Chapter 17
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 17
Chapter Title: Munich
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Munich
The smell of prison, if it had a color, would be a sickly green. A dank green mingled with old mold, sweat-soaked mattresses, and the stench of piss.
I huddled in the corner of the holding cell, staring at the wall.
The gray cement wall was etched with countless graffiti.
Someone had counted days, someone had scrawled a lover's name, someone had splattered curses.
To my eyes, that chaotic mess looked like an abstract painting.
Gravity of Despair.
"Hey, painter. Eat your food."
The guard shoved a tray through the bars. Thin oatmeal gruel and a hunk of rock-hard black bread. It smelled sour just sniffing it. On the verge of spoiling, or already spoiled.
But I picked up the spoon without hesitation. Before meeting Franz, there were times I couldn't even eat worse than this. The fact that meals came regularly was almost a blessing.
I scooped up a spoonful of the gruel and shoved it in my mouth. Bland and gritty texture.
I had to remember this taste.
When I paint 'poverty' later, I need to capture this blandness at the tip of my brush. I heightened the sensation on my tongue and mechanically chewed and swallowed.
"You sure scarf it down. After feasting on crown prince money, doesn't this stuff stick in your throat?"
The guard sneered. He tapped his baton against the bars.
I set down the spoon and looked at him.
"It's actually comfortable. More my style than wearing a tuxedo and forcing smiles—sitting here eating their slop and staring at the wall."
"Crazy bastard. You think you're some hero? You're just a criminal. Public morals violation, obstructing official duties. Quite the colorful charges."
"Artists are preemptive criminals by nature. Breaking the world's rules is our job."
The guard let out a hollow laugh like he couldn't believe it, then vanished.
Silence returned.
A square patch of sunlight filtered through the small window beyond the bars. Dust danced in the beam.
I wet my finger with spit and gathered dust from the floor. Then I began drawing on the cement floor.
Materials: dust and saliva. Canvas: prison floor.
The subject... my hand.
A wrist bound in shackles, robbed of freedom. But the fingers still moved. No brush, no paint, yet I drew. This was my proof.
Proof of freedom.
Canvas Within the Iron Bars.
How much time passed? The iron door clanged open.
"Adolf Hitler! Visitor!"
It had arrived. Morgenstern with a lawyer in tow, maybe. Or Franz bringing care package food.
They dragged me to the visiting room in cuffs.
The person sitting beyond the transparent glass wall was unexpected.
A woman in a black veiled hat.
Alma Mahler.
Even perched on a cheap visiting room chair, she exuded elegance, like she was in an opera house royal box. Legs crossed, lace-gloved hands on the table.
"What brings you here? It stinks."
As I sat, she lifted her veil slightly. Red lips curved into a smile.
"Wanted to see you. Curious what a caged beast looks like."
"As you see, perfectly tame. Eating well, too."
"Liar. Your eyes want to chew through those bars right now."
She tapped the glass with her finger.
"Know what's happening outside?"
"No newspapers here. How would I?"
"Your painting Shadow of the Tower of Babel—police confiscated it. Nearly caused a riot over that. Students marched to the station shouting 'Free the Art!'"
Free the Art. Nice slogan.
"Vienna police chief is tearing his hair out. Keep you locked up, public opinion sours. Release you, loses face for authority."
"Sounds delicious."
"And one more fun bit."
She leaned forward. Her perfume seemed to seep through the glass.
"Vatican issued a statement. Investigating if your painting is blasphemy. Word reached the Holy See."
The stakes had ballooned. The Vatican, even.
In medieval times, I'd be at the stake. But this is the 20th century. Papal condemnation is prime noise marketing.
"An honor. The Pope seeing my work."
"You really lost all sense of fear."
Alma giggled.
"So I brought a gift."
She pulled an envelope from her handbag and slid it through the food slot under the glass.
"What's this?"
"Petition. Signed by 100 Vienna artists. Klimt first, my husband Mahler too. Even that prickly architect Adolf Loos."
I opened the envelope. Pages crammed with signatures. Familiar names: Egon Schiele, Oskar Kokoschka... My comrades and rivals.
"Can this scrap of paper spring me?"
"Not alone. So I pulled some strings."
"What strings?"
"Police chief's wife is a regular at my salon. She was fretting over her husband's promotion. I dropped a hint: 'Keep Hitler locked, riots grow, chief's head rolls.'"
Scary woman.
She knew power's pulse and how to squeeze it. She should've been a politician, not an artist.
"Thanks to that, you're out soon. Bail's paid—by me."
"Must've been pricey."
"Deduct from your painting fees. Shadow of the Tower of Babel's seized anyway—hurry and finish my portrait."
She stood.
"Come straight to my villa when out. Wash up. You reek."
She left without looking back. Heel clicks faded.
I sat dazed, clutching the petition.
Solidarity from artists. Lobbying from a noblewoman.
Ironic. I painted to shatter the system, yet powers within it save me—because my art tickled their fancy.
I sneered. At myself, at this world.
That afternoon, I was released.
Stepping out the station's front gate, blinding flashes exploded.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Dozens of reporters swarmed. Behind them, students with placards cheered.
"Hitler lives! Art's freedom lives!"
"Return the Tower of Babel!"
Felt like a triumphing general. I raised my wrist, shackle marks vivid, and waved. The picture they craved.
"Mr. Hitler! A word! What'd you think in prison?"
"Thoughts on the Vatican's condemnation?"
Reporters thrust notebooks like mics.
I held silence till the crowd hushed.
"Prison..."
Everyone held breath as I spoke.
"...was cozier than expected. Fewer lies than the outside world."
Cheers erupted. Reporters scribbled furiously.
"Tell the Vatican: God toppled Babel not from hate, but worry—the human tower was shoddily built."
I grinned and pushed through the crowd.
Franz waited with a carriage. Morgenstern wept beside him.
"My boy Hitler! You suffered! Look at that half-ruined face!"
"Half a day, and it's ruined? Don't overdo it."
Climbing aboard, tension melted. I sank deep into the backrest.
"Teacher, you stink."
Franz sniffed.
"Man's fragrance, kid."
"Lady said go to the villa. Bath water waiting?"
Alma Mahler's villa. That secluded spot in Vienna Woods.
Should I go?
Predictable. She'd seduce, I'd not refuse. We'd devour each other, sucking inspiration dry.
But is that my path?
I gazed out the window. Vienna's streets still glittered. One painting flipped the world, yet nothing changed. Nobles rode carriages, slums starved.
I'd just become a star. A 'rebel' image ripe for their consumption.
Head to her villa, soak in warm water, sip wine—I'd be tamed.
A tamed wolf becomes a dog.
"Franz, turn the carriage."
"Huh? No villa?"
"No."
"Where then? Studio?"
"No. Pack. We're leaving."
Morgenstern gasped.
"Leaving? Where? Just hit the jackpot!"
"Exit at peak. Linger, people tire."
I opened the window, cool breeze hit.
"To Germany. Munich."
"Mun... ich?"
"Yeah. That burned-face guy Kasirer left a card. Munich before Berlin."
City where original Hitler shelved painting for politics. Nazi birthplace.
Heading there.
But as painter, not politician. Vienna's stale empire town; Munich rawer, dynamic. Wanted to test my art there.
And escape Vienna's sticky networks. Alma's web, Klimt's shadow, crown prince's watch. All suffocating.
"What'll you do there?"
Franz's eyes sparkled. Excited by travel.
"Prepare for war."
"War again? With who?"
"Real war this time. World War I."
He'd think joke; I was dead serious.
1914 loomed. Sarajevo shot not far off.
Could I stop it? Or reshape it with my art?
Dunno. But sipping champagne in Vienna galleries? Useless.
"Morgenstern, you mind the Vienna branch. Sell paintings, take cut, wire to Munich."
"Really going? Leaving me?"
"You count cash here. Trouble in Munich turns profit too."
Morgenstern sighed in resignation.
Carriage headed central station.
One-way tickets.
On platform, I looked up at Vienna sky. Gray clouds gathered.
So much here. Nearly starved, shocked world with art, jail stint.
Farewell.
Train arrived. Steam engine's heavy roar shook my heart.
"Board."
Franz and I climbed on.
Clack. Clack.
Train lurched forward. Vienna scenery slid past: Stephansdom spire, construction sites, Heroes' Square.
Farewell, Morgenstern. Farewell, Klimt. Farewell, Alma. Farewell, my penniless days.
'Lady Alma, the portrait remains unfinished. But people aren't perfect—perhaps that's its true completion.'
I pulled out my notebook.
Jotted first Munich to-dos.
1. Find housing (sunny place)
2. Scout school for Franz
3. Buy canvas
...
Paused before last item.
'Draw swastika?'
No. Too dangerous. Seal that symbol.
Redirect its energy elsewhere.
A whirlpool.
A massive vortex of color sucking everything in.
Munich beer halls. Drunken crowds clinking mugs, ranting. Where Hitler mesmerized with speeches.
There, I'd paint instead.
A mural.
On vast beer hall walls, something to steal souls from revelers.
Title: Dionysian Festival.
Wine, madness, god of liberation.
Blood boiled at the thought.
"Teacher, why smile?"
Franz eyed me.
"Just. Seems fun."
"German sausages tastier?"
"Probably. Beer definitely."
We laughed facing each other.
Train raced toward the border. Vienna's refined waltz ended; Munich's rough march began.