Friday visit

These days, my grandfather spends his days sleeping and reading. Sometimes he smokes a pipe and has a bit of whisky. At some point in the afternoon, someone pays him a visit and my grandfather converses with his guest. But most of the time, he sleeps. His last 93 years have not all been that uneventful though. Rather, I think, he was leading quite the big life.

Usually, on Friday afternoons, my cousin Vinzenz and I go visit him. We sit around his bed, smoke cigarettes and he tells us stories that we know, but like to listen to again and again.

It’s the kind of story that has been around forever: You couldn’t recall how you got to know it first, it’s almost as if you had received it through some telepathic communication, just by being born into your family.

One of these narratives is about the end of his career as an actor and it goes someway like this:

After the war, my grandfather had the dream of becoming an actor. And, so he thought, he was doing quite well: Several employments in local theatres, one in Passau, one in Nürnberg, even an appearance in the coveted role of Jedermann.

The problem was, as often in life, a mismatch between his own and other people’s perspectives. It became evident in the terrible reviews he got. One of them in particular, will never be forgotten: A journalist had written, the play would have been so enjoyable, had there not been that actor in the leading role. His lack of talent had ruined the critique’s night.

The only good critique, so the story goes, was that of a journalist who hadn’t made it to the play, and had to write the review without seeing him act.

And then, as our visit draws to an end, so does the story: THANK GOD for these reviews, he says energetically but with a hint of melancholy. He was left with no alternative, but to leave the artistic métier behind and to choose a new path – maybe less bold and certainly less bohemian.