Munich, The Trolley Stalker (Part I), December 1976

   

Munich, Germany

Actress: Veronica Lake

Arriving Munich, seeking
employment after being "on the road" for 6 months.

     Sitting sandwiched between two portly men, she read intently. 

        She looked up only slightly when jostled by someone bumping into her, caused by the twisting movement of the trolley. 

        I was pressed in the back holding on to a strap shared with three other hands.  I was straining to catch glimpses of her between a man’s armpit and a woman’s grocery bag, which contained two large protruding sausages.

        I could not take my eyes off her.  No, this was not a simple romantic attraction, as she was probably twice my age.  But this was stronger.  Her presence drew me; it was out of my control.  She was so glamorous. 

         Never had I seen such a woman.  I had to be near her.

        The trolley came to a sudden stop, I losing my balance tumbling into others.  By the time I recovered I noticed her seat was vacant.  Where did she go?  Without even thinking I pushed past those in front of me and forced my way to the exit door just before the trolley pulled out.

       I was more than five miles from the stop that I wanted.  What was I doing?  Why was I pursing this woman?  I was not sure.  But I think it was because I was feeling dejected over the day’s events and needed something to take my mind off my own self-pity.

       I was feeling down because today I was officially notified that I was not allowed to work in Munich.  I desperately needed the money.  I had spent all day at the Official Work Office showing documents, presenting a letter from my potential employer and still a “NO!” It was not as though I was competing for a highly sought after position for Munich’s recent university graduates.  I had exhausted all job possibilities.  This last resort was a job as as a shoveler of shit at the Munich zoo.  I tried many approached to appeal to the stern administrator, even showing her my shoveling motion which worked so well during my interview for the leave raking job in Sweden.  She was not amused and shouted “NEIN!” even louder, fully enjoying exercising her petty officialdom.

      As I bounded off the trolley into the chilly December evening air, I could clearly hear the six chimes of the Glockenspiel from the Marienplatz.  I looked in all directions.  Where was she?  I could not see her.  And then across the street I recognized her from the back, dressed in black with the unmistakable smart fedora.  She was taller than I expected and carried a walking cane, adding to her allure.

      I navigated quickly but carefully across the slick, icy roadway, not wanting her to get away.  Now on the same block, I walked slowly behind her.  She walked with a pronounced limp and the icy conditions made it difficult for her.  The light changed to red and I stood with her on the same corner with several other people.  I was right next to her, looking at her from the corner of my eye.  Her bone structure was striking. I wanted to speak but couldn't. Her face had a coolness about it.  I felt intimidated.  And what was I going to say?  It was not as I were interested in asking her out for a date: I was just fascinated by her.

     As the light changed and she walked on ahead, I continued to stay behind her.  I tried to think what it was I was going to say.  “Hello, my name is Scott.”  I was on the trolley with you and found you to have the most Interesting face and wanted to meet you.”  HOW STUPID!  I felt like a total bafoon chasing after this elegant woman.  Forget it, let it be, go home!  Leave this woman alone, I admonished myself.

     And just then as I was about to quicken my pace to move past her and forget this ill-conceived escapade of meeting this mystery woman, she let out a cry and slipped on the ice.  I half catching her as she fell, and came down with her.

     “Are you ok,” I asked, as I slowly got up and carefully assisted her to her feet.  

     “Fine, thank you.”  Her voice was soft, almost shy, with a slight German accent, very pleasing.  Not strong and confident which I expected in keeping with her exceptional beauty.

     During the fall some things fell from her shoulder bag, which I helped her retrieve.  One item was the book, which I presumed was the one that so engrossed her on the trolley.  Its title AMERICAN PLAYWRIGHTS OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY.

     “Are you sure I can’t help you?”  “No, please, I am fine.”

      This time she said it stronger with more conviction, a la Garbo, as if she really wanted to be left alone.  She thanked me and slowly began to walk forward, her limping more evident than before.

     After a few steps she slipped again.  Fortunately, I was directly behind her and made a clean catch.  “Please, I insist on walking with you to where you are going.  It is too icy.  You must be cautious.  I am in no hurry.”

     She started to speak, and then I interrupted her with an inspired, ingenious literary reference to the book on playwrights she had been reading.

“Remember what Tennessee Williams said in STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE:  “I can always count on the kindness of strangers.”  This got her attention and respect and produced a hearty laugh.  “Very good.  Quick. Clever,” she said.

       “Please allow me,” I said in my most earnest tone. “Yes, well thank you. That is very caring of you.  I am going to a nearby café to meet a friend in  about an hour.”   As we walked we did not speak other than introducing ourselves by name, as it was so slippery, I wanted to concentrate on getting her to her destination unscathed.  Her name was Anna.

     When we arrived at the café, I paused at the entrance to say “goodbye” to her.  And then as I had hoped, she said:  “Scott, thank you so much for escorting me here.  You are a ‘kind stranger’ indeed.  If you like, let me treat you to a coffee or a glass of wine.”  Without hesitation, though careful not to sound overly anxious I smiled:  “Yes, I would like that.”

     On entering the maitre d’ spotting us, abruptly left those he was assisting to turn his attention to Anna. Despite the restaurant being packed to capacity with others waiting to be seated, he led us at once to a private table in the back.  As Anna made her way to the table, those around us turned to stare. She commanded attention.

     And so there I sat directly facing this Garbo-like woman of intrigue. On the trolley I caught only quick, partial views of her face, but now seated across the small round table, I could study her face closely.  It was not just another pretty face; it was a striking face.  The type of face that can take your breath away.  The high cheek bones, the slight lift to her grayish blue eyes and her porcelain skin appeared distinctly Eastern European or Slavic.  She was not young, as slight wrinkles were visible.

     Removing her fedora and shaking her shoulder length blonde hair, almost platinum in color, she resembled the old black and white photographs of movie stars I had seen in my father’s book on HISTORY OF FILM.  Yes, she had a definite Garbo quality about her.  Or the cool beauty of Ingrid Berman.  But there was someone else, who was it?  And then it hit me, yes, Veronica Lake, that is who she very much resembled.  (The Hollywood goddess of a bygone era).

     She had an aura of savoir-faire about her.  But not in an assertive way but gracious, as she exchanged the cheek kiss with the manager or owner of the establishment who had come to welcome her.  She introduced me and asked if I would like coffee and dessert.  Nodding “yes” she turned to the gentleman, his name was Manfred, “Please get Scott the Black Forest Cake with Viennese Coffee.”  The way she ordered, the way Manfred leaning in close, hanging on her every word, and noticing the other people in the café still looking at her, I had the feeling I was in the presence of someone who was “somebody.”

     And now she looked closely at me.  Her gaze was direct and strong. What did she see?  Anna launched immediately into lively conversation: “So, Scott, tell me what you have done since you have been in Munich.”

     “Well, I went to the Hofbrauhaus and watched the Glockenspiel move and chime, and went to the Englishcer Garten.”  Anna seemed to contort her naturally lovely face into a distasteful expression saying, I don’t care for the Hofbrauhaus at all to be quite honest, and the Glockenspiel and the Englisher Garten are so touristy, certainly loved by Americans.”  It sounded like a put down of sorts.  “But, Scott, what about the Deutsches Museum or Schloss Nymphenburg?”

     “No, I have not been to those yet,” I stammered quite feebly.  My hands felt damp, my throat dry.  I felt I was drowning in front of her, when I wanted so much to impress her.  Anna was such a presence.  So sophisticated.  An unfair comparison perhaps, but she was such a dramatic departure from the college girls I encountered.  Often shallow and vacuous.

     There was quiet and Anna sensing I was uncomfortable asked me, “Scott, you seem to like theater.  You certainly seem to know your Tennessee Williams.”  I told her I had studied theater some in university.  “So what are your thoughts about Munich’s Rainer Werner Fassbinder and the works he has produced, “ she asked.

     “Who?” I stammered.  “Fast – binder, Fast – binder.”  Anna enunciating his name for me each time distinctly and slowly, so I would never forget.

        “Scott, he is from Munich, he started a theater company called the Anti-Theater, his works are avant-garde and daring. He is controversial and brilliant.  He is something of an enfant terrible. He has also produced some films which I believe have been shown in the states,  well at art houses perhaps, such as “The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant”, and “Effi Breast”. His leading lady is Hanna Schygulla, has a most interesting look and strong stage presence.  I could not pretend to know.  I could not fake it.  Only the truth was worthy  of this  authentic, substantive woman.  “No, I have never heard of him.  Sorry.”

~ to be continued ~