The Hornburg Variations

By David Barlow

Shooting a period piece a film crew arrives at The Hornburg, a reclusive alpine German estate. Art-house movie hero Morgan Essex isn't sure why the stately location troubles him. Maybe his reunion with bankable star Julie Beth Pohlter whose career has eclipsed his own. Maybe the vague familiarity of young actress Vanesse Lasterson with whom he must share a difficult scene. Maybe how the house just beckons. A dark draw of history soon opens doors he can't imagine, but must.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Barlow
• Release date: Jul 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370858415

David Barlow

Author, novelist, screenwriter, poet, fiction (and other keywords) David Barlow grew up in the cushy suburban digs of Ridgewood, New Jersey. Graduating up there in his class at Emerson College with a BFA in creative writing he pilgrimaged to Los Angeles for the script business. Skittering through several big Hollywood near-misses David plied a trade in writing copy, PR, and professional collateral. All while honing that edge for prose, verse, etc. Some time now those efforts have been enjoyed from the wilds of New Hampshire.

Book preview

Chapter1

Chapter2

Chapter3

Chapter4

Chapter5

Chapter6

Chapter7

Chapter8

Chapter9

Chapter 1

All worthy accounts begin with a recognition of broader forces.  Consider this ancient river.  Five million years it’s coursed the continent, nourishing the Rhine Valley with fertility and the looks to match.  North of Frankfurt the east slopes up to peaks.  By most measures modest the Taunus Mountains have on occasion proven vital.  Abutting lowlands allows an unassuming height to command the heady view of real summits.  Protected for immediate eternity by the Hoch-Taunus Nature Park the region attracts skiers in winter, hikers come spring.

Follow the enchanting summit drive up from the valley as it winds enough shady turns to leave one vaguely dazed.  Those enjoying a scenic route through miles of forest won’t miss the turnout august gates rise without excuse.  Studiously maintained three centuries the elaborate wrought iron conveys elegance and authority, an intricate design brags cost maybe was the point.  Were these gates left open, why not proceed up the white pebble drive?  The course stretches curiously on, deeper into tangled wood, until one may wonder what’s been signed up for?

Despite square mossy outcrops a tenacity of forest assumes the mood.  Insistence of the sunken shade implies our careful road limns another realm.  In deference to this unsettling breach the Romans built a ridgewall here and for centuries went no further.  Frontier garrisons kept feral tribes off the map.  In today’s measured world this shadowy If fizzles with dull regard; what may possibly wait ahead?

Our careful course turns onto a grand arcade where sun blooms on manicured grounds of the Hornburg.  Once a summer residence of nobility the estate stands an heirloom of the long-lost Duchy of Nassau.  Sculpted hedges and trees shape a circular drive, symmetry fixes an inviting entrance.  A two-story yellow facade edged in travertine, so too the windows.  Could one imagine the gilded past that birthed this place it got kiboshed by the bright white semi parked up front.

Oblivious to paradise young men ferried gear up the formal portico.  Hustle that contrasted when a beige cab arrived and the couple in back sat there.

A driver popped the trunk to a cache of matching baggage.  As he unloaded a young man withdrew, a rangy blond with that inexact all-American.  When the girl emerged they made quite a pair; how looks announced them may take genius to follow-up.  If he’s midwest-quarterback she defied label.  The blood of most Americans reaches back across the globe, her face hinted a travelogue of the best from each land her forebears left.

Donning a sunhat she took in the car.  "A Mercedes taxi, yes!"

Their driver hoisted bags.  The faultless grounds distracted her from glories of the cab.  Be right in! she called as her boyfriend led off his mule.

Carefree abandon winged her hat onto the lawn, a selfless gesture oblivious to the young men bustling from the trailer.  Nor did she notice a sleek sedan creep in the arcade.  The long-haired girl was only distracted from halcyon views when a petite blonde got out.  Maybe 35 and though not short for allure hers vied with the quick-eyed spark of a winning ticket.

She came forward with her hand.  Julie Beth Pohlter.

Vanesse Lasters.  A shake condensed to hug and the thin laughs of excess goodwill.  They fell to a stream of exchange, cheerful, inquiring, sympathetic.  It only lagged when Vanesse confessed relief to be out of LA.

Be careful there, Julie Beth warned.  Everything counts.

Her boyfriend appeared from shadows of the entrance.  Chop chop there girlie.

Thank god for Randy, Vanesse replied.  He sees that stuff.  His tug pulled her for the door.  Hey Julie Beth, you still dating Benjamin James?

Her new friend’s smile had infinite play.  Last I checked.

A point of oversworn pride Ms Pohlter carried her own bags.  Vanesse’s white hat held a tiny island on the green as hectic unloading continued.  In time the commander of this foment scurried out holding a clipboard sheafed with papers.  A frayed squirrel of a man down to his unruly blob of hair.  Passing edict on all he saw a delicate British accent recast his rumple.  A pipe in the breast of his battered jacket nearly professorial.  Nearly, what he wedged in there over the decades pried the man open.  Act Two then made restraint a religion, bookish what remained after he burnt through the rest.

Among some Billy Chivers rated a legend.  It wouldn’t seem that way; longtime associate Stanislaw Kaczmarek berated he runs this on the cheap; just one semi imposed undue handicap.  Hearing this out Billy suggested Stanislaw had his arse so tight the crew can use it to crack beers.  Not a remark inclined toward bridges yet they parted as if with resolution.

A lissome breeze swept her hat across the lawn, the dance ended at a patina warrior fighting a godless serpent.  For all its artistry the piece did not stand out.  In the lottery befalling such estates the Hornburg assuredly won, persisting on in full splendor.  Grounds frame the manor in a lush and unhurried ease.  Would it be affronted by the guileless 18-wheeler blocking its facade?  Structures are not people; inscrutable comes for them naturally.

A pup by European standards but a sense of history does pervade.  Picture a team of white stallions lead a bright lacquer coach, or an early limousine with its long engine.  Quiet inherence seems to recall what had been but nothing so colorful can describe the next arrival.  This beige taxi not even a Benz.  Out stepped a dark-haired man, stretching from a long trip he succumbed to the immodest sight of his terminus.

The odd skills people bring in.  One may be gifted in numbers composing fugues of logic.  Another may exploit rare sense in the fingertips to earn a king’s ransom throwing a little white ball.  Morgan Essex’ gift no less possessed.  He can gives anything presence.  How that face is inhabited, his eyes, the way idea and emotion played in his eloquent body language one can’t but watch the man.  In another age perhaps a parlor trick.  In this visual era the knack rewrote his life.  Handsome enough but that’s not it.  He aspired a true thespian but weren’t decked in the Bard.  His gift was potent understatement.  What you don’t show shows all.  A fleeting pause, slight play of the brow, glancing emotions that inform the human drama spoke from Morgan with strange fluence.  Acting no matter of choice it made him an adherent of fate.  Some things were meant to be.  Keep an eye out and they can be spotted coming on.

He took a pair of bags into the home.  As a boy his singularity didn’t rate; lil Morgy learned of the world as anyone else.  Come adolescence his peers’ interplay grew vaguely deferent, a ready consent to chafe any good luck.  Friends couldn’t get enough Morgan, his company brought a need of more.  Keys to the kingdom?  His intro to life’s divining motives rang from an insight so powerful it never let go.  Compliance would ruin him.  Growing like a rose in that bright approval his thorns never get worn away.

He stood in the vestibule as Billy Chivers pottered over.  How they greeted spoke yards about each and the bond shared.

Does the crew stay here?

Just us and Stanislaw.

How’s old sunshine?

Billy’s voice approached teddybear.  Pleased to be near home I imagine, quite the invadable proximity from here.

They’ll all be just like him.

Another crew of acolytes, tell you what though.  His six little toadies work a whole bleedin’ crew yes?  Guerilla cinema this time champ, we’re a jazz combo.

They beheld the foyer’s elegance.  White marble inlaid a noble crest experts may explain.  Each side invited access to opulent rooms.  Before him a wide sweep of stairs, a red runner curved up to the promenade where staterooms of decided grace reclined down both wings.

What is this place anyway?

From the breast-pocket of his blazer Billy removed his pipe.  A dignitary retreat, summer rent on the fucker cost a federal budget.  Such assertion popped the ponderous thing in his mouth he had no need to light.  Bond alone is more than you and JB combined.

He laughed.  My aren’t we affordable!

A card affixed by the broad entrance, Billy corralled his lanyard glasses.  Let’s see, Duke’s Chamber, eeken eiken irken.  He let them drop.  How illuminating.  Werner!

A curly guy among the crew froze.  Remove these cards, Billy pointed, first floor only.  Keep track which goes where, got it?

The guy distracted.  Mr. Morgan Essex, lopsided his English, is honor!

His face congealed.  Listen, Essex sidled, I don’t want to let you down so let’s hold that stuff for now okay?

Blushing Werner saw his director approach radioactive.  First floor, yessir.  Gone.

His ions stabilized.  How about a tour?  Tomorrow we start in here.

The massive stone hearth in the Duke’s chamber could stoke a blaze of real proportion.  An imposing work-desk but the room was centered by a richly carved red-felt pooltable.  Morgan got drawn to sticks on the wall as Stanislaw returned.  Everything about the man lanky but a mustache beyond Stalin, short of walrus.  Nothing here will work! he declared.

Morgan turned.  Hey you loony-tunes, how goes it?

Morgan I am pleased to see you, replied Polish curves.  Confronting his boss.  This house no wired to handle throughput from generator.

Billy sighed.  Excuse me a moment.  He walked away with his man.  Stanislaw if this were the Starship Enterprise what would Scotty do hmm?

Recessed pocket doors could seal off this or a facing dining hall, chambers already well-removed from a world grown up.  Chalking stick Morgan supposed a gravity of bygone times.  Feeling out the tailings on a long-trod stage was a standard on-location trick to furnish-out his characters.  If strong emotions endure beyond measurable science, how can the same ones replayed over generations not stand out?  The Hornburg hosted much privilege, in here it would be the portents of obligation.  Knocking the ball a clack stiffened the air.  The 8 dropped and he wished this shoot were over, he’s back home and beholden to no one.

Billy scuttled in as somewhere a cell rang.  The man froze.  Quite inconvenient his brassy contempt for the devils, forbidden on-set he’s known to launch them at a wall.  Stanislaw barked a frightful sound and it didn’t ring again.  This prejudice hoped to remove actorly comfort-zones and create a hermetic world story & character fill the space crowded by their niggly dealings.  For most a neutering hindrance but Morgan savored any excuse to get away.

Crisis management, Billy’s porcelain tittered, all I ever do.  They crossed the foyer with its high ceiling and chandelier to a next card Werner had yet to remove.  Banquet Hall, Chivers translated.  Glasses dropped.  Insightful.

A long table ran beneath a modern light fixture.  Imagine the feasts they had in here? Morgan asked.

Before refrigeration?  I’d rather not.  Today one of his busiest Billy oscillated.  Wait til you see the piano.  Heading to the next room his tone leveled.  Here’s your curveball chum.  Last week Steve Parish went into rehab.

Morgan stopped.  Billy tried for casual.  Had to punt. Ends up we cast Tao Jones.

You’re kidding right?

Err, is this an issue?

Other than the guy lives in a shitstorm of bling?  Billy went rifling at his clipboard.  Why, Morgan persisted, "what do you know?"

His work on that sitcom is fresh.

I mean the guy, I don’t want to be marooned up here with a primadonna.

Stanislaw was back and glowering.  Air conditioning not handle lights.  Melt makeup off their faces.

Billy turned to his star laminated in patience.  I don’t know diddly.  Stanislaw led him off.  Strike that.  A girl at the office said he was home-schooled.

Something guttural dragged from Essex.  He turned to Julie Beth Pohlter standing wry with inference.  They did a play when both were new in town and hadn’t seen each other in ten years?  Quite the wild ride both since took, careers with a big C.  This and more ripened in her.  He was less poised; a decade of intervening hubbub made sight of her ring out, what you feel encountering a fellow native after years in a foreign domain.  He grabbed her up off the floor in a genuine hug.  Jules!

Julie Beth pulled back for inspection.  Another loaded face.  It’s not fair age suits you.

Yes and you look simply haggard.

Oxidated grapeseed-extract facials!  This she turned, Cost more per month than to stable a horse.

Her features respond to makeup, Julie Beth could play down-n-out waitress or gussied-up belle of the ball.  When a tastemaker compared her to Saint Meryl a next role went topless.  She wouldn’t always give over to career, but best check it off early.

I met Vanesse.  She leaned in.  Listen buster, you set up some kind of Marianne-&-Ginger thing I swear I’ll act your ass off.

She went on up as he feigned aback.  Julie Beth this doubt does your talent no service.

I’m serious! sang her bankable smile.  You’ll look like Nicolas Cage.

She was sister Lainy in that tricky scene by the hearth.  He could still smell the logs, god knew how producers got permit for a real fire each night.  Morgan played Ian back from college when Pappy dies and finds sis has come into her own.  Sitting by the fire they worked through a differing Dad.  Legally grapejuice but Morgan brought a real bottle.  For three weeks they split something delicious, his last selection cost a full day at scale.  During the run Lainy’s eyes acquired an incestuous edge until Julie Beth hid deniable suggestion throughout.  The more he ignored this the better it played until everybody went home a little conflicted.  Last show a matinee then her quick flight to Toronto for a beer commercial meant no goodbye.  All he’d seen since were her roles, and laden eyes gazing over nostalgic struggles of a first summer in town.

The next card he can handle, Bilbliothek.  Unlike rigors of the Duke’s chamber, walls of outdated books invited him with their papery perfume.  Windows on the side lawn followed grass to decorative trees bordering the wild woods.  A sepia globe recessed in its cradle, a chess set of quartz and obsidian, curios of outdated wealth chimed Morgan nothing like the concert grand poised in the corner.

Just got her tuned.  Billy returned.

The actor struck some straying chords.  Guess I won’t be bored.

Billy eyed the room as directors do.  Berndt’s studio, great look isn’t it?

Morgan pulled himself from the keys.  Love it.

They crossed a narrower hall behind the grand stairs.  A former smoking parlor retained masculinity with suits of armor imposed from the corners gripping an upright pole-axe.  Ahh, Morgan deduced, the editing room?

The size of that halberd?  Welcome to the screening room my friend, our holy of holies.  Where naught is spared and feelings don’t count, unless they’re mine.

Yeah, think I’ll pass.

Billy gestured onward.  Editing is through the door.

In the adjacent cloakroom a large blue anvil case had been wheeled in, its top removed.  The digital editing bay looked misplaced from galactic HQ.

You should meet Vanesse.  Chivers led on down a hall once the traverse of servants.  Quite the new number, free-spirit type.  Itching to leap from some pap on Disney.  As for our bawdry she’s good to go.

Frank discussions can be required, projects often had him make time with some flighty babe while clinical eyes assess each move.  People assume it a primo perk to roll around with hotties.  When it’s all an act, each overwhelmed gasp and squirm, you go home a little drained, life’s one reliable magic faked for a paycheck.

Love-scenes.

She’ll muddle you through.  At a large pantry he stopped.  Look, your special fridge!

Exquisite cabinets framed the walls with glassy doors and overworn china.  Plus the sort of small white refrigerator coeds sleep beside.

Thank you Mr. Chivers.

Want a padlock?

No Mr. Chivers.

Their bit he’d shoot last so the chemistry can ripen, an assist Morgan never previously got.  Billy could arrange people, their big twist hinged on his vulnerability in the afterglow.

Polished culinary gear arrayed an broad kitchen.  Chopping mushrooms doughy retiree Clara doubled as caretaker, with a room off the kitchen she’s available 24/7 to fix anything.  Perhaps impacted by a lack of English.  Guten tag Clara.  Das ist unser star Morgan Essex.

Mainly she blushed.  Her central workstation abutted an elevated counter with two barseats, a good spot to sip his morning joe.  Said chemistry project arrived early?

Crossing back to the grand foyer they headed up.  Agent wants her out of town, Billy’s oblique smile, away from the inevitably controlling boyfriend.  Go to any beach in Malibu and throw a stick, gad you hit three of the punters!

Up to a mezzanine, down the central corridor.  How old is she? he worried.

19.  Billy paused to knock at a hulking door when muffled pleasure groped them both.

Turning heel they proceeded in conspicuous silence.  One withheld giddies, the other thrust his attention on the home.  Staterooms lined the hall with a main suite at each end.  Double-doors to the Duke Slumbery opened on a masculine retreat.  Defending the dark paneling heads were mounted from a pack of felled beasts, their final mood intact.

Sweet dreams liebchen.

Aaaah.

No no!  Chivers raised a selfless finger.  Your devoted leader shall endure the abattoir.  Your expensive ass gets the Duchess Slumbery.

Back they go.  His stride hardly hitched passing that door.  Ms Pohlter didn’t want it?

She insisted.  Reaching his door, Cast meeting in an hour.  Billy then tottered off.

He opened on a marzipan boudoir daintied in floral harmony.  Pastels and brocade, furniture light and shapely.  The bed lacked all modesty.  An uncouth canopy resembled a vast birthday cake and likely extinguished as many flames.  Souls who anointed this big linen pastry, what joys did they know, what letdown?  Would-be lovers impassioned as him receded into conjecture yet their furniture remained.  Morgan tried the mattress.  Its comities thank god proved more modern.

Essex never really grasped when one should just go along.  His approach spoke for itself, career success such an ambient validator it never crossed his mind to widely miss the mark.  He did not stand out.  The entire history of art is man importing his view onto yours.

Morgan wasn’t obliged to concepts beyond his control.  He had no religion or adopted morality, also quite common.  The only impulse more hardwired than mankind’s need to believe is its tireless misgiving, believe in what?  Had the man grasped this, events may otherwise.

The principal cast round out when Tao Jones pulled up in a roadster crafted for the sound barrier.  Unfolding from the cockpit he shook out his hair.  Though not particularly long it was abundant enough to shag a reunion tour.  Tawny stubble similarly possessed, even the name invited enquiry.  Dow is a primal essence said to animate nature, best exhibited in how water finds its way.  By gravity yes but the movement itself has being.  Proceeding without analysis, bypassing impediment and leaning to the mean; for all its force water possesses no will, and so is wholly infused with tao.  To find this puissance within ourselves would reveal the path to each moment.  So it is said.

Among myriad duties as cinematographer and crew kommissar Stanislaw ran guys ragged readying gear and snaking cables.  In contrast his director sat prepping at the banquet table.  Billy Chivers began as a Rolling Stone photographer in the early arena days, smackdab in all that wretched excess.  He limped into the 80s with sizable baggage and a keen eye for how life can look.  Showbiz connections enabled the leap, he knocked out a row of low-budget thrillers.  No cashcows but rich in atmosphere and an internal logic to outpace the audience.  The usual culprits, buzz and more buzz, led to a bizarre mambo at the Golden Globes.  He could be a titan but Billy preferred life sloppy as his images were precise.  A string of faltered projects left him pariah, still the man amassed friends as others do money.  Insiders tried to package a comeback, misadventures that would make an engaging tale.  During this wayward phase Chivers found his way to music video.  Films of 3½ minutes better fit a hectic lifestyle.  When he won the gilt two years straight shunters took notice.  This upgraded consensus on his films, now considered mini-classics.  Newly inspired Billy tidied his demons.  Smart money didn’t trust him but smaller offers showed.  Each brought in on time and budget.  Like many a predecessor Billy Chivers discovered earning a buck was actually more fun than spending it.

A unique director so many ways including artistic marriage to Stanislaw, and restricting actors to minimal takes.  Revving them up with a unique baton he’d unleash his players on the scene.  Theater has no take two, he’d say, and I am your audience.  Ready to love the best you got, love it like the acceptance speech you polished since diapers.  Learning the ropes with Billy last fall on Vertical World Morgan approached this project with his leeries usually low.

Atop the stairs Morgan looked down.  Smalltalk milled the foyer.  A descending swoop to survey players caught on a girl.  Something from way down the well.  When she laughed Morgan dismissed it the usual way; in their field you seem to know everyone.  Fame is a tireless envoy.

A jarhead stood beside acting like he weren’t her guard dog.  Man you better watch out, he told a sandy-haired guy.  I’ll be the new you!

The recipient of this clicked.  That gadfly Jones!  Living loud enough to fund a tabloid, who needs a publicist with his