretted it. He had no idea how it sounded to someone else’s ears: he had never told anyone he liked this song, nor had he discussed it with anyone. It was his song, one he could only listen to when he was alone—a song about inescapable loneliness and longing, one that made him listen to it over and over when he couldn’t escape those feelings, finding both sadness and comfort in it. And now he had recklessly decided to share it with someone who was practically a stranger.—So reckless.

As he listened to the familiar melody and lyrics, for the first time, he couldn’t feel what they usually made him feel. He tried to look at it from an outsider’s perspective, but failed: his love for it, and all the emotions that had built up from listening to it repeatedly, were so thickly entangled that he couldn’t objectively evaluate it. If someone else’s heart hadn’t been touched by it, they’d probably find the raw, heartfelt plea nothing special; if someone didn’t like it, they’d never understand the need to listen to it over and over.—What if he just found it laughable?

Now he truly felt how apt the metaphor of standing naked in front of someone was: embarrassment, panic, shame, trying to comfort himself by thinking, “It’s really not a big deal,” yet fidgeting, unable to settle.

The song ended. The room fell silent. Erik looked at Felix: he half-hoped he’d say something, and half-hoped he’d say nothing.

Felix slid off the bed and stood in front of him.

“Thank you for such a pleasant evening,” he said lightly, extending a hand. Erik shook it almost reflexively.

“Goodnight,” he smiled, then opened the door and walked out.

The door closed. Erik sat there, unmoving, filled with indescribable emotions. Just a short while ago, this room had been filled with music and laughter, so pleasant, relaxing, and exhilarating—he hadn’t felt that way in a long time. But suddenly, it was all gone, and he was alone in the dim room, in front of the softly glowing computer and the now silent speakers, unable to shake off the feeling of embarrassment, as if he’d been standing naked.