“FUCK! WHAT is that bloody racket?” Mark sat up at the noise making his apartment vibrate. He noticed, but didn’t care, that he’d drooled on Steffen’s chest. His head was woozy, which was unfair since he’d only had one glass of wine, and he instead blamed his cotton wool halo on having to get up at arse o’clock. “Bring back the piccolos. At least they didn’t include drums and tubas.”
Steffen cracked open an eye, then stretched. “Sounds like the Cortège has started. What time is it?”
Mark rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stared blearily at his watch. “Just after one thirty.” They’d slept for nearly six hours; so much for Steffen griping about his bed. “Are you going to be annoyed you didn’t see the start?”
“It is not like Morgenstreich. The Cortège will be marching around for hours, plenty of time to drink some prosecco and eat Kalbsbratwurst.”
“Right. I’m going to grab a shower. Make some coffee? There’s a kettle in the kitchenette.”
One good thing about the apartment was the shower’s water pressure. True, the shower itself was only a half-sized bath, but it didn’t take away its fabulousness. Mark didn’t want to leave Steffen alone for too long, so he washed quickly and got out, then wrapped a towel around his waist as he left the compact bathroom, the door opening into the kitchenette, which really was a little lobby that the owners of the apartment had gotten creative with.
Steffen, still naked, was scowling, holding up a sachet of coffee provided by housekeeping. “I am not drinking this.”
“I know you think you’re slumming even if you’re drinking Nespresso, so bog standard Nescafé is not going to cut it, but some of us just need a shot of caffeine as a kick start, and this does the trick.”
“I would rather drink rainwater than this shit.”
“Don’t fucking drink it, then. There’s some tea in the cupboard if that doesn’t offend your sensibilities.” Mark grabbed a towel from his closest. “Go take a shower.”
Steffen snatched the towel. “We can get something decent to drink while we are out.”
Mark shook his head, made himself a cup of terrible coffee and Steffen a cup of tea, and got dressed.
Steffen emerged. “Sorry, Mark. I was being—what do you call it?—a snob.”
“It’s all right. You work hard to have the best things money can buy. I guess you’ve earned the right to get a bit sniffy over a brand of coffee.”
“I work hard, yes, and I come from a rich and well-connected family, but it is good for me to remember that not everyone has my opportunities.” Steffen stroked Mark’s cheek as he walked past and began to dress.
“I’d hardly call drinking freeze-dried coffee a true hardship on the grand scale of things.”
Steffen laughed. “That was not what I meant. I could remember to be less of an obnoxious Arsch mit Ohren.”
“We can all benefit from that from time to time.” He shoved his feet into his shoes. “Come on, I want to see the Cortège.”
“Bring a few things with you. I meant what I said about you being welcome at mine.”
Mark hesitated. He was already too attached to Steffen, but he didn’t want to waste any chance to spend time with him. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, completely. Even if this place was bigger, it’s so close to the parade you will never get any sleep.”
“Okay. But you better not disparage my coffee-making skills again.” He grabbed a rucksack and a selection of clothes to see him through the next couple of days, including a shirt and a pair of trousers for when he went back to work later in the week.
“Good. Now remember, either duck or catch the oranges.”
“What?”
WHERE MORGENSTREICH was magical, covering the route with an ethereal blanket of charm, the Cortège was loud, brash, and like a 1960s drug-inspired hallucination. Somehow, he’d been expecting carnival floats like those he’d seen in Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade, but apart from the scale of some of the creations, that was where the similarities ended. A group dressed as Roman soldiers marched past, their oversized papier-mâché heads bright green, and it only dawned on him that they were meant to be the aliens from the Bugs Bunny cartoons when he saw the conductor was a giant zombie bunny and that they were playing “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane on a collection of brass instruments and drums.
A large wooden wagon, which looked like the progeny of a threesome between a milk float, a flatbed lorry, and a wardrobe, came next. A team of Waggis, with bright green hair and sailor uniforms, were delighting the crowd by juggling oranges and performing slapstick falls. Small children cried out “Waggis!” for their attention, and they responded by throwing daffodils and handfuls of sweets into the throng. Mark didn’t see the orange until it had bounced off his head, since he’d been half blinded by the cloud of confetti one of the green-haired bastards had launched right at him.
Mark spat out a mouthful of paper and rubbed the impact site on his temple. He glowered at Steffen. “I thought you said my badge thing would protect me from the Waggis.”
Steffen chuckled, looking delighted as he brushed confetti out of his hair. “Against individual Waggis, yes, but you are standing here voluntarily, and they just happen to be releasing Räppli in your general direction.”
“That sounds like an excuse you’ve used.”
“Maybe once or twice.” He smirked. “I never had the talent to play an instrument, but I was an extremely diligent Waggis in my youth.”
“I bet you used to offer to help get the bloody confetti out later.”
“I may have—to the most receptive and attractive of my victims. But I was young and foolish, and thought only about getting my cock sucked.”
“Some things never change,” Mark muttered darkly, but the wail of bagpipes playing “The Imperial March” from the next group decked out in kilts and stormtrooper uniforms swallowed his grumblings.
“Let us get some prosecco. There is a stall operating out of the entrance of the Mont Blanc shop.”
“Only if we get something to eat. I’m hungry.” His stomach grumbled on cue. “But no more soup. You promised me a sausage—I mean the ones to eat, before you bother with one of your smart remarks.”
Steffen tried to look innocent, but failed. “You head to one of the street vendors and get the sausages. I will get the prosecco. Come meet me at Marktplatz. I might be able to grab a table, and it’s a good spot to watch the Cortège.”
“Fine. But if I come back with something inedible because I pronounced it wrong, it’s your own fault.”
“Just ask for zwei mal Kalbsbratwürste mit Brot and expect to be asked for money in English.” Steffen made a shooing motion. “It will do you good to practice your German.”
Mark picked the closest stall selling sausages, the smell making him even hungrier as he waited, trying not to get buffeted by the hordes of people watching the Cortège. He used his best German to order, and as Steffen predicted, got replied to in English. Part of him wanted to take offense—his pronunciation wasn’t that bad—but he could see the length of the queues, and they’d want him served and out of the way as soon as possible. He had to guard his treasures with slightly extended elbows and perseverance, relieved to spot Steffen outside the Mont Blanc shop at a standing-height table with a bottle of prosecco and two plastic glasses.
“This is definitely a first for me,” Mark said, placing the food on the table. “Swigging fizzy wine, eating sausage while packs of murderous-looking clowns march past.”
“I take exception to the murderous clowns. The last Guggenmusik group was wearing hazmat suits and their instruments disguised as celery—not a clown in sight.”
Mark noticed a line of black and white drums lined up against the wall behind them, each with a papier-mâché stylized jester head perched on top. “Aren’t they worried someone might steal them?”
“One of them will be nearby, but no one would dare take them.” Steffen popped the cork and started to pour the wine. “The thief would not get ten meters before they would be descended on by a pack of disgruntled Clique members.”
Fasnacht was fun, completely bonkers, and something Mark would never have thought the Swiss would engage in. But it was made ten times better watching Steffen. His reaction to the more bizarre costumes and his own personal stories made the whole experience even more wonderful. Steffen, who was a consummate businessman, extremely intelligent, and a considerate lover, was reduced to a giant kid as they watched the parade. Admittedly an overgrown kid drinking prosecco, but a kid nonetheless.
Mark couldn’t fight it any longer. He’d fallen for the bugger. There was no point worrying about getting in too deep, because he was up to his neck and, bollocks to it, he wasn’t going to back off. He would enjoy the fantasy for the next few weeks and nurse a broken heart once back in the UK. If he were to be sensible he’d start to put some distance between them, but he wasn’t about to rob himself of any time with Steffen. Unrequited love might be a bastard, but it was better than no love at all.
STEFFEN WATCHED as Mark cycled through several facial expressions to finally settle on disbelief. “You’re shitting me? Is that really ‘I Kissed a Girl’ being played by an oompah band?”
They stood watching a Guggenmusik group, still in full costume, play on the temporary stage constructed in the middle of Marktplatz.
“It is a Guggenmusik band, you uneducated Brit,” Steffen said, laughing. “I promised you a battle of the bands. What did you think they would play?”
“I don’t know, but definitely not pop and rock music.”
“I bet you are upset that there are no lederhosen or arse-slapping in sight.”
“That would have been a plus point.” Mark chewed on a merguez sausage, and Steffen ignored the fact that neither of them had eaten a vegetable that wasn’t a deep-fried potato for two days and it was looking doubtful it would happen for at least another day.
“I don’t get how a Clique decides to pick a song.”
“Firstly, these are not Cliques. Cliques play piccolos and drums. These are Guggenmusik groups, who, to keep it simple for you, play brass instruments.”
“Oh, come on.”
Steffen tutted—really, Mark had so much to learn. “They are completely different, and unless you want to be lectured for several hours on how one is better than the other, I suggest you are very careful who you say that to.”
Mark shivered. The temperature had dropped considerably now it was dark. The rest of the crowd was only doing so much to help keep them warm, and it didn’t stop Mark from accepting the can of lager Steffen handed him. A group of young men, barely out of their teens, were dancing and waving beer cans in the air while several young women were recording their antics on iPhones.
Mark nodded in their direction. “The alcohol has to be helping them along. There’s no way anyone can be that enthusiastic about Guggenmusik. It’s surely the only explanation possible. Being that excited about tubas needs help.”
As one group left, another replaced them, and Mark was once again surprised at the choice of song as the unmistakable start of “Eye of the Tiger” blared out. “I need another drink, and lager isn’t going to cut it,” Mark muttered darkly.
“You are not a fan?” asked Steffen. He couldn’t really blame Mark. It was an acquired taste, and the falling temperatures and drunken idiots not knowing their boundaries meant he could imagine Mark was at the limit of his endurance.
“It’s okay, I suppose. A few songs are enough, though.”
“Let’s walk up to the Munster. All the lanterns from Morgenstreich are on display.”
“All right. The walk might warm me up. I really don’t know how those guys do it. All I’ve done is watch and I’m knackered. I can’t imagine how those participating are feeling.”
Getting out of the crowd took a bit longer than normal, but they were soon walking up Freiestrasse in the direction of the Munster. “They don’t march continuously, but it’s not something to undertake lightly. They practice for months, so it is the culmination of many hours’ dedication,” Steffen explained, thinking Mark might appreciate an insight into the mentality behind some of the madness. “This is their moment, and a little thing like exhaustion would not deter them.”
“How does anyone have the time? Even if they’ve the kind of job they can leave at five every night, people have kids and partners to think about.”
“Because they love it. Several generations of families are involved. It becomes an important part of many people’s social lives. The Clique does not disband when the carnival ends. Maybe they rest for a few weeks, but then preparations for the next year start, and if not that, they are arranging get-togethers and days out.”
“You sound a bit remorseful.”
“What do you mean?”
“You clearly love Fasnacht. I can hear it in the way you speak. I remember you saying you didn’t have the time to take part like you used to. Sounds like you miss it.”
“Maybe I am overly sentimental. Yes, it’s fun, but it’s better when you share it with someone. There is a possibility that when I am older I could get back involved.”
“Perhaps if you find a new long-term partner.” Mark sounded slightly wistful, but Steffen didn’t want to read too much into it.
“Perhaps. Peter thought it childish and silly, even went off skiing when it was on.” Steffen spat out the last sentence.
“I never would have thought you’d have tolerated dating an idiot for so long. Fasnacht’s great—even the Guggenmusik stuff isn’t so bad… in small doses.”
Steffen’s smile was so wide it was verging on painful, but he couldn’t help grinning. “I am so glad you have enjoyed it.” He took hold of Mark’s hand and didn’t let go. “You will love the lanterns.”
And Mark clearly did, running between the lanterns and pointing with glee. But not as much as Steffen loved explaining to him about each work, gushing about the colors and the meaning behind each piece—without once letting go of Mark’s hand.