December 1989
West Berlin, West Germany
Ion Nicolae Dooku took a deep breath and watched it steam in the air just before he ducked into the pub. He'd been in Berlin for three days - he would be in Berlin until the end of the month, flying back to London on January second - and he'd spent them sightseeing.
He was tired of that already.
He'd come here to distract himself from the incessant feeling of alienation and loneliness in his life, which seemed to be made worse as of late by a gay colleague dying of AIDS, someone who had been interested in him, and he wasn't blind, but had declined the interest because he couldn't risk being outed. And it seemed that in politely ignoring the advances, he'd dodged a fatal bullet. Nonetheless, he was acutely aware of having spent his life alone, living like a monk, about to turn forty-one with no end to this in sight. He'd finally taken some paid vacation time, thinking that a change of scenery would do him good, remind him that he didn't need anyone. And of course, being a stranger in a strange land caught up with him.
So here he was now, wanting to do some things that locals did, not be such a foreigner for awhile. The pub was crowded - he hadn't been in the habit of going to pubs back in London, preferring the company of books, or the beauty of nature as he went for a run or a bike ride. He started to have second thoughts in the din of the crowd. But maybe a drink or two would help.
He ordered a pint of beer. Again, unlike him, more of a wine person. He sat down at a table in the corner, practicing his German with a newspaper.
The table was right near the piano, and now there was someone sitting at it. Thirty, thirty-five by the looks of him. Long dark hair to the middle of his back, a bit too much hairspray. Dressed like a glam rocker, eye makeup, leather pants, fingerless gloves, a ruffly dark shirt like a pirate, glittery vest. Haughty, chiseled face, the kind that could grace a magazine cover. He wasn't at all bad to look at, if the glam rock style was a bit cheesy - Dooku thought he was beautiful. Though this wasn't a gay pub, as far as Dooku knew, and he kept glances covert as much as he could.
Until the man stopped with the warmup exercises and actually started playing. Dooku recognized Rachmaninoff, and he put the newspaper down, watching the man's fingers fly over the keys, the storm in his grey eyes. My god. Dooku had been to classical music concerts in London, and this man could play with the Philharmonic. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end, a frisson down his spine. He could feel love-loss-fury-grief in the pounding of the keys, and when he closed his mind's eye he could see a storm of swords, blood on hands. He didn't frequently get mental images from music, and he wondered why his mind was wandering like this now. I must be exhausted.
There was Beethoven. Mozart. Then he took requests from the audience, pop songs. Most of it was 80s music - Hall and Oates, Michael Jackson, Def Leppard, Bon Jovi, Elton John. The odd piece of non-80s pop - "Yesterday" by The Beatles brought tears to his eyes.
Finally Dooku got bold enough to make a request. "Can you play 'Dust on the Wind' by Kansas?"
He did, and Dooku almost regretted requesting it. Almost, because it was beautiful, with the piano, and the rich tenor. The kind of hauntingly beautiful he'd remember for a long time. But it made him cry in public, and the piano man noticed him crying. Their eyes met.
Shit.
The performance ended after that, which was just as well. Dooku needed to get out of there. He put on his wool trenchcoat and gloves and hurried out into the crisp December night, and then, of course, there he was, wearing a leather jacket and a scarf but no hat, standing around, taking a few deep breaths like he was meditating, breath fogging in the air.
"Oh." Dooku didn't want to be rude. He cleared his throat. "Die Leistung war sehr gut. Ich habe es genossen. Danke für das Lied, das du für mich gespielt hast."
"You're welcome," the man replied in English, though accented.
"You... speak English."
"Ja. You asked me for the song in English, in the pub."
"Oh. I did." Dooku facepalmed, feeling incredibly stupid.
"It's all right. You're British?"
"London." Dooku nodded.
"Here on business or pleasure?"
"Vacation, but it's been feeling more like work." Dooku didn't know why he was telling this to a total stranger.
"You have sad eyes. And happy people typically don't ask for songs like you did."
"Happy people don't typically play Rachmaninoff like you do, either."
The man laughed, but there was a note of sadness in the laugh. He put out his hand. "From one melancholy old soul to another."
Dooku took his hand. "Nicolae Dooku. Everyone calls me by my surname."
"Marcus Lauer. And why is that, Herr Dooku."
"I just prefer it." Dooku didn't want to get into the story of being named for his great-grandfather but happening to have the same name as his Nazi collaborator uncle, and his parents calling him "you" or "it" unless he was going to the woodshed, and then his given name was used.
"I prefer not calling people by their surnames. It's very militaristic and this country is... not the place for that."
He had a point. "Fair enough, you can call me Nicolae. Though that would assume that we wouldn't be going our separate ways after this conversation."
"You want to take a walk with me, and I'll take you to wherever it is you're going after that - to a hotel, I assume - and maybe we could meet for coffee tomorrow? It might help if you had a local friend to show you around, and it might help if I could show someone around. It gets to be very boring here after awhile, less so to see it through someone else's eyes."
"All right." Dooku nodded. "You don't have to work?" He raised an eyebrow.
"I'm a sound engineer, I go to work when I get called in, it makes enough money I can go for months between jobs."
"I see." Dooku found that fascinating - especially the who he might have worked for - but he didn't want to pry, or come off like he was trying to exploit this man's connections to meet famous people. "Shall we go for that walk now?"
They did. It was through a park, which looked downright magical in the winter snow and ice, trees sparkling with icicles like crystals. The park was also decorated with fairy lights for the approaching Christmas season, and there were ice sculptures here and there. "This is lovely," Dooku said.
"I have a routine of walking through here at night. It helps me clear my head. I do it in all seasons and all weather, my neighbors probably think I'm quite mad."
"Well, the best people are." It was a quote from Alice in Wonderland, but Dooku immediately wished he hadn't said it, not wanting his new friend to think he was accusing him of being mad.
To his relief, Marcus laughed, not offended. "I don't make hats. Though perhaps I should."
Dooku was starting to wish he'd brought a hat with him when he left the hotel. He was used to London winter being cold but it was a bit colder here. Marcus noticed as they were walking past a cafe on the way to the hotel, which was still open at this time of night. Marcus gently took his arm and nudged him inside.
They had hot chocolate. That was something the Germans did wonderfully well.
"You look like you're having a religious experience." Marcus was amused.
"I don't normally have much of a sweet tooth, but this is quite good."
Marcus insisted on paying for both of them, even though Dooku could well afford it. At last they lingered outside the door of the hotel.
"Noon tomorrow, same cafe as the one we just visited?"
Dooku nodded. "I'll be there. And... thank you. You don't know me, and you've still been very kind to me."
"I know you well enough, with what you said about my music, the way it affected you." Marcus nodded.
Before he could start walking off, Dooku found himself asking, "Do you write your own music, at all?"
Marcus took a few steps back. "I do."
"Maybe before I go back to the UK, you could share...?"
"Maybe. But one thing at a time. I'll see you tomorrow, Nicolae."
Marcus walked off, and Dooku watched him, Marcus's long hair stirring in the breeze - stop staring at his arse - feeling the same storm-warning frisson he felt when Marcus first started playing the piano at the pub, but this time, the storm was inside him. His pulse was racing, mouth dry.
Get it together. Dooku made himself stop looking at Marcus and walked into the hotel, feeling disappointment as he returned to his room, alone again.