Love Guides The Wandering Star--Part 3: By Holly_Gonzalez

Awake. Still Margritte, They haven't defeated me!

Her ears rang. The wan light of psi-space dissipated. Aunt Dagmar's gentle smile morphed into the Professor's vulpine face, the stern countenances of the judges, the myriad lights and the blank stares of the crowd.

The recurring patterns--she'd recognized a few this time. Cigarettes. My Ecrivain's Specials. They've appeared twice. That glass typewriter. And the earrings Dagmar gave to Ingeborg--to me. They must be a link to Fray. Are there more clues yet to come?

Professor Waldengrave smiled. "Bravo, dear Fraulein! You've passed through the maze. What an intriguing diorama of determination. Give her a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen."

The audience cheered on cue, but the judges remained aloof.

"A promising event," said a female judge in a tailored uniform coat. "However, both trials show a preference for German aspirations and locales."

Margritte wanted to protest, but remained silent. I'm German-born. Doesn't that explain it? The fools refused to admit the simple truth.

Another judge, the fickle man who'd doubted her first trial, steepled his fingers over the panel desk. "I also find this perpetual German theme...troubling. We've seen not a speck of faith in the American ideals she claims to uphold." He waved a hand in dismissal.

The Professor cleared his throat. "Very well. I hope you have nerves of iron, Fraulein. The third episode is the trial of pride. We've shared your ambitions, now we're to witness your indulgences and fears."

Margritte stared skyward. No stars were visible. All were outshined by the stage lights, the glimmering zeppelins, the downpour of drifting confetti. The trial of pride was where most former contestants had failed. Some woke up laughing madly, some screaming, others in convulsions.

She closed her eyes and replied, "I'm ready."

The charge initiated. The Psychometer resonated its fields into the multiverse. Margritte surrendered to the injection of the serum, the spin of dislocation, the jumble of one reality into another--the invaded psi-space unaware it was being spied on in the name of an American oligarchy, with a shell of a Hollywood idol as its viewing lens.

Psi-space entered her mind as a camera's gaudy flash, a vortex of sequins and plumes and perfumed silk. Alluring people skulked in dim, smoky shrines, cavorted where music swirled, where jazz bands hit the highs and lows of a generation. Brash trumpets scolded and come-hither voices growled in time. A time she'd once known, once reveled in and adored, now lay forgotten. She was now just a bumpkin with straw in her hair, reposing in dark country nights flecked with stars, a commander with an army of dogs barking at her heels. How she missed her simple farmhouse refuge. If she could sway through this debacle unscathed, she'd go home triumphant. Hopefully, with Fray at her side.

"Who do you merge with now?" The Professor's voice dwindled.

Margritte hesitated to answer. In the growing tangibility of psi-space, she found herself at the edge of one of her alfalfa fields. The dogs romped around her. Ahead, in the center of the field, lay the rusted-out frame of a car. Glass lay in fragments around its dented spokes. The once-lavish upholstered seats were torn, the paint peeling, the radiator grill a corroded sneer of neglect. Only steel bones remained of the luxurious sport coupe she'd once bought as a present for Fray--shortly before Fray had gone incognito. This corpse of forsaken splendor now lay decayed in a farm field in Pennsylvania.

Just like me. A washed-up nobody. But I don't want this. I'm a star, Verdammt!

A new psi-space glistened through the dark abyss of the between. "A shining star dances. Brune. I'm the sweet honey of sin on everyone's tongue, the gem without blemish. A mask watches and waits. A thin veneer for pride, for fame. I only cherished my true love...but she's gone."

The orgonite earrings vibrated with a gentle tone, and Margritte dissolved into Brune.

***

Frau Only Drives the Chrysalis

By: WilliamJJackson

Brune Adenauer, despite her name, awoke each afternoon blonde as a solar flare. Clearing out the cold from groggy, slender, cinnamon eyes, yawning from a petite rose mouth, she surveilled her spacious bedchamber. Mauve silk curtains curled in breezy air through open balcony doors which let in the sun and scattered hopeful beams through small crystal chandeliers on the arched ceiling. Not a thing could be done until she lit a match, applied it to an Ecrivain's Special and partook of three excruciating drags, cigarettes being the lady's choice for breakfast. Brune obtained a shot glass on the stand at her bedside, gargled its contents of Shalimar perfume, and danced about. Smidgen, her pet fox, purred in his sleep. Shoes, silk slip and a rhinestone studded sleeveless evening dress from last night's debauchery remained scattered about the carpet, evidence of a hasty retreat to dreamland. A quick waltz to the floor length mirror in silver frame to check her face. A plucky jig towards the imposing armoire of daunting oak for the hairbrush on its polished tray. She lived in luxury, this chamber the size of many a full house, the crackle of her fireplace sounded off as many rifles. She walked and slept amongst silver starlight, traipsed across garish carpets shipped from Siam.

Actress extraordinaire. Czarina of Celluloid, world famous since the age of thirteen, when she first starred as the seductress of an elderly sheik in Das Nackte Leben, Naked Life, in 1910.

The sole object to spoil the view? Kriegtier, a man but not, robota but not. Huge, dark, miserable, a helmeted head with stubby horns over a jaw long ago scorched, ever observing. He, it, kept her safe. Ninety percent of him was cast steel plating and rivets down neck and spine tapering down to conical kneecaps and hydraulic brakes wedged between the stubby blades on each iron toe. Aerodynamic fins down the back circulated air and coolant to the small diesel motor wedged into the artificial abdomen. He represented a New Age stegosaur, an old thing whose flesh had been sacrificed to the tar pit of war, what remained petrified in armor. The Sky War, Germany's glory banner, Brune's most famous years and Kriegstier's despair.

Fans of the actress were legion, their calls outside faintly heard. They yelled about her performance in Ein Vert zu Klaus (1919), her comedic aptitude in the Konnenfeld shorts (1920-1926) and, endlessly, her decadent performance as the murderous Madame of a bordello in Lisbon (1923). Brune loved their idolatry as she peered out now and again to acknowledge her followers.

Brune saw the mammoth clock face, a full four feet in diameter, its feminine hands of platinum polish dictated the hour while she pranced...

"Oh! Seven-eighteen! Kriegtier! Alert Mamette and have Alma draw my bath super hot! The premiere! I nearly forgot the premiere!" She squeaked like a jackrabbit, startling Smidgen as her man-robot turned in hisses and pounding pistons to make for the door. A frantic Brune ran around the bedchamber. She had gams to shave, hair to curl, a fabulous garment to pick from amongst thousands plus a mind to prepare for social warfare. Fame had its price. Into the bathroom she fled, an oval oasis in the tower of her Queen Anne manor. Jade marble tiles welcomed her. A bathtub of black ceramic, trimmed in gilded leaves, was in need of water. Brune gazed at herself again, this time in the diamond-shaped mirror over the sink. She leaned on the jade countertop and grabbed her toothbrush. Alma, Brune's feisty Portuguese maid, shuffled in to commit to the arduous task of turning the hot water knob fully on before stripping her lady bare for the daily scrubbing.

***

Away from stardom and above the throng, the Mask attached the barrel and waited. He viewed the Elbe River, serene as peacetime. In the distance, foreshadow loomed in the shape of a thunderhead. The Mask took the oncoming storm as a sign, a proper blessing, that this dawning evening would belong to him. The road he took to this moment, so long, so arduous, was now behind him. Fingerprints on file were stolen from the police station. It, and his identity, burned in a firepit. He was anonymous now, the perfect tabula rasa citizen to send a message to the Materialists, as much a monster as the vampire in the Fray. The seventh issue of that dreary horror comic pressed against his back, a rolled up memento from the past. As the fiend in that colorful tome stalked the unworthy, so too did he. The Mask looked down on the old Germany, one of stone, of efficiency, of manual labor and grew more malignant in his animosity of what the victorious Fatherland had become.

***

Residents of Dresden rang in Nineteen Twenty-Nine with all the affluent gall a city of punch-drunk victors could muster. Cannonades, tinkling glasses of Ruinart followed excessive toasts to the Second Reich's win, the ten-year anniversary since defeating the whining Allied Powers. Anything goes! Confetti of scarlet and silver reflected stringent beams from rooftop klieg lights as exuberant citizens below flooded Oppel Strasse. Festivities began at four in the afternoon, and as the Sun said goodbye, many a person already felt the wooziness from many a beer.

"The world is ours!" shouted young men in crisp feldgrau uniforms, their stern caps catching confetti, their taut figures the eyes of teenage girls. Even the warriors received time off to revel, freed this eve from their obligations guarding ragged prison houses in Alsace-Lorraine where French dragoons and protesters still languished. Humbled nations, still bruised from losing their capital cities, had called the wizened Kaiser Wilhelm that morning to submit warm congratulations, offers for more passive tomorrows. No one brought up the deadly robota patrols in the Azores or U-boat sightings off the coast of Massachusetts.

"The Sky War was Germany's blessing! God save the Fatherland!" Priests in collars made from African ivory yelled from the steps of churches, resplendent purple framing their ebony robes, bells clanging overhead. Ten years of global victory had made German congregations into gluttoned baronies. People prayed on Sunday, sinned the rest of the week. But some god must have blessed them, for even the lowliest of ushers came out adorned like papal emissaries this eve. In the pews, those who recalled a Germany less haughty prayed for less pageantry and more substance.

Electronic globes of molded bronze the size of autobuses rotated at either end of the Strasse. Beeping white dots on their gilded surfaces highlighted the far-flung states under Reich control. Brazil was theirs. Indonesia was theirs. France was theirs. Poland was German. Half of Africa. All of Tasmania. Subdued. Owned. Deutschland. The Germans exhorted the title for this exuberant era as jubilant tankards of beer sloshed.

"Vaterregel!" The Father Rule.

Closer to the Elbe River, excited youths gathered in the tens of thousands about the Baroque grandeur of the Semperoper opera house. This evening had been planned for ages. The house was to not only host an extravagant gala, but also showcase the latest motion picture starring Dresden's darling, Frau Brune. Lights illuminated the copper roof, the double arches at its entrance and a myriad more on each floor, rows of beauteous poles with three globular lights apiece, while bloated zeppelins tethered above clothed in layers of reflective chrome sheeting scattered light around until natural night became man-made day. Down below, a partial oval walkway supported the scarlet carpet and brass rails placed as a runway for the feature attraction.

At the center of the oval, a statue of old King Johann stared into Dresden's aged heart, a statue faded to green either by its copper origin, or sickness at the modern intrusions nearby. Such a statue had of late been the symbol of the nation's fledgling Minimalist movement, anarchists who railed against the new era of gaudy showmanship, the emphasis on fame. Lights. Camera. Audacity! Oh, how she dazzled, and dazzle she must, for the queen of cinema strode on her way to kiss hubris, embrace adoration, lock lips with immortality. Tonight, Die Braut von Krakau had its world premiere.

Police endured long hours to keep the crowds at bay. But the main problem for them rested on pushing back enough of the masses to allow the Frau's spectacular automobile to stroll ahead, to make it to the front doors of the Semperoper unmolested. America pioneered superior steam technology and kept it on a tight leash. In response, Germany mastered Rudolf Diesel's engine, spread them into ubiquity, gargantuan, bestial technology. Frau began advertising them early in her career, the Mädchen Auto ads of 1911, receiving a new automotive annually as a token of gratitude. Women wanted to see their idol's porcelain face through the glinting window of her favored ride. Men wanted to hear the auto hum like a sword of cyclone tucked inside a sheath of thunder, starving, frothing at the radiator. Brune Adenauer owned over one hundred autos, but on premiere nights, Frau only drove the Chrysalis.

An ensemble of thousands, shoulder to shoulder all the way to the riverbank, shoved and pushed as fiery headlights shone upon them.

There it drove, black as depression, a chassis cut from the bowels of the Underworld.

"Is it true they collected chunks of obsidian from South America to build the body?" One asked as fevered fans rushed the Strasse. Police ushered him back into the tidal wave. Rolling up high over the front tires only to swoop down and in at the middle, the Chrysalis looked like a full-figured woman lying on her side, posing for a portrait by a Surrealist master. Sleek. Curvy. Enticing. The rear whitewall tires were nestled under a minimal hump and boxed in a teensy square trunk boasting a platinum cat's eye latch. All handles were chrome, cast in the form of tiger claws, and a chrome strip ran about the car's lower half. A marvel of the age, it had appeared in five of her films, including tonight's main event. The windows, all one-way mirrors, sat half down to allow onlookers a glance at the crescent seats of orange velvet, the Frau's three starlet girlfriends inside drinking heavily of imported Strathisla Scotch. The comparative brain making Chrysalis a robotic envoy slowed its speed to avoid collisions as Brune adjusted the roving electronic eyes under the headlights. It impressed the world with its powerful indifference.

Children tried to play a game, to touch the auto's pitch dark hull before fleeing from irate policemen. The Chrysalis (christened no less than by the wizened hand of Pope Prius XI) did not drive down the street. Nein. It humbled it, every cobblestone. Dresden's medieval artistry bowed to this mobile idol of the Modern Era. At last, substance had given way to style, much to the joy of the young post-war generation bored from want of struggle. The old regime found honor on the battlefield. the new sought out glory in more exotic mediums, in moving pictures and lavish displays of entitlement. Frau Adenauer's resplendent monster strolled along until the high curves of its bristling beams shone upon the hanging red, white and black banners with golden eagles set before the opera house.

A reporter intoxicated by ambition applied a set of brass headphones to his ears, dual antennae standing tall, polished to perfection, and equipped his right hand with a fat ribbon microphone. He charged the second the ladies exited the vehicle. "Frohes Neues Jahr, Frau Adenauer. Welcome to...your premiere!" The starlets, Marva, Stelle and Aida stunned onlookers with their tight cloche hats pinned with ostrich feathers, sheer sequin, strapless dresses revealing too much thigh, the upper half supported only by ample youth and meager belts with outrageous buckles.

Restraint proved impossible, inquiries as well, on seeing Brune exposed to the lights. Her blond locks were shorn into a close cut leaving only long saber tips jutting down ahead of her large ears, ending at her slight chin. A silver netting encrusted in square diamonds rested on those locks, a bejeweled skullcap glimmering under electric yellow illumination despite the timely arrival of rain. Brune's satin skin dazzled eyes with its smooth texture, her body with its revealed shape in a dress of translucent silk which began at the titanium choker bristling with lion claws about her neck. It tapered down the center of the body, just enough to hide the areolas, just out and away to display the navel, before casting off to dangle about the four limbs. The dress remained attached by gaudy charm bracelets at the wrists and ankles, curious pieces of bulky turquoise, rounded amethyst, polished gold and quixotic symbols from vanquished nations. She stood as a regal in three-inch leather heels proudly displaying the stuffed heads of lion cubs. A winning smile framed by her own shade of pumpkin lipstick, eyes hemorrhaging gilded grease paint with a pinch of glitter, she uttered a sultry response. "And I adore you all! Shall we imbibe the evening? Yes? Come now! A little party never killed nobody!" The last sentence she voiced in a mocked northeast American accent, the very one she made infamous as a survivor of the destruction of Manhattan in Abschied, Sieg, Farewell, Victory (1926).

Rain fell, fluid ice to jolt the nerves of ordinary people. But this crowd sacrificed normality for obsession, to gaze upon their modern idol. The reporter guarded his subject from the wet sky with his umbrella and pressed his body in sync to his inquiry. "And how was it working in a Krakau textile mill alongside our Jewish brethren?" His fedora's brim bent touching the actress's glorified brow. He giggled. Brune remained regal.

"Despite the furnace heat and dirt, the rats, I had to do it. Do or not do. There is no try. My public demands attention to detail. No one suffers more than my character, Lune, and her tragic sisters. A few critics received an early screening, called it interesting. Though, I don't want to be interesting. I want to be good." She stared into the reporter with flawless lust, his eyes subjugated while never realizing hers had bored beyond him, beyond Dresden, to where common understanding is forgotten. "Now, shall we enjoy some art?" Brune tossed up her arms to the klieg lights and black clouds as her audience stormed the opera house. Inside the white lobby of the Semperoper the fan and the famous were greeted by columns touched in gold print, golden chandeliers, warmth, white cloth tables hosting the finest meats and moist game birds for the famished.

Kriegtier exited the Chrysalis, turning, studying, slow as an ironclad turtle, putting fear into the hearts of those who celebrated war yet shunned its face. Not all could cram into the opera house, so many partied in the wet weather, having brought champagne and good French cheese.

***

Across from the house, on the roof, the Mask laid beneath a leather duster, the rifle ready. From the scope he watched Frau Adenauer shimmy and shine, watched Dresden bow before what Germany had regressed to. His stomach churned. Kriegtier appeared in the sight, as well as the bulky marquee: FRAU ADENAUER IN HER GREATEST FILM YET! The marquee rested on a bulky version of a Wentz typewriter, the Z-brand with transparent casing. Apparently, it played a role in the film's majestic climax. Just how, he neither cared, nor wondered. It in turn rested on a two-meter model of the Kringendorf factory, a major set in the picture. But, this pointless icon would serve his purpose. Mother once used a typewriter back in Leipzig when...no. Fists clenched around the rifle. He was not an individual anymore, but a symbol. The Mask. Germany was mother and Germany was father, and it had a sickness in need of curing.

***

The mayor of Dresden arrived to escort Brune by the arm. Efforts to persuade the young star further into the Semperoper were hindered by her continual blown kisses, spouting catchy phrases from old flicks and autograph signing to her pushy fans. The entryway clogged with bodies, tipped hats, gaudy bird feathers on the heads of plucky ladies. The noise escalated in rhythm to their adoration.

"Frau, kiss me next!"

"Dear Brune, I loved you since I saw Der Fehlende Finger!" Brune ignored this, as always, for The Missing Finger was the film she reviled most, as it had cast her as a victim. She touted only those films where women, German women, survived and thrived. It was expected. The people needed constant strength and fun, not misery and a return to humility, whatever that meant.

"Frau, can I be your next tryst!" To the debonair man who said it, she blew a sultry kiss. Rumors of torrential affairs kept gossip columnists busy, despite the Frau going home alone night after night.

The swell of humanity pushed on, so no police saw when Kriegtier took the misstep. No civilian noticed when he turned away from the auto's side to amble out into the street. The rain matured into a deluge. It was Brune, swaying in the foam of flesh far ahead, who saw the trouble. It was common for her guard to lag behind before catching up. But where...? The machine bobbed left and right, the final swivel revealed to her eyes the bleeding hole in its jaw, confusion caused by pain. Brune darted. She resisted the wave carrying her, swam against the current to reach her beloved machine.

"Kriegtier? Krieg! Something is amiss with my guard!" Brune gave up soft pushing for panicked shoves. They still loved her, touched her, groped. She abused their greedy hands, returned to the gluttonous rain swallowing the city whole, the wobbly marquee and its brand new dent in a once perfect typewriter. Adulation made a perfect muffler for a firing shot. Brune ditched the protection of a dozen umbrellas swarming her way for the cold hard world.

She took her robota by the arm near the Chrysalis, clutched him, steadied its stance. As her hair withered in the deluge, as her attire wetted and made her figure raw and inciting much whistling, she used the silk of a sleeve to put pressure on the machine's jaw. "You poor thing! You poor dear! You know I can't do this without you. Who would fire at a hero? Who?"

The audience struggled under their bewilderment, but followed the Frau into the watery street.

"A show before the show?"

"Frau, your dainty feet are soaked!"

"Will she catch pneumonia on her premiere night? Must a bad thing happen on this of all nights?"

Kriegtier gazed into the little lady from behind its cold lenses. Brune dazzled even while soaking. In its helmet, the electronic part of the brain concluded its investigation of angles and the current circumstance. A two-second delay, caused by human pain, made all the difference.

"...dis...traction..." It looked across the street. A steel hand reached behind for the rocket pistol. Impact registers in the machinery enacted medical programs. Cocaine flooded Kriegtier's veins.

Brune winced. "A distraction? From what?" The pop sounded dull in the liquid sky, almost unheard. The crowd surrounded the star as she lurched back, leaning on the Chrysalis, enshrouded by black umbrellas. Two sizzling rounds from the Heckler rocket pistol made the rooftop across the way blow out, a male scream heard between conflagrations. Brune felt her feet wobble and wondered why. She looked down at the rain, clueless as to its red hue. She turned to face the audience, assure them it was high time to return to the festivities. "Everything is...nothing but the...rain..."

Her eyes rolled up to the sky along with her hands. A single step, and she stumbled, back to the people, Frau Adenauer splashed on to Oppel Strasse. The hole in her chest, dead center, offered up continual flower petals of blood. Seeing this imperfection, many moved away from her. Others stared, gobsmacked by the sudden change in reality. The street under her formed red rivulets, sporadic feathers that scrawled out symbolic meaning only to be washed out. Brune's soul drained into the gutters of Dresden.

The city died. No one approached a dead, broken Brune. They watched her offer brief choking sounds, one spasm, before expiration. They gave her silence. They gave her misplaced pity, played the audience til the end. Her starlight attracted them. Sudden humanity repelled.

"Look!" One fan pointed. "Red wings, like an angel, just like in Roter Segen! Even in death, the Frau gives us one final performance!" He removed a brown Homburg from his head to mourn, only to compliment the action with clapping. Men doffed their hats as one. Women cried into handkerchiefs. But a few followed suit, clapping to honor the deed of their mistress. They forgot to hold umbrellas high or fear for their safety. Nein. They applauded the play.

Kriegtier scanned the ruins. In slow, splashed steps it scanned until it found its quarry. In the corruption of muddied rubble, a man, back broken, left arm incinerated. Rain fell on his wounds, sizzling, soothing him closer to Death. On his battered face, a split rubber mask lacking form or eyeholes. The Mask squealed to lift his head, having heard the booming goosestep of the machine.

"An end to decadence. An end to--" The mantra of anti-imperialism rebounded in the machine's tinny stereo eardrums. Point blank, Kriegtier squeezed the trigger. A third explosion blackened the machine's armor as it watched the Mask dissolve in plasma and water vapor. People fled the hell. Policemen ran toward the destruction. Satisfied, if it could ever be so, the machine marched to its mistress. It viewed the remaining paralytic audience, the pristine auto, Brune on the street, veins collapsed, skin taut. Water rapping on every surface, invading every crevice, cleansing the world.

It bent in three stages, knees, hips, lower back, to gather her body close to its own. Gauges visible behind amber lenses dictated that petrol reserves were at half, electrical battery at three quarters, that the Frau had ceased breathing at eight forty-three in the evening plus twenty-nine seconds. A fourth displayed images stored, per request, by those who paid to embed this man into machinery ages ago. A single photograph in sepia passivity, a soldier of broad shoulders, a crisp uniform, too young for combat. Life in his eyes. Kissing his cheek, a girl swamped in lush blonde curls. 'TO MY HEART, COME BACK SAFE - LOVE - BRUNE'.

It made the way for the auto, where the drunken starlets barely managed to open the door. Kriegtier lowered to place Brune in the rear seat, when the mayor stayed its mighty hand.

"Please, this tragedy must have...a happy ending. Let us have her for a few minutes, a...a wake in the opera house. We can play the film while she lays on the stage, and we can pass her to show our respect. A proper sendoff to one who is...was...above us all. The killers of our enrichment must not be allowed a victory. Frau is a national emblem, an imperial symbol! She is for the citizens of Germany!" His other hand squeezed Brune's stiff fingers.

The machine faced the audience, a seething mouth of teeth moving to and from it in anticipation and revulsion. They made Brune. They craved Brune, enjoyed her more than it ever was allowed, all for the State. They stained Brune. She once had dreams ages ago, depth of character before the shallow stardom.

It put the star on the seat with utmost, genteel care. Then, it faced the mayor closely, a stare-down won without trying. The city's leader dominated, Kriegtier gazed upon the hordes of Dresden. "Find another sacrifice."

Door shut, the machine removed itself from them and to the driver's side. In the auto and behind the wheel, it steered the Chrysalis away from the Semperoper, the people, the charred disaster. Chrysalis departed to the clapping approval of heavenly rainfall as the people faded into watercolor resignation. Fame went as soldiers poured in. Style vanished as the frigid architecture of Dresden receded.

Die Braut von Krakau, The Bride from Krakau, was not seen that eve nor ever again, except by the most serious film students in universities. One cannot watch it on the many three-dimensional channels permeating the air, nor catch it during retro nights at many a theater. It, like the flame of Frau Adenauer, died out right there, blown out by the breath of Time, the onset of generations, and the power of Regret.