Page 141 - harryDEC12_clean.iba

A childish, immature game; but what had begun as a game led me on a down slope, as things turned out differently as expected, much to my today’s regret.
It was a place on the northern heath land, 50 km from Hamburg in a southwest direction. A small exit from the autobahn on wounded roads, then paths to Irenenhof – the horse stud farm of Klaus Friedrich Weyrauch - named after his dead second wife - the attractive whore. An area with many stables, with paddocks, jumping areas, boxes and many horses, jumping horses and galloping ones. Normally the place was filled with an air of busy activity: trainers, and female grooms. Now the area was ornamented in another way, a beer tent decorates the meadow. It was Klaus Friedrich’s 57th birthday. A different sort of busy activity reigns. Pairs of human beings are strolling in the tepid late summer air over the lawns followed by catering staff with trays full of canapés. Men were putting their women on display and where beauty no longer sufficed, expensive clothing and jewelry was made the focus of attention.
Rarely had I seen such a display of vanity, such an assortment of egocentrism and craving for recognition from representatives of the female sex. And whoever was new in this honorable circle, was put under scrutiny and examined as if by crows.
Meanwhile Klaus Friedrich was strutting about in a Loden jacket, jodhpurs, and jackboots through the groups of people, in his hand a glass of champagne, which was being constantly refilled by a serf. Here and there he graciously tuned in to a conversation and feeble jokes. In keeping with the occasion I had hired a cutaway with a grey jacket and striped trousers from the hire section of the firm “Have-Nots”, and after the morning reception forgotten to change. Typically me - I thought, annoyed. Well, the guests made allowances for me; after all, I was the crown prince and designated successor of KF the widower and altruistic comforter of neglected women who like to gather around him. Some of us compared him with the then famous German actor Curd Jürgens - also known in Hollywood - and in fairness, when he wore his top hat and his cutaway, there was a certain similarity.
It does not take long, that I noticed in the distance a dark haired slim woman with slightly bow legs and an effusive, self-confident manner. To my surprise it was Martha accompanied by her blonde bore. It emerged that the Customs Agent was a business associate of my father (god knows, what business they were doing together. (My tip was smuggling). Martha, as a female exponent of the upper classes, a veritable society lady with a distinct undertone of snobbery explained it to me, was an ordinary a stewardess. Two hours later after I had enjoyed abundant quantities of high percentage spirituous beverages, I came to the unfortunate conclusion that this stewardess, at least by appearance could fit in with my new lifestyle. It was worth a try. I thought and I had a go. Nothing could stop my ego.
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