Chapter 19
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 19
Chapter Title: God Made by Man
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Munich's mornings were nothing like Vienna's.
Where Vienna's dawned under a gloomy gray fog, Munich's kicked off with blazing sunlight, the smell of grilled sausages, and the lingering hoppy haze of last night's hangovers not quite burned off.
I stood by the window of my new studio in Schwabing, stretching my arms wide.
"Ugh... feels good to be alive."
North-facing light poured through the wide window—perfect for painting. Honest illumination that didn't stretch shadows too long or distort colors.
But today wasn't for picking up a brush. It was for loosening my tongue.
"Franz, get up. Time to clock in."
"Mmm... what about school?"
Franz wriggled under the blankets.
"We'll handle the transfer tomorrow. Today's a business meeting."
I roused him, gave him a quick wash-up. I pulled out my top-tailored suit from Vienna and slipped it on. Thought about a necktie, then ditched it. Artists looked sharper with a touch of dishevelment. Instead, I pocketed the scrapbook of newspaper clippings I'd brought from Vienna—my most powerful weapon.
We headed back to the Hofbräuhaus.
The beer hall in broad daylight was a world apart from nighttime. The crowds were gone; staff bustled around sweeping up sawdust from the floors and wiping tables. The air hung heavy with stale beer and disinfectant.
The empty hall felt enormous. They'd said it could hold thousands, and without people, it was like an airplane hangar.
"What can I do for you? We're not open yet."
A mustachioed man in an apron approached. His forearms looked thicker than my thighs. Clearly the manager or something.
"I'd like to see the man in charge."
"That's me. Ludwig."
He eyed me suspiciously, scanning me up and down. Fancy clothes, but eyes that didn't look ordinary.
"Spare me a moment. I've got a proposal to double your sales."
Classic con-man line. But business was always a gamble.
Ludwig snorted.
"Beer supplier? We don't switch vendors."
"No. I'm a painter."
"Painter? Want to do portraits? Not interested. Beat it."
He turned to go. I blocked his path quick and pointed at the hall's bare walls.
"Those walls—aren't they a bit too plain?"
"What?"
"Beer can be great, but the vibe's gotta match for it to taste right. Staring at those gray walls kill your buzz? Feels like drinking in a government office."
Ludwig's brow furrowed.
"Listen here, kid. This place is 300 years old. People come for the rough charm."
"Rough ain't the same as boring. Let me paint that wall. Something that makes folks order another round without thinking while they sip and stare."
"Heh. Seen every kind of nutjob."
He moved to shoo me out. Now's the moment. I yanked the scrapbook from my coat and slapped it on the table.
"Take a look. See what I got up to in Vienna."
Ludwig flipped it open, annoyed.
First page: article on Empire's Stomach.
Second: the crown prince bought a painting.
Third: Heroes' Square Tower of Babel incident.
His eyes widened with each turn. He read German. 'Crown prince,' 'Klimt,' 'genius,' 'scandal'—juicy words hitting his retinas.
"You're... that Hitler? The one who turned Vienna upside down?"
"Yep. That madman wants to paint your wall."
I pulled out a chair and sat like I owned the place.
"Vienna's crown prince bought my work. You telling me Munich's top beer hall doesn't have a single Hitler on the walls?"
Ludwig swallowed hard. He was crunching numbers in his head. If this young painter's rep was real, it'd be massive publicity. But risky too.
"What... you gonna paint? More of that grotesque stuff? Ruin appetites?"
He jabbed at the Empire's Stomach photo in the article.
"Nah. This is a beer hall. Needs to be fun."
My eyes sparkled.
"Dionysian Festival. The god of wine comes down and rolls with mortals. Wild, rowdy, scorching hot."
"Wild?"
"Not dirty-talk level, but pokes at the beast in drunk folks. The kind men'll love."
Ludwig's mouth twitched up.
"Terms?"
"I cover materials. You provide me and my assistant unlimited beer and meals during the work."
"That's it?"
"And when it's done, no entry fee, but my signature huge. If the mural blows up later, you sit back and rake it in."
No loss if it flops. Ludwig pondered, then stuck out his rough hand.
"Deal. But don't bug customers. And if I hate it, I paint over it."
"Won't happen."
We shook. Calluses rasped my palm. Contract sealed.
"Franz, grab the gear."
I nodded at him.
We started work the next day.
Set up scaffolding, primed the massive wall white. Once the base was down, Munich's boozers gathered, buzzing.
"What's that?"
"New interior, looks like."
I ignored them, grabbed charcoal.
This scale topped Shadow of the Tower of Babel. Ten meters wide, four high. Biggest canvas of my life.
Subject: Dionysus. Not the elegant Greek myth version.
A pot-bellied Bavarian uncle type. Hops stalk crown instead of vines, massive beer stein instead of wine goblet.
Around him, nymphs and satyrs danced—Munich waitresses and workers. Clothes disheveled, faces flushed red.
Revelry.
And madness.
That's booze. Medicine in moderation, poison in excess. I aimed to paint that razor edge—the instant joy tips to frenzy.
"Teacher, check that guy's gut. Just like the uncle next door."
Franz chuckled below, mixing paints.
"Gods always look human. We made 'em that way."
I took up the brush. Not oils this time. Tempera variant to seep into the wall. Primary colors: red, yellow, ochre. They'd blaze fiercer under the hall lights.
Work was public. Days for priming and sketching, nights coloring to the roar of crowds as backdrop music.
Drunks mobbed the scaffolding, heckling.
"Hey, painter! Bigger tits on that girl!"
"Dionysus's nose too red? Strawberry nose!"
I bantered back, brush flying.
"Less red than your nose, sir?"
"Can't— no room for her beer mug."
Laughter erupted. They drank eyeing my work; I painted eyeing them. Audience and artist breathing the same air—a performance.
My past-life Hitler mesmerized crowds here with speeches. I did it with brushstrokes.
"Kid's got a silver tongue. And the painting's solid."
Ludwig watched from the counter, arms crossed, pleased. Sales were up, as predicted. Word spread: 'Mad painter murals Hofbräuhaus.' Crowds poured in.
One night, mid-work.
Someone tapped the scaffold pole.
Below: bespectacled intellectual type. Calm gray coat, neat tie. Misfit in the raucous bar.
"Excuse me. Could you come down a sec?"
I set the brush down, climbed the ladder.
"Who're you?"
"Wassily Kandinsky."
Kandinsky.
Father of abstraction. Blue Rider leader.
Heart skipped. Klimt, Schiele, now Kandinsky. Art history table of contents coming alive before me.
"Ah, the... guy from Russia?"
"You know me?"
"Yeah. Heard you handle color like music."
Kandinsky blinked, surprised.
"You're a painter, then. Thought you were just a muralist."
He gazed up. Incomplete, but dynamic composition and vivid hues pulsed.
"Incredible energy. Figurative, yet abstract rhythm. Those lines—dancing."
"Praise?"
"Yes. Munich Academy stiffs couldn't dream it. Too rigid."
He offered his hand.
"Drop by our group sometime. Hideout in Schwabing. 'Blue Rider.'"
"Blue Rider... honor."
"Need your feral instinct. We're too theoretical."
He handed a card and vanished.
Hitler joins Blue Rider?
Beyond distortion—history demolition. But fun. Aspiring dictator rubbing with abstraction masters.
I climbed back up.
Picture's center. Time for Dionysus's eyes.
Gods' eyes usually merciful or majestic. Not this one.
His: glazed, unfocused. But madness lurked in that blur. Eyes of oblivion, erasing all.
Black on brush tip for the pupil.
Stare into them, forget worldly woes, chug beer endlessly.
"Teacher, that guy's eyes are scary. Like my dad stumbling home drunk."
Franz muttered.
"That's the point. They'll see their dads—or themselves—in those eyes."
As the painting neared done, the hall's vibe shifted. From noisy tavern to feverish, manic buzz. Folks drank more with the mural as appetizer, laughed louder.
As if infected by its aura.
Finally, completion day.
Last: highlight on the foam of Dionysus's beer stein.
"Done."
Scaffolding down.
The massive mural fully revealed.
Dionysian Festival.
Under lights, it writhed. Red-and-gold feast. Illusion of booze scent wafting from the wall.
Boozers cheered.
"Cheers! To Dionysus!"
"Hitler forever! Munich forever!"
Someone yelled 'Hitler forever!'—chill down my spine. Slogan not due for a decade, bursting here.
But not political yet. Artistic praise.
Ludwig clapped my back.
"Incredible! You're the real deal! Mark my words—this mural's Munich's new landmark."
He handed a fat envelope of cash. And lifetime free beer coupons.
"Thanks. But I need walls to paint more than beer."
"Walls? Munich's got plenty. With your skill, even city hall."
I took a swig.
Success. First button of Munich conquest fastened.
But odd. Not pure joy like Vienna. Chest felt heavy.
Kandinsky's words echoed: 'feral instinct.'
My art excites people. Stimulates. That's my talent.
But if misused...?
Not drunk on booze, but hate?
Dionysus in the mural gazed down. His glazed eyes questioning.
'Where you taking them?'
I set the mug down.
"Franz, let's go."
"Already? No more sausage?"
"No. Head hurts."
Outside. Night breeze chilled.
Cheers still echoed from Hofbräuhaus. Festival my painting birthed.
But I started fearing that din.
Myth I painted? Or harbinger of coming future?
On the walk home, passed a mailbox. Thought of letter to Paula days ago. Arrived safe? Would she laugh or cry knowing her brother Munich's drunkards' hero?
Back at Schwabing studio, blank canvases awaited.
Now murals done. What's next?
Visit Kandinsky? Or...
Then, knock at the door.
Knock knock.
Who this late?
Opened it.
Men in uniform outside. Not police. Gray military garb. Imperial German Army?
"Adolf Hitler?"
"...Yes."
"Come with us."
"Arrest?"
"No. Orders to bring you."
"Whose?"
He paused, then low:
"General Ludendorff."
Erich Ludendorff.
WWI hero, later Munich Putsch partner with Hitler. Military power player.
Why me?
My art captured army hearts? Or sniffed the dangerous spark in me?
I glanced at Franz. He looked terrified.
"Franz, lock up. Be right back."
"Teacher..."
"Don't worry. Art commission probably. Soldiers don't stiff on pay."
Grabbed my coat.
Fate's wheel creaked into motion again. Not art world this time—to the gods of war.
