Dating Advice for Germans and Americans Chapter 2
September 2nd, London
"If you could just sign here."
"Certainly," Arthur stifled a yawn and did as instructed, blearily squinting at the electronic pad proffered by the postman. He let the man load his arms with a large cardboard box afterwards, blinking in the dull light of his narrow hallway all the while. Some short while after the post van had trundled away down the street Arthur came to his senses enough to kick the front door shut and drop the heavy package down beside a potted ficus. After studying the unexpected parcel and the American, as opposed to German franking, the Englishman decided that it was too early to go about stabbing at brown taped parcels wildly with a pair of scissors. Arthur opted instead to make an invigorating cup of tea and hobbled into the kitchen to put his plan into action, pulling his dressing gown closer about him as he did so, head mulling over a few possibilities as to what the box might contain.
When he had begun to wake up and had reluctantly bathed and shaved he had almost forgotten about the parcel. Instead, Arthur consulted his "Work Conference – To Do" list and worked up the resolve to pick up his phone and ring an unfamiliar number.
"Что вы хотите,aru?"
"Er, quite. Hello Yao."
"...Arthur, aru?"
Arthur gave his temple a pre-emptive rub, "Yes, it's Arthur. Hello there. I was wondering – would you fancy running the World Conference Long Weekend?"
The Chinaman's bristling was actually audible, "Stop, aru. Ludwig has already sent an email to everyone warning us that you would ask. I won't, aru. It will be refreshing to see you run it. Maybe you won't be so eager to get drunk if you are vomiting onto your own priceless rugs, aru," the man said, with subtle venom.
"I did apologise for that."
"Apologies do not remove vomit stains, aru. Let's not speak of that. If that was your only reason for ringing, I will say goodbye."
"No, no it isn't," Arthur said, tapping a pen against the second item on his "To Do" list, "I was wondering if you might fancy putting together some catering for the weekend? And perhaps providing goodie bags and stuff?"
"...Catering, aru?" The man said, guardedly.
"Yes. I'm being honest," Arthur made an attempt to crank up the imploring note in his voice, "I have a bit of a soft spot for your food and I know you like to set up shop just about anywhere-"
"For a payment, of course?"
"Of course."
"And "Goodie bags", aru?" Yao's curious tone suggested he was warming to the idea.
"Yes, a little gift. Some gadgets, perhaps, for everyone to take away with them: a cheap MP3 player, some pointless gismo that'll entertain everyone for half an hour, that sort of thing."
"I see. Yes, I think I could arrange that, aru. Although, even with the value for money I can provide, such "goodie bags" will still cost a substantial amount, Arthur," Yao warned with evident pleasure.
"About that," Arthur gave a little cough which caused Yao to huff in protest, "I foresee this weekend involving a lot of "team building exercises". In particular, I imagine there will be plenty of those physical contact "trusting your neighbour" activities and team games. You know the sort, the ones where you rely on your team mates to catch you while you let yourself fall backward and so forth."
"So, aru?"
"Give me a discount and Yong Soo will never end up on your team."
Yao's answer was near-instant.
"It is a deal, Arthur. A pleasure to do business with you, aru. I will see you at the Conference, aru."
"Thank you. And see you then," Arthur put the phone back with a little chuckle, crossing "Catering" and "Gifts" off his list with two victorious swipes of his biro. Having returned the pen to the desk tidy, he took in the sight of the scissors there and recalled the unexpected package.
Upon opening it, he was met with a stack of books, upside down. He flipped the bottom book and laid sight on a glossy cover plastered with people wearing beaming, business-like smiles and the bold print title of "Diplomacy and You: A How To for Honest, Non-Aggressive and Positive Relationships"."
He tipped the rest of the box's contents onto the floor to find half a dozen volumes all with similarly insipid titles, each sporting a recommendation from some or other authority in the field who Arthur had never heard of and all of whom appeared to have stopped buying their clothes in the 1980s.
Curiously he dug through the pile, flicking through each book quickly, before throwing them back on the floor with a queasy frown as he caught sight of words such as "synergy" and "openness". At the very bottom of the pile Arthur spotted another novel-sized book. Upon studying the spine, he saw it was a leather bound copy of "The Talented Mr Ripley" with, he realised, a sheet of notepad paper tucked between the front cover and pages that read:
"Hey. Knew you'd look at this one first.
Got you these books. Thought you might need some help being diplomatic.
Love, (Sorry but that always looks corny. Hell, you know what I think. Remember when I came over last and you got your hands tied to your bed frame with your old cravat and what followed? Yeah, that's how I feel about you.)
Alfred.
P.S. DO NOT TREAT MR RIPLEY AS A DIPLOMACY HOW TO GUIDE!! IF YOU DO I WILL NOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE. The movie of this was pretty good and I saw this copy and I know how you go weak at the knees over leather-bound books. You've probably read it. Your house is made of piles of books. Put up some goddamn shelves already; I come back to my place with bruises on my shins every time because I walked into Faulkner or I stumbled over the Brontës on my way to the bathroom.
Anyway this was only supposed to be a quick heads up.
"Love",
Alfred.
Arthur placed both novel and note onto the hall table with a sigh, gaze returning to the veritable landslide of how to books that graced his hallway carpet, their covers gleaming where the overhead light caught them. He gave one a half-hearted kick as he picked his way through the mess. The business suited woman on the front cover continued to look confident, dynamic and worst of all, American. Arthur ignored her and continued walking back toward his study with a dragging gait.
There really wasn't a happy way to resolve this idiotic situation, he knew: if he were to read the books – well, the idea wasn't even a bloody possibility as far as he was concerned. The other option of selling the books was equally unsatisfactory as it meant Alfred would still have wound up helping him by putting him in pocket. He decided to dismiss the matter for the time being and unearthed his embroidery from a desk drawer, stabbing a little harder than was strictly necessary at a rose on the cross-stitch sampler.
September 3rd,
From Feliciano! To Alfred Jones
Hi!
I'm okay to email, right? I like to because Ludwig always looks really surprised when I use his computer since I don't like them as much as he does. I think it actually gets him kind of turned on, he's weird like that (but I don't mind).
Sorry, I've gone off track already. Ah! Long Distance Relationships, that's it. Yes, I was just having a glass of wine and I got to thinking about how I made myself feel better while I waited for Ludwig to return from, well, from being away for so long.
I think one thing you need to do – and I'm sure you do, you've always seemed to me like an energetic sort of guy – is to keep busy with other things. When you stop and just focus on how much you miss Arthur that hollow, lonely feeling will get worse. Make sure you keep in contact with all your friends, go out and do fun stuff. Send me an email to let me know how that works out!
Hoping for the best,
Feliciano
September 8th, Berlin
"Feliciano-"
"And these. I love these."
"Feliciano, really, we have plenty of-"
"Oh and here's cheese!"
"We need cheese?"
"Sure we need cheese."
Ludwig looked down at the contents of the already packed supermarket trolley. The latest edition, the wedge of cheese, rolled awkwardly down the mountain of goods to fall with a clunk down beside several cases of beer.
"Do you like amaretti? They're really nice and sweet. They have honey and almonds, I think you'd like them, you do have a bit of a sweet-tooth-"
"Feliciano," The Italian finally came to a halt, hand faltering on its way to the shelf as Ludwig resorted to his militant tone, "No more snacks. No more cheese, pasta or herbs. Nothing. We do need drinks – cordials, juice – one or two bottles, maximum. Shall I pick them, or will you?"
Feliciano gave a sheepish smile, "Do you want to pick them?"
"Fine," Ludwig pushed the trolley toward the right aisle (Feliciano having given up on doing so once the weight became unbearable), the Italian following at a distance, delayed by his frequent stops as he picked up different items to study or looked at displays of items on offer.
"This is nice though, right?" Feliciano said as they turned into the right aisle, somehow coming up alongside, overtaking and jumping onto the end of the trolley in order to look back at Ludwig pleasantly. The German leant down a little in his effort to push the loaded trolley and his lover the little remaining distance to a display of juice, "Shopping together, I mean. I think it's the sort of thing couples should do together. Though, I still wish we'd gone to a market too. I like markets better."
Ludwig tried to ignore the curious looks they were attracting, focusing on selecting a few different beverages, guided in his efforts by Feliciano's less than subtle frowns and smiles as he picked up different cartons and bottles, "Doing all the shopping in one place is practical; it saves time."
"And?"
"And?"
"Do you like shopping together?"
"...The bill is considerably higher when you help me shop," Ludwig admitted. Feliciano held onto the trolley with one hand so he could blow him a little kiss with the other.
"Maybe, but I keep you well fed."
"True. Let's go to the checkout."
En route to the till, Feliciano hopped off the end of the trolley, clearly having spotted another display or aisle of interest. Ludwig decided to take advantage of the moment as an opportunity to make paying and packing as quick and straightforward as possible.
The Italian did not seem to see it that way. As he packed his purchases into carrier bags, heart weighed down as he saw the "amount to pay" figure keep climbing, Ludwig heard a familiar yelp.
"Eh? Ludwig, where'd you go?"
He gave a wave which the man, emerging from an aisle, failed to spot as he looked about wildly in every direction but the checkouts. The man had to spot him eventually, Ludwig determined, so he kept from being rude and simply shouting.
The Italian, on the other hand, soon resorted to shouting.
"Ludwig?? Ludwig I'm lost! Help, I'm lost!"
The cashier gave the shouts a frown and then gave his customer a particularly confused look as the man turned red in the face.
"LUDWIG! I'M BY THE CONDOMS AND STUFF. HELP!"
Ludwig dropped the can of furniture polish in his hand, causing it to crash onto the till and dent, his temple beginning to throb.
"LUDWIG I WAS LOOKING AT LUBE-"
"DAMNIT I'M HERE. NOW COME OVER HERE BEFORE I KILL YOU. I SWEAR I WILL KILL YOU!"
Ludwig realised, in the ringing silence, that fell that his own words had been in German, not English. He stood and stared as Feliciano walked over to him, placing some lubricant with the few items left to be scanned, and after spotting Ludwig apparently transfixed began to pack the rest of the shopping himself, giving the dented can of polish a curious look before stuffing it into a bag.
Ludwig finally found his voice once they had paid and were wheeling their trolley back to his car.
"I will have to use another supermarket," he murmured to himself.
"Oh, or the market!" Feliciano nodded enthusiastically. Upon studying the trolley contents another look, he voiced a half-forgotten question, "What's with all the beer?"
"Hm? Oh," Ludwig said, still dazed, "It's not for me. It's a gift."
"For your brother?"
"Nein," Ludwig said distractedly, trying to recall where other supermarkets were in relation to his house. He opened the boot of his car and grabbed a few of the beer cases, "I can't say who. We made an agreement."
"An agreement?" the other man asked softly.
"Yes," Ludwig gave a shrug, "It is confidential but not especially important."
The Italian, he noticed, tracked each case's travel from the trolley to the car with a weary frown before seeming to shrug off whatever mood had fallen over him and smiling once again, "Oh. Okay."
September 8th
From Ludwig to Kirkland, A.
Arthur,
I have sent you some beer. I hope it will be sufficient.
I see your point regarding the possibility that I have issues with Feliciano myself. I have compiled a list below (not comprehensive) of my grievances with the man:
1) When he sleeps over at my house, I typically wake 40 minutes later than usual because each time we awaken he begs me for "just ten more minutes".
2) He is impossible to detach from oneself whilst he is asleep.
3) He has been known to talk in his sleep. I will not reveal the nature of this monologue.
4) He has a habit of distracting me from my work with food.
5) He has a habit of distracting me from my work by asking mundane questions.
6) He has a habit of distracting me from my work with – I apologise – sexual advances.
7) He wears my clothes.
8) He eats my food yet complains about it.
9) Whenever I visit Feliciano, Lovino is almost guaranteed to turn up and threaten me at length, or at least to scowl and then pointedly talk to his brother in indecipherable Italian which typically causes Feliciano either to gesticulate (more than usual), blush or shout. On one occasion, I was forced to let myself out and to go home because the debate seemed likely to continue into the early hours of the morning.
10) He is currently redecorating my house, as I have mentioned previously.
11) There was an incident in a local supermarket. I cannot bring myself to explain.
12) The man is awful at tactical manoeuvres, attacking, defending, training armies, etc.
13) He has been known to criticise my fitness regime, taste in food, taste in music, taste in decor, my regular use of the "missionary position" in intercourse (apologies), my appreciation of technology and my work ethic (i.e. that I possess a strong one).
14) Yet he does not criticise my brother. I am not sure if he is aware of doing so, but he encourages his advances and this often results in me and my brother arguing for such duration that I find that Feliciano has let himself out and gone home when we have stopped.
15) Sometimes, when he thinks I am not watching, he wears a lonely and weary expression that I wish I could take away.
16) Occasionally, when we (again, apologies) make love, I can see a spark in his eyes that tells me he wants more from me, a greater bond, and I am not sure whether I can provide that.
17) He is scared of my dogs and requires my escort from room to room when they are in the house.
18) He is frequently nude. I have the feeling that he has sat on, touched, held or used every object in my house either nude from the waist down or totally nude.
19) When we argue, he only smiles or says "I am sorry. You are right." Sometimes, I wish to fight, especially when I know that he is right and I am wrong, and I want him to correct me because I cannot do so myself.
20) He eats food in bed (which often requires cutlery).
I will end my list there, although I could continue.
Whilst I appreciate your suggestion, Arthur, I am not sure if making this list has helped matters. I have read the completed list over and I know that every point on it is honest. Yet still, I find myself thinking that these problems are inconsequential, and that they in no way detract from my feelings for Feliciano.
I can therefore only assume that the problem in our relationship lies within myself.
I would appreciate any suggestions as to what my deficiency could be.
Thank you,
Ludwig
September 9th, NYC
"Hey," Alfred grabbed a rag from his garage floor with his free hand and gave his forehead a wipe, "How's stuff?"
"Good. I just saw one of your new action films," The American rolled his eyes at the familiar, hyper-critical, hyper-sarcastic tone Arthur was employing, "God knows what it was called, I've already forgotten. "Full" "Epic" "Strike-down" "Shootout" "Deathray": some combination of those words no doubt."
"And you really loved it huh?" Alfred said during a lull in the man's tirade.
"So very, very much. Particularly the five seconds where everyone made a desperate bid to act because there weren't any explosions or breasts on screen."
"Geez, just don't watch them if you don't like them," he said, hand reaching out for a different spanner, "It's not like I want you to. You always whine."
"...I do not have it in me, the ability to whine," The Englishman's tone was one of obvious disgruntlement, "And, as ever, the trailer was semi-decent; I got tricked into giving it a chance. Anyway," Arthur sighed, "I was actually so utterly bored this morning I packed a suitcase ready for my holiday at yours."
"Wow. I just throw crap at mine an hour before I leave for the airport. It's not that long 'til I come over to yours for that long-weekend break thing, just a couple of weeks? What've you got planned for me, anyway?"
"Sexual congress."
"Sounds good. And then?"
"Perhaps followed by some sexual intercourse, leading to a round of making love."
"God I love it when you talk dirty," Alfred smirked up at the underside of machine he was laid beneath, "I'm not done with the movie business yet though. Your movies are worse."
"You take that back you little arse."
"No way. They're so slow and they're all about crying or picnics or being gay," he heard Arthur huff, "Okay, well maybe that's better than the breasts thing depending on the team you're batting for, but the gay guys never get to screw because someone goes to war or is married or is filled with religious guilt or some shit."
"You done? Are you microwaving something, by the way? What's with all the beeping in the background?"
"Oh. Well, there's the beeps from my top secret project, I'm kind of lying underneath it right now," He knew Arthur knew better than to ask about one of his inventions, the details typically leaving the man either cold, dubious or concerned for Alfred's, as well as his own, safety, "And then there's the beeps because my phone is getting texts while I'm talking to you."
"Who from?"
"How should I know? I can't look at them while we're talking, can I? I guess Feliciano."
"Why Feliciano?"
Alfred turned the phone onto speakerphone and proceeded to pick up a wrench and begin to ratchet a bolt into place, "Because. We just got to talking one day last month and we're keeping in touch now. He's a good guy, really upbeat."
"I suppose so," Arthur said with what sounded like apprehension, "But ditzy, wouldn't you say?"
"That's rich. Tell me, where are your house keys, right now?"
"Where I left them last."
"And that is where?" He gave the machine a tap with the wrench and a satisfyingly substantial "clunk" rang out.
"Wherever I left them. Besides, you're missing a very important difference between myself and Feliciano."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes. I am working on a crossword puzzle in the nude as we speak," Alfred slammed his hand and forehead into the machine, his body attempted to jolt him into sitting up so quickly, "And whilst we've been talking my "7 down", shall we say, has turned into a 7 across," there was a pause in the Englishman's conversation, "You're not unconscious, are you?"
"No," Alfred winced, giving his hand a massage, "But I near enough was. That was sneaky."
"Then that'll teach you not to mock my films, won't it? Game, set and match to me I think. I'll talk to you later when you're not tinkering with your teleporter."
"Asshole."
"You love it. Later, kiddo."
September 10th,
From Kirkland, A. to Ludwig
Ludwig,
You realise just how loaded a question that is, don't you? Whether I think you have any deficiencies in your character?
I want to live. My desire to live is so strong that I cannot bring myself to answer.
If I attempt to put myself in Feliciano's shoes, though, I do wonder whether you don't embarrass too easily. If you're going to date a man like Feliciano, you really cannot afford to have any propensity for embarrassment.
Also, why not just try and push his buttons a little, next time you have an argument? I know you said he just says you're right but if you work at it hard enough you'll find out what makes him see red. Trust me, I'm an expert when it comes to arguing. It might help you to discover what's really making him yawn at you in bed and annex your living room.
My suggestion, by the way, for curing embarrassment (as I'm sure you're sat there going "That's all very well and good but-") is booze. Get a few stiff drinks down you and see if everything doesn't seem a bit rosier then.
(What the hell happened in that supermarket?)
Arthur
September 10th
From Ludwig to Kirkland, A.
Arthur,
Sometimes you sound very much like my brother.
Ludwig