A man stands on a busy street corner, downtown, tall buildings, fresh breeze. He wears a buttoned up knee length woollen coat and waits for the lights to change. Suddenly a young woman arrives at his side and clasps his hand. She whispers “I've found you. I thought I'd never find you!” The man looks down, she is short, he looks down, startled, initially recoiling and asks “Excuse me?” Yet involuntarily, almost involuntarily, let us say automatically, impulsively, the man’s own hand responds. He squeezes back. The man returns her squeezing and their fingers entwine, interlocking, keys. “I thought that I would never find you.” The lights change and the rapid clicking noise issuing from the pedestrian timer jolts him into more reflex, the green man flashes, his memory flashes, starts to flash, and together they step off the pavement and walk each other across the intersection hand in hand. On the far side, on the far bank, on the other side of the black river the young woman turns to face the man and she gathers his as yet still free hand up into her own. She squeezes both of his hands and repeats “I’ve found you!” Her eyes stare imploringly into his and her face blushes, there is an unmistakable blush shining through a rather too thick layer of rose coloured rogue.
“I'm sorry, excuse me?” the man repeats but his tone has changed, he wants to give the right answer, he wants to help. “Do I know you? I feel that I might know who you are, that I ought to know you.” He feels his own cheeks burning, his own cheeks blushing, they feel on fire in the frigid breeze.
“Don't you remember, you must remember! On the bus at school, you waved to me and blushed! You blushed then too, just like you blush now!” His mental calculus is quick, rapid fire. Is she a mad one, a mad one lost in a memory of love? Am I a look alike, a doppelganger? Can I help her? Hang on, hang on, is this Lilly? “Lilly? Is it you?”
“It’s Rose silly, it's Rose!”
So was the reunion of these two blushers, these two red cheeked awkward blushers who barely talked to each other, who hardly knew each at school. Rose had searched for Hermann for so long, her lost Hermann. She had clung to the memory of the only pure blusher boy she had ever known, the only other true blusher that she had ever met. And now she had found him again! This time she would have the courage, the courage to ask, the courage not to lose him, the courage not to let him go. Let us leave the poignant details of their tender coming together, of their beautiful reunion to themselves!
You see Rose has what many might call a blushing affliction. Blushing is a part of her inner being, her inner beauty. People tease and laugh at her. Rose is an open book they say, everyone can see what she is thinking just by looking at her face, just by seeing the most variable hues and patches of blushing that she always wears on her face, that always accompany her thoughts and inner dialogue. She had taken to applying copious amounts of makeup, a mask to hide behind, to stop the snickering. Yet even from beneath the mask her soul irrepressibly shines through. Rose is incapable of hiding anything, she is incapable of even the most innocent concealment. Hermann could get by, Hermann could manage with his own debilitation, if he stayed in the right circles, if he kept his head down so to speak. But Rose, pretty Rose, everyone paid so much attention to her, everyone was fascinated, voyeuristic, everyone was so obsessed by the girl who blushed.
The Magic Mountain
Rose and Hermann travelled to Germany for their honeymoon. They visited many delightful bergs and dorfs, the black forest, saw castles and palaces, sacred places and enchantments that matched the fairy tale mood that they were in. As they travelled throughout Deutschland, as they traversed fields and dale they began to notice signs and billboards advertising the relaxed old sanatorium town of Errötenstadt. The signs claimed that the clean air and mountain vistas offered rejuvenation to the world weary. One startlingly proclaimed that you don’t need to have tuberculosis anymore, that rumours that Errötenstadt was a hospice administering only palliative care were all wrong. The pictures looked amazing. Occasionally they had seen Errötenstadt listed on railway station destination boards but later when they scoured the travel brochures or searched the internet they were unable to find any reference to this Errötenstadt. They called travel agencies but their German was poor, the other end of the line crackling, “Vas? Vas? Ich verstehe nicht! Rotkraut?”
It was when they were staying in the lovely historic town of Marburg, Marburg with the marvellous Schloss on the hill and the old well in the town centre that still echoes with the wails of witches, it was in Marburg when one day as they passed the train station they noticed that a train to Errötenstadt would be departing in one hour. Excitedly they determined to get tickets, to satisfy their curiosity. Hermann went up to the counter and asked the attendant, an elderly officious woman wearing her starched uniform with pride, he asked the attendant for two first class tickets to Errötenstadt. The old woman looked momentarily shocked, uncertain, and said that she would have to consult the station master. As the station master arrived, a rotund sweaty man with a comb over and a prickly moustache, as the station master approached he found Rose and Hermann holding hands at the counter blushing brightly at the inconvenience that this purchase seemed to be causing. The station master smiled broadly, knowingly, and produced two historic looking tickets. The tickets appeared to be handwritten in cursive script on parchment and the station master stamped them with a smiley face stamp, tickets approved. For some reason there would be no charge, the fare was to be paid on arrival. Departure 7pm sharp.
Rose and Hermann stood on the platform at the appointed time with modest luggage. They decided to leave the largest suitcase and the bulk of their belongings in a locker at the station intending on returning to Marburg in a few days. An evening mist was gathering as their train approached, not so much a train, more of a carriage, a carriage for two. One of Mozart's old carriages, a fine carriage that seemed to move, to propel itself despite the absence of an engine, despite there being no horses. They climbed in, a bit bewildered but there was no unease. The two climbed in and there was only enchantment. The carriage moved gently off as they fell into a deep slumber.
When they at last awoke it was to a gentle boy quietly insisting “Excuse me, excuse me! You have arrived, you are here at your destination. Welcome to Errötenstadt!” They opened their eyes to see this charming youth blushing at having disturbed their sleep. He helped them out of their carriage and gathered their luggage. “We’ve been expecting you, we’ve been waiting for you for so long!” For Errötenstadt is truly the city of blushers, an idyllic town high in the mountains, above the clouds, the true home of all blushers. Through blushing the inhabitants there, the citizens of Errötenstadt open themselves to each other and share of themselves.
Reflection
I always thought that human evolution would lead to our species gaining new powers, psychic powers, clairvoyance, so that we might see into the beings of others, so that we might see into each others beings. So that we might see and thereby know ourselves. That was always my personal view of the destiny of man. But now I see that it is just the opposite. Our new dispensation does not bring us the ability to see into others but rather it allows us to truly open ourselves, to open our hearts so that all might look in. How difficult for the first of these new humans in this age of secrecy, in this time of power and greed. But of course it would be so, of course it is so. Such a new openness could only be born through these challenges, could only be arrived at through such a challenge. Birth is always difficult.
Humanity is bifurcating, humanity is separating into two. The ancients always foretold that it would be so but the story of Rose and Hermann is the first real evidence that I have found of this. I myself have been to Germany in search of Errötenstadt. I have sought tickets and hiked through mountains and crossed valleys but alas all to no avail. Once a station master told me that he had heard of Errötenstadt, indeed he knew of the place but that it was too late, that the time has passed, that the train had already left the station.
Rothko - Untitled Red - NGV