Chapter VI - Johannes Peter
Hans Peter possessed the darkest blue eyes a man could have. The deep blue, a trademark of the Ostens, was a sublime color, beautiful in its singularity. In Hans Peter, curiously, this unique hue seemed to fit perfectly, expressing the intriguing dualism in which he lived. Anyone who saw him would always take him for a calm, centered man, completely master of his surroundings. However, in his chest burned a whirlwind of emotions that could be summarized by a single name.
“Liliana...” he murmured.
The simple act of speaking his niece’s name made his muscles tremble.
“Liliana...” he repeated, immersed in the memories of his beloved’s soft face. The sound of his voice came out strained, faded. Where would his Liliana be now?
The journey back to Earth seemed to have lasted an eternity. Infernal diplomatic missions! They never ended! And what were they for? For nothing, he concluded, half-ashamed for imagining he was spending his time without results. But the fact was that Hans Peter did not believe in what he did. He considered, at times, in the silence of his middle-aged solitude, the function he exercised to be devoid of purpose or even ridiculous. An Alliance Ambassador could not, strictly speaking, be regarded as a figure of negotiation and peace. On the contrary, in his opinion, he was an instrument of war control. As the Second Ambassador of the Alliance and Commander of the powerful Diplomatic Starship Concordia, his professional goal consisted, primarily, of keeping conflicts manageable.
There would be no peace. He knew there wouldn’t. He huffed, somewhat irritated by this certainty that had pursued him for a long time, without rest. Only Karajan, in his eternal and innocent foolishness, could believe in peace at that stage. How many years of war had there been in his life? He didn’t even remember anymore. The war was already there when he was born.
Being an Alliance Ambassador had not been a choice, but an accident. A chance event not entirely bad, he acknowledged, but one that certainly did not align with his true essence. He clicked his tongue, surrendering to idle thoughts about the choices that he had made in the past. The high ceiling wouldn’t tell him whether they had been good or bad choices, yet he kept his eyes fixed on it, waiting for some epiphany.
“I should have remained in the military...”
A long sigh accompanied this regret. However, if he reflected on it well, he would come to the conclusion that even he, an Ambassador, behaved and acted, most of the time, like a military man. Even if it wasn’t intentional, how could it be otherwise? The Alliance sustained itself on military might.
He filled his lungs with air again and expelled it all in another drawn-out sigh. He would be a General now, like his nephew Friedrich, if he hadn’t walked the paths of diplomacy. He smiled upon realizing this.
“Which of us would be better?” he asked himself in the dimness of his gigantic room.
The smile remained on the Ambassador’s handsome lips. Friedrich personified the skills of an exemplary strategist and an unequaled warrior. But Hans Peter also carried the innate talent for matters of war. The Embassy, perhaps, merely disguised that.
“Me, probably,” he answered with a brief laugh and the absolute confidence that he would surpass his nephew on the battlefields.
Why had he chosen the Embassy? The regret returned to haunt him. In fact, when had it not tormented him? He turned his face toward the colossal transparent wall that took up an entire side of the room and guaranteed him a spectacular view of space. The cold glimmer of a few stars dotted the infinite.
Hans Peter could have been like Friedrich. He had no doubts about that, just as he had no doubts that if he had chosen differently, he wouldn’t be stuck on Talvegan, at meeting tables in ceaseless attempts at agreements regarding the Eternal War, nor would he be stuck in continuous vigils over how the Clans behaved regarding the forms of exploitation of the Alliance colonies.
“Hell...” he whispered.
Why had he chosen the Embassy? But how to predict the future? How to predict that the choice he had made, while still young, would martyr him later? How to predict Liliana?
“Liliana...” His niece’s name wouldn’t leave his lips. That name pursued him, illuminated his life, and justified his days.
How much longer would it be until he heard the announcement of their approach to the Solar System? He pondered impatiently, still watching the white glimmer of those tiny dots. There would be no other interdimensional “jump” to bridge the distance to Earth and soothe his longing for Liliana. The Concordia, and the other cruisers of his imposing Embassy, would proceed from that point onward at normal travel speed.
He rose from the bed and walked to the immense panoramic wall. The darkness of the universe blended, in the crystalline transparency, with the intense and magnetic reflection of his dark blue eyes. That penetrating shade didn’t ask for permission; rather, it demanded attention.
Hans Peter was an attractive man. Tall, his well-built body exhibited, beneath the impeccable black uniform, the prominent shapes of his muscular arms and broad chest. His hair, a medium brown with a dark golden undertone, framed a masculine, firm face with softly squared lines. A substantial, solitary white lock fell gracefully over the right side of his face, lending an even more sophisticated air to his features. Women, there had been many, but Hans Peter’s heart was surrendered to his passion for Liliana.
Desire for Liliana... how he suffered with this unconsummated desire...
He closed his eyes to surrender himself to memories of his niece. When had he last seen her? When had he last touched her and lost himself in the scent of her long ebony hair? Sifting through his memories, he heard her melodic laugh. He couldn’t suppress a curve of satisfaction on his lips.
“Liliana...” With his eyes still closed, he placed one of his hands upon the panoramic wall.
How much longer? The question and the impatience returned. After a few seconds in this trance, he decided to return to bed. Anxiety made itself heard in every ragged breath. He sat on the edge and gripped the mattress tightly until the veins stood out on his large hands.
“Liliana...” he repeated in anguish, pressing his fingers harder and torturing himself with the fact that she was the wife of Karajan, his best friend.
Karajan, that lovely man, with whom he had learned everything about the delicate steps of diplomacy in a conflict of colossal proportions. Karajan, his master, his mentor. Karajan, whom he considered a brother. Karajan, exercising his marital rights, occupying the place that should be his, driving him mad amidst a jealousy and envy that penetrated every pore of his skin, every inch of his bones...
He dug his hands deeper into the bed. The respect and admiration he harbored for him evaporated, instantly, when he found himself dragged down by these dark feelings. How had he allowed that infamous marriage, anyway? Hans Peter would spend the rest of his life questioning himself about it, in permanent torment. For the millionth time, the scene of his beloved being given to another man, in a sophisticated ceremony at the castle where Karajan resided in France, on the outskirts of Nouvelle Paris, seized him. He gritted his teeth and felt his neck stiffen miserably.
Karajan, lucky bastard, he concluded. What could be so special about him? He was older, perhaps some fifteen years older. If he could describe Karajan in a single word, he would say wisdom. Serenity, Hans Peter thought. That would be another good adjective for Karajan. The white hair of the man with the calm voice and sweet timbre emanated just that: serenity. Definitely, Karajan was not bold like Friedrich, whom Hans Peter considered more of a threat on the path to Liliana’s heart with his gallant mannerisms.
His bearing was elegant, yet discreet, not seeming to pique female curiosity. Karajan did not emanate power, although he had plenty of it, as a Councilor, as an Ambassador, and as the Lord of the House that bore his name. In fact, he made a point of not flaunting this power even in the smallest details. For example, he did not wear the traditional uniform of the Clans and justified his small rebellion with the claim that diplomatic functions did not suit the formidably domineering appearance of the black uniform, always accompanied by its ostentatious cape. He preferred, instead, to wear a kind of tunic, with a precise and refined cut, over trousers. Without any adornments or even the golden “A” brooch, symbol of the Alliance, affixed, Karajan definitely wore rather inexpressive attire that, in no way, signaled the importance of the man or the positions he held.
Curiously, despite the criticisms, the tunic and trousers were always black, and the tunic invariably boasted a central golden stripe running from top to bottom down the front of the garment. If the traditional uniform of the Clans bothered him, Karajan made an exception to wear black and gold, the colors of the Alliance, colors that suited him very well due to the harmonic contrast with the total whiteness of the strands on his head. Perhaps Karajan realized that the contrast favored him, Hans Peter thought, giving in to an affectionate smile.
Simple, Hans Peter added to his list. Wise, serene, and simple. That described Karajan well. How could Liliana have been charmed by him? He seemed more like a father figure than actual husband material for his niece. Hans Peter stifled a laugh when he thought that his brother, Anton, could easily be replaced by Karajan.
However, Karajan possessed that entrancing air, that contagious glow that took over everyone around him. He emanated an irresistibly kind energy. He captivated, and perhaps that had attracted Liliana, Hans Peter concluded, accepting that his friend-rival had his gifts and charm.
Karajan and Liliana were married on an afternoon of dark horizons and a strong storm that seemed to have taken over a good part of old Europe. The sky, on that ominous day, was tinged with an unprecedented pitch blackness, and horrendous, tireless lightning bolts pierced through it, such was the ferocity of the storm. Alliance scientists classified the phenomenon as some very random and unexplained climatic anomaly. But, perhaps, it was merely Hans Peter’s wrath and frustration incarnated as forces of nature.
During the wedding, and even before, he had intoxicated himself to such an extent that he wasn’t sure how it had been possible for him to arrive at his brother’s mansion, in old Germany, in the wee hours of the morning, long after the party ended. Whether he had driven one of the high-speed vehicles, piloted some small ship, or ordered someone to take him, that was lost amidst the emotional turmoil combined with the numbness of his senses from the excess alcohol.
The fact was that, when he arrived, in a deplorable state, he had planted himself like a statue outside, a few meters from the small flight of steps leading to the main door, getting soaked under the incessant rain. One of the security guards had tried to offer him assistance, but Hans Peter had pushed him away, taking out all the hatred consuming him on the poor lad. His brother had emerged, minutes later, with an expression of complete dread, still tying his robe over his pajamas and drowning his slippers in the puddles of water that had formed in the gravel courtyard preceding the gardens.
Upon seeing Anton run to meet him, Hans Peter had surrendered to exhaustion, and the mixture of cold mud and pebbles stuck to his knees when he fell voluntarily, like a doll coming apart, into his brother’s arms. The light of the lightning bolts illuminated his face, unrecognizable in pain. He was breaking down in tears, sobbing like a child to the absolute despair of Anton, who shook him by the shoulders while asking:
“What happened, for the love of God, what happened?”
All that could come out of Hans Peter’s mouth was a failed stammer with his niece’s name.
“What happened to Liliana?” His anguished brother shook him insistently and with more force. But the insistence had not interrupted the merciless and cruel crying coming from Hans Peter’s very depths, causing him to tremble endlessly. When that absurd pain he felt subsided, and he could organize a reply, all he had managed was to stare firmly at his brother and, ashamed of nothing, be it feelings or desires, confess:
“I love Liliana... I always have...”
And upon confessing, Hans Peter surrendered to the solace of a bewildered Anton, who, hearing the burden of suffering in those few words, pressed him against his chest, finally understanding everything.
Kneeling and embracing at the mansion’s entrance, they remained for many minutes, with thick raindrops mingling with the tears running down Hans Peter’s face, until he accepted being carried inside. Later, out of his wet clothes and in sepulchral silence, Hans Peter warmed himself before the living room fireplace. Anton, sitting nearby, witnessed something impressive emerge in the unique blue of his brother’s irises. That extraordinary blue, fixed on the rising flames, shone disturbingly in a somber mixture of extreme bitterness and undeniable determination. Anton knew, right then, that a strange and voracious force, impossible to stop, had been born in his brother’s unresigned spirit.
In the weeks that followed, Hans Peter took shelter in his brother’s mansion and remained reclusive. He refused to return to Talvegan as scheduled and fulfilled far less than half of his agenda commitments, attending to a very restricted circle of people in the command hierarchy of his Embassy and fleets.
Whenever he could, he allowed himself the luxury of refuge in Anton’s refined office to sink into taciturn thoughts about his existence and the madness burning in his chest. He and Anton would not exchange a word during this period. Hans Peter would simply wake up and spend hours and hours, from morning until nightfall, silent and motionless, alternating between his brother’s chair, which allowed him to observe the garden, and the armchair that warmed him in front of the other fireplace. He would barely eat during this time, but Anton would track his many glasses of wine from the many empty bottles, scattered across the table and furniture, always before Hans Peter appropriated his office in his routine of endless penitence.
Anton wouldn’t dare approach what seemed like an overwhelming and incomprehensible mourning, yet his concern did not go unnoticed by Hans Peter, who, on one of these occasions, heard snippets of his brother’s conversation with Friedrich in the next room through the half-open office door.
“I don’t know how I can ease what is going on inside him...” Anton lamented to his nephew.
“There is nothing within your reach. Uncle Hans Peter is suffering. Suffering that, apparently, is beyond our capacity to measure.”
“How did this happen?” Anton was truly stunned.
“Did you never notice he was in love with Liliana?” Friedrich asked in astonishment.
“How could I...” the old Osten tried to justify himself. “This idea sounds so absurd to me even now that I know. But precisely now, knowing it, I look back at some moments of your uncle beside Liliana and everything seems to fit... what shall we do?”
“What shall we do?” Friedrich repeated in even greater astonishment. “What do you think can be done?” He laughed on a nervous impulse.
“Your cousin married Karajan; that should be enough to destroy any hope.” Anton appealed to an obviousness that made little sense to the nephew who knew Hans Peter and his natural tenacity well.
“It won’t be like that, right?” Anton surrendered.
“No...” Friedrich agreed serenely, already aware of many details of this passion that Anton didn’t even dream of.
“I know... I know my brother...”
A few minutes of silence led Anton to project.
“This isn’t going to end well, is it?”
“There is no way to have a happy ending, Uncle,” Friedrich agreed again.
“I fear the worst, Friedrich. Someone will get hurt. Possibly Karajan.”
“Karajan...” Hans Peter stammered, allowing those memories to drift away from the now. He furrowed his brow, annoyed at not being able to avoid them, and opened his eyes, returning from the flashes of recollection.
He felt confusion. On one hand, he hated Karajan for having his Liliana; on the other, genuine affection bound him to the First Ambassador of the Alliance. So many achievements they had had together in the arduous work of diplomacy amidst that insane war, so long the path they had trodden... so many conversations in space, just the two of them, absorbed in brotherly friendship, in laughter, embraces, and in the intimacy that united them in the common purpose of the Embassies. So many small victories and so much left to do...
Karajan always told him:
“There is much ahead, my friend.” And he would give him a few pats on the shoulder, with a light and sweet smile.
But for what, Karajan, you fool? Disenchantment tinged everything. Karajan and his diplomatic utopias... a sigh escaped Hans Peter’s lips, heavy as the certainty of the Eternal War’s continuity. Diplomacy was nothing more than a perverse idea.
“All your efforts will be in vain, my old friend, despite your upright intentions,” he said softly.
A faint beep pulled Hans Peter from his sea of reflections. It was Commander Arthor, whose absolutely perfect image invaded the small monitor with very thin, translucent edges near the head of the bed. The vastness of the room was dimly illuminated by the light emerging from the screen.
“Sir,” he greeted him with a slight bow, “we are on a re-entry course to the Solar System. We will arrive at Earth shortly. Do you wish to establish communication with the Alliance?”
Hans Peter lingered for a few moments, his face turned toward the floor. Finally, he turned the delicate monitor toward himself and replied:
“Find Liliana.”
Arthor nodded, sketching a discreet smile. There was not a soul on Concordia, in the Second Embassy Fleet, and perhaps in the entire Alliance, who did not know of Hans Peter Osten’s madness for his niece.
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Hans Peter thanked him, returning Arthor’s smile with complicity. Suddenly, an obvious truth hit him: how was Liliana the only one not to perceive his love? That passion burned relentlessly and had been killing him, little by little, for the last ten years. How was it possible she didn’t notice?
The memories returned, even though he didn’t want them to, and the first time he knew he had become a prisoner of his niece took over his mind. At the time, Hans Peter’s diplomatic career had ascended, and interplanetary travel had intensified. When it was possible for him, and after a good few years away, he had returned to Earth.
On the day he chose to visit his brother, the weather was pleasant, and the sun warmed the imposing gardens of Anton’s mansion. And it was there, amidst the dazzling flowerbeds and multicolored blooms, that Hans Peter saw his niece after a relatively long time. She was fifteen years old.
He had been impressed, instantly, by Liliana’s distant figure approaching in a delicate and flowing rosy dress. He felt his heart race, with no logical reason for it, when his niece smiled at him, and that atypical sensation left him distraught.
Liliana walked, carrying in her hands the same multicolored flowers that adorned the garden on every side. Standing face to face with her uncle, she handed them to him while, on the tips of her tiny feet, she stretched up to reach his face with a lingering kiss. Hans Peter could still relive the jolt and the sudden, incomprehensible heat that had taken over his body. He could even re-experience those few seconds during which his hands fit around his niece’s waist, pressing her delicately, by instinct, against him. He could remember that indescribable ecstasy of Liliana’s presence so close and the excitement of finding himself hopelessly attracted to his niece.
For three painful years, he had repressed this feeling in every way possible, even though he acknowledged he lacked the strength to do so. The feeling was overwhelming; it boiled inside his body, clouded his reasoning, and oppressed every minute of his days. He tried to control himself, clinging to two taboos: his niece’s young age and their direct family ties. For three years, he had loved her in a disconcerting secrecy, suffering exhaustively. But reason yielded to madness, and this continuous insanity reached its peak when Liliana turned eighteen. Succumbing to the inevitable, Hans Peter resolved to accept and surrender himself to his feverish obsession. From that moment on, he would no longer deny his feelings, nor fight against something that would never abate. He would let himself be seduced; he would allow himself to be bewitched without guilt.
The vision of that birthday night took hold of Hans Peter. He saw the details unfold as clearly as if it all had happened days ago. The crowded hall witnessing the magical moment of Liliana’s entrance, in her long dark blue dress, whose skirt — a cascade of fabric brushing the floor — transformed her walk into something that seemed to have stepped out of a book they called a “Fairy Tale” in the past. Her beauty enchanted everyone with the promise of an unforgettable night.
Hans Peter, certainly, knew that for him, it had been unforgettable. He had monopolized his niece throughout the entire party. When he didn’t hold her in his arms, in dances, he surrounded her with whispers and doting attention. He had stolen her from everyone and kept her his, under the constant caress of his thirsty and possessive hands. He had covered her with kisses, and his lips begged for more... begged for his niece’s lips, but the limit of his boldness only allowed him to reach the pale, delicate nape of his beloved or the shoulders exposed by the dress.
He knew his touches challenged the boundary of suggestion, but he didn’t care for the opinion of anyone who saw him. He hadn’t worried for a single moment. Not even about Anton, who, in truth, until the day he confessed, would never have taken his actions for anything other than the behavior of a devoted uncle. Why had he been such a coward? If he had truly kissed her, with all the intensity that the first kiss of that insane love deserved, perhaps Karajan would never have married her.
That very night, his endless flirting would gain, for the first time, Friedrich’s attention. The nephew would soon realize that Hans Peter harbored something more than simple uncle’s affection for the beautiful Liliana.
“She is exceptionally wonderful, isn’t she?”
Hans Peter remembered Friedrich approaching him, a glass of wine in his hands, in one of the very rare moments when Liliana was not in his arms. He remembered not reacting at first. He simply waited for the unfolding of what might follow that falsely casual and noncommittal remark.
“There’s no way not to fall in love, is there?” Friedrich surrendered to the provocation he actually intended, filling his mouth with a sip of wine, full of malice in his voice and in his peculiarly astute gaze.
“She has a penchant for older men from what I’ve noticed. I think everyone here would love to be the chosen one,” Friedrich continued. “I know well that I would like to be Liliana’s chosen one...” He raised his glass toward his cousin who was greeting guests, alongside her father, on the opposite side of the hall. “I find her very attractive... and you, Uncle? Don’t you find her attractive? Wouldn’t you like to be the chosen one?”
“Don’t start...”
Hans Peter remembered that he had returned an answer bordering on harshness to his nephew and that he had, abruptly and suddenly, grabbed him vigorously by the collar of his uniform. He remembered that his gaze probably burned with fury and that, despite this, Friedrich had not been frightened by his action. He had merely smiled, satisfied at having achieved what he expected, and sentenced him with two short sentences:
“Don’t say a word, Uncle. You don’t need to...”
With no more than those sentences, Friedrich would leave him in peace for the rest of the night.
Hans Peter sighed again, almost a groan that betrayed his complete surrender to the deliciously pleasant memories of the end of that night. In moments, he saw himself transported, with Liliana, to the same garden where everything had started in his heart. She, by his side on one of the large stone benches, sitting with her back resting against his chest and her gaze turned to the stars. A delicate smile adorned her red lips. She embodied the image of the irresistible.
“What are you thinking about?”
He knew he had asked his niece that and that he had slid his fingers through her long black hair. He remembered Liliana settling against his chest, nestling into him, as she would do countless times in the years to come.
“Nothing special.”
She always answered like that, with a sweet and spoiled air in her voice when she didn’t want to reveal what intrigued her. She would widen a mischievous smile, as if hiding something wrong for which her uncle should reprimand her, to accompany that voice that would compel him to commit acts of madness, if she so wished.
“Hard to believe, Püppchen[1].”
At times like these, Hans Peter laughed lightly and felt a certain pleasure in contradicting her, just to see her cheeks blush slightly.
Hans Peter turned his gaze back to the panoramic wall of his room. On that night, she had asked him about a small streak that elegantly cut through the night sky. A cruiser was probably approaching or moving away from some orbital dock.
“What is life like in space, Uncle? What is it like to live on a ship and travel from planet to planet, to see the star systems, the dark void of infinity? You, who are always on diplomatic missions, what is it like to be there a good part of the time? What is it like to be on Talvegan?”
She had touched the tip of his nose, gently, as if accusing him, with a jest, of overwork, and had raised herself up a little, enthusiastic and pointing to the streak in the sky. Liliana’s eyes had sparkled at the last question. Talvegan seemed to fascinate her. And why wouldn’t it? The history of the Alliance and the partnership entangling it with the Talvegan Empire were fantastic.
Hans Peter had smiled melancholically at the questions and taken a sip of wine, lowering the glass back to the arm of the stone bench where he had been resting it. He had entwined his fingers with those of Liliana’s left hand.
“Lonely,” he had replied in a low tone, a pained whisper that expressed how he really felt far from his beloved.
“Lonely?”
Liliana didn’t seem to believe it. He had lifted her tiny hand to his mouth and kissed it lingeringly. They were so close that he could feel his niece’s breath on his face.
“Du bist mein Ein und Alles...[2]” he repeated in a deep voice, in an agonizing murmur, in the dark room of the Concordia, exactly what he had said so many years ago on that night with Liliana resting against his body, which was consuming itself with desire. Why hadn’t he kissed her?
His hands returned to crushing the mattress, releasing his tension. Hoping to relax, he let his head tilt back slightly and moistened his dry lips with a light flick of his tongue. Liliana unbalanced him. There was no escaping it, not even in memories.
“Du bist mein Ein und Alles...” The phrase returned, and so did he, to the garden bench. He had said every word, under the dim light of the lamps and a moonlit night sky, with a melodic and seductive tone.
“You know I don’t know Old German words like you do...”
Liliana’s sweet protest, touching his face again, had made him smile. This time, she let her delicate index finger find Hans Peter’s lips and then, she moved that same hand toward the tiny metallic device attached to her uncle’s glove.
“No, no artificial intelligence translators or accessing the mansion’s internal computer.”
He had laughed and held his niece’s hand, stopping her from proceeding with her little trick.
“You will have to do better than that if you want to find out what it means.”
“That’s not fair!” Another sweet, delicate, and captivating protest as only Liliana knew how to make.
“Alright.” Hans Peter, finally, had surrendered, stifling a laugh. “You are my everything. That is what it means, Liebling[3]. And all places in the universe are and will always be lonely without you, mein Püppchen...[4]”
He thought his niece had blushed in those brief seconds. And even shivered before his relentlessly passionate gaze. He had never known for sure, just as he had never known how to interpret any of the moments alone with Liliana.
And so, another ten years would pass since that night. The proximity between the two would only grow, and Hans Peter’s enchantment would only root itself deeper in his heart. And the challenge of remaining lucid, amidst that intoxicating feeling, would become greater and greater. How many opportunities had there been to declare himself, he asked himself, like this one that now invaded his mind? How many... he lamented.
[1] Doll.
[2] You are my everything.
[3] Darling.
[4] My doll.
