Brenner by Hermann Burger

Author:Hermann Burger [Burger, Hermann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Steerforth Press
Published: 2022-07-05T00:00:00+00:00

13.

JOURNEY TO GORMUND, RIO 6 FOR THE ROAD

I fear – and so console myself, as it is still early in the morning, and my stack of ELCO foolscap with the Brunsleben watermark remains essentially untouched, with a Danneman Sumatra Espada, Havana short filler, fresh as on the day of purchase thanks to its foil wrapper, the silver arrow as it is commonly known, and my second cousin, Johann Caspar Brenner, will not begrudge me this foray into the competition, even less so as true gourmandise is inconceivable except through comparison; it astonishes me how little the Mandi Angin wrapper from the Klumpang plantation in Indonesia contributes to the Danneman filler as against the Brenner Habasuma, maybe it is a touch more metallic, yes, in brief – I fear, and moreover regret that no order will be imposed on these tobacco leaves running from viso to volado, for yesterday was the first hot August day, though still with a stretched taffeta sky of a Julian blue – Swiss National Day, I will get to that later – a grain-laden, corn-pregnant day of the kind where earth blows on us from all round, and in the bright zenith something of the rage of the reaping archangel is palpable, no wonder the verse “Never lonelier than in August” is now a commonplace, the red and yellow fires, hour of plenitude in the fields, the sun blazed down with leonine might, the side streets of the little cities of the Aargau, medieval, vaguely brooding, were packed, perhaps because it was Saturday, the convertibles wheeled out, polished to a high glow, shopping baskets were filled with mineral water, cider, and bottled beer, the world was new and shiny like a toy, a vegetal seduction emanated from the glances of the women in their flimsy fabrics, but in his late period at Brunsleben, Hermann Arbogast Brenner can confidently let that pass without getting heated, the swimming pools were full and festive, the mopeds wedged in one over the other, this sculpturesque assortment of scrap metal in the park bespeaks the youth stampede, air temperature thirty-two degrees, water twenty-four, slight breeze from the northeast, the family cabins a leaden blue, and on the distant horizon, beach huts turned toward the bottle-green Baltic sea, the tops of parasols spinning white-red-white, Melkfett and ambre solaire, refreshment stands, the fire red of a sugared strawberry beckoning from summer at Menzenmang, the fine prickle of Kontiki popsicles on the tongue, delicacies from the kiosk in the blackish-brown bathing house by the graveyard and the Rösli hut across the Wyna dam: all this must be told, for behind every chew of Bazooka lies the ur-gum, which must be dislodged with an archaeologist’s care.

Item, the day began with a mood as on the eve of festivities with the post, brought by Bruns’s own PTT autocrat, Surleuly, counter clerk and letter carrier all wrapped up in one, not to mention mayor of this municipality of three hundred souls, he slips it into the mailbox

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