Benjamin's Gardens

By J. Walther

Having just finished his graduation exam and unsure of what to do next, Benjamin is at a crossroads in his life. Then he meets a stranger who changes his life. What starts out as a fling becomes much more each time the two meet. Benjamin's Gardens is not just the story of a young man who falls in love, it gives readers Benjamin's point of view as he goes from a scared boy who just wants affection to a confident young man ready to take control of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Dec 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386891437

Book preview

Water

When the water is very calm, you can see the tiles on the bottom. There are various shades of blue on the ground, lines oscillating between them. At the edge, the tiles are dark blue and decorated. I strike out, push mightily from the edge of the pool, and float a long way. There’s free lane in front of me, no one disturbing. I swim slowly with even strokes. Reaching the other side of the pool, I pause for a moment. Two of the dark blue art nouveau tiles have come undone, betraying their age, not forgiving the lack of care. I push off backwards with my feet, float for a moment, lift an arm, and begin to swim, powerfully pulling myself through the cold water. The low ceiling above me, held up by steel beams with narrow windows just underneath. The warm late afternoon light seeps in, hitting the other wall just above the water in red squares.

A young man with swimming goggles enters my field of vision. His head rises high above the water, stays submerged for a long time, reappears. He pulls past me without disturbing the water. I turn around, reach the end of the lane, catch my breath, and look over the pool. The young man’s head has already almost reached the other side again. At the end of the lane, he dives, disappearing for a long time. Only quickly appearing a few times, his upper body comes high above the water. He is an enviably good swimmer, quick and tenacious. He stops next to me momentarily, greets me with a nod, takes a deep breath, and swims off with powerful strokes. His shoulder muscles are tense. I look at my legs treading the water and at my chest. I’m slim, which is good for swimming, but nowhere as muscular as he.

I look up and his arms are coming together again. In the lane up ahead, an old woman is slowly swimming towards me. I recognize her as she comes up to my side of the pool. My Great Aunt, twice removed. She has a wide, friendly face and looks unusual without her large glasses. I want to quickly get back to swimming, but alas I am too late.

Hello, Benjamin. Gasping she reaches the edge. I greet her kindly, knowing what is expected of me. In vain I try to remember her name, but to no avail. She comes right up to me, looks at me kindly with short-sighted eyes.

How are you holding up being all alone?

It is what it is, I answer with measured seriousness. It’s my standard answer to this question – one that is posed to me again and again for nearly a year. One to which I don’t have an answer.

You’re already nearly a man. Her tone had become somewhat soft and sympathetic. Desperately, I look over her shoulder. The young man’s head disappears under water, reappearing further back. I’m at a loss for an answer and nod half-heartedly.

But you are finished with your Abitur, right?

Yes, I look over her other shoulder, still looking for help. But there’s only an old lady swimming up to us. She forces a greeting when she reaches us, holding tightly to the edge of the pool.

How’s everything going with the house?, continues my Great Aunt, twice removed.

I’d sell the old shack, the other woman said, sticking her nose in without being invited. I close my eyes for a short while. The conversation takes its usual course. It is one against which I am powerless. I cannot discuss things that even to me are hardly clear. Searching for rescue, I turn again to my Great Aunt.

Yes, but when you have a family, it’ll be nice to have a house, she nodded.

Always the same, well-intentioned hope for my future. A family – her hope for me. They’re also comforting themselves with it. Sometime it will all be normal again, fate worked out. But I cannot accept their consolation and answer evasively.

Hopefully you’ll get a teaching position soon. You do have to earn money, after all.

Yes, I say, even though I’ve never made any effort to get any training. I don’t know where to start. I escape the conversation with a casual nod. I swim faster than before, with powerful strokes. I don’t like how they talk about my life, thinking they know it all. It’s my life. I have to live it and don’t need their well-meant advice.

I reach the other side and turn around. The young man’s head appears just ahead of me and comes towards me. We set off almost at the exact same time, he under the water and me above. I try to keep up with him, pushing myself. Yet to no avail – I’m swimming too hastily, lose my rhythm, and finish a full length behind. He has turned around gracefully again. I hold on to the edge of the pool, breathing heavily. Both women are still there. Using swimming as an excuse to gossip.

Yes, the strange man in the villa is there.

My husband asked what he does and he barely said a word.

Now they’re swimming off, slow enough to chat with each other, their heads held high above the water.

Something’s not right with him, I barely make out. I stay at the edge.

This strange man. I already heard that someone was going to sell the old villa. Someone unwilling to tell his life’s story to people asking prying questions that are only friendly as a false pretense. That sounds interesting. I can take another look at the villa – I haven’t been there for a long time.

I lift myself over the edge of the pool, getting out of the water. I grab my hand towel from the railing while passing by and comb through my unruly hair with my fingers. I dry off, drying myself quickly. Then I go upstairs, my hair still damp. The end of the staircase opens up into a large hallway. Light diffuses through the high factory windows, filth and garbage lying in the corners. Otherwise the hall is empty, the machines long since disposed of. The only thing left is the old swimming pool for the employees in the basement. I walk across the dusty floor and step out of the building. The evening March air is cold. As I walk along the village street, I start to freeze. I run faster to forget the cold. The village extends for a long time, the houses divided along the creek, some large farmsteads sit enthroned over hanging meadows.

Finally I reach the other end of the area. I turn from the street and choose a narrow path through the meadows.

I walk through in between the trees, no light falling upon the path. I move carefully, unsure of where the creek is. I find the spot at last, walk over to the other bank and notice flickering shadows on the ground. It is becoming brighter between the trees. I look up. In the fading sky, the silhouette of the small villa stands out, light burning in the turret. A large fire is crackling near the villa, casting long, ghostly shadows. A grown blond man is throwing boards and cupboard pieces into the flames, the fire flaring up. The attractive man is clearly not from here.

I’m still deciding whether to simply walk up when he grabs for a small end table that is standing somewhat askance. I jump from my hiding spot, running towards him: Don’t! That’s not good.

The stranger looks at me and lets the end table down. As I stand in front of him, he grins at me.

Oh, a lover of old things. His smile widens. I look at him, longer than necessary. His beautiful face is heated, building an attractive contrast to his blond hair. His grin does not disappear from his face, becoming mischievous. I pull myself from the gaze, surveying the end table.

It’s still good, you know. Is it art nouveau?

I think so. He points to the brass fittings of the drawer.

But it has major scratches and there is a wood worm in the legs.

It can be refurbished. The wood worm has been out for a long time. Our hands are lying on either side of the end table, neither of us letting go. He smiles at me again.

Good, I have paint stripper in the shed. You can do it if you want.

We put the end table off to the side at the same time. Then he throws boards into the crackling fire until it flares up high into the sky. I stand there in a state of uncertainty, my hands in my pockets. After some time, he turns to me and points to a log. We sit down, looking into the fire. The heat from ahead envelops us quickly, illuminating my face, my back, cold. Dancing flames and sparks rise into the pale sky. Our silence uneases me. Does he want me to go? I look at him through the corner of my eye and he seems completely relaxed. He leans his head towards me with a gesture of intimacy. I clear my throat and ask him what he’s doing here. I’m shocked at how shaky my voice sounds.

I bought the villa and renovated it. It’s wonderful, don’t you?

Yes, I liked it even when I was a kid.

You’re from here? The surprise in his voice flatters me.

Yes, I was born here. Do you want to live here, then?

No, I’m going to resell it.

Odd idea for a business.

Not answering, he throws old boxes and brush into the fire. Then he sits down again, looking at me pensively.

Actually, it’s more than a business idea.

What is it then? I look at him eagerly.

When I was twenty-one, my grandmother died. I missed her a lot, because I always felt most comfortable with her during my childhood. She had left me her little house and I moved back in. It was in a suburb, a neglected little settlement house. Inside it smelled of age and sickness, the garden was unkempt, but still the small paradise of my childhood. Rebates full of summer flowers, wild berry bushes, and a dilapidated shed, the vegetable patches overgrown with burrs. I was there every summer as a kid. I sat there the whole day, immersed in my memories. Finally, I could bear it no longer. I began to clear out the cupboards, sold the old porcelain and crystal to an antiques dealer, and filled two bulky waste containers.

As he speaks, I can’t stop looking at him furtively. The curve his meticulously cut blond hair forms over his ear. The light bends in his arm when he pulls up his sleeve. His beautiful hands. He isn’t paying attention to me, looking into the fire, occupied with his thoughts.

I cleaned the black and white stone floor in the hallway, removed the boarding from the porch, and covered the original lamps and old photos in the attic. And slowly it made sense. This house was more than an ordinary ‘20s estate house. It had many wonderful details. It was a little jewel and I started to polish it. I occupied myself with old blueprints, pored over books about architecture, inquired with craftsmen and began to repair everything. I removed extra walls and the light returned. I replaced glass blocks on the porch, hung the Bauhaus lamps back up, and painted the walls in their original colors.

He turns his gaze from the fire, comes out of his trance a little. He looks at me for a moment, searchingly. For a moment, he seems irritated. He gazes into the flames again.

"Anyhow, I had no idea what to do with the house. To be honest, I didn’t want to live there. I felt much too young to confine myself to any one place. One day, a married couple came by. They stood and admired the house. We spoke til the cows came home. Finally, I showed them everything. They were excited and offered me a good price – more than I would have imagined. I didn’t have to think about it long. I had found a small train station on an abandoned road and now had the capital to buy it and make it into an apartment building. That was six years ago and