Discovering BB’s mysteries
Not everything is what it seems, or what you expect, in Bussière-Badil, well off the beaten track in France. But what can you expect from a village that has been on the maps since 768 CE?
When I open the front door, I’m a bit taken aback by whom I find there.
I’ve got 20 minutes until my appointment with Monsieur le Maire of Bussière-Badil. The previous week I arranged to have an interview with him. I don’t know who’s at the door, but I don’t have a lot of time to chat, as I still have to get ready for my appointment. The weather has been hot, and I’m still in my old and fairly flimsy Patti Smith T-shirt and pair of cut-off denim shorts. Half of this outfit is my summer pyjamas.
It takes me a while to register who’s rung at the door as I can’t be quite sure that it is who I think it is. “Do you recognise me?” asks the man. Of course, I say, in that voice every teacher knows is a cover-up. “I’m Monsieur le Maire.” I had thought so, but I also thought, that can’t be him, I’ve got an appointment with him in 20 minutes, and I must be hallucinating him at the door.
Any worries I had about my inappropriate clothing are assuaged. M le Maire is also wearing a T-shirt, as well as a pair of jeans and a baseball cap. Last week, when I stopped by the mairie (town hall) to make the appointment, he was wearing the same configuration: T-shirt, jeans, baseball cap. It was a different T-shirt and cap, and the jeans were definitely different from today’s as they were unmistakably torn at various stress points. It is a small village, and the informality is quite endearing – or, as they say in France, sympathique.
He’s too busy to be able to speak with me today and came round to cancel. He’s just recovered from the coronavirus, he says, which is why he is standing well away from the door with his mask covering his face, although he has tested negative, in an abundance of caution. He has a lot of work to catch up on, especially before the holidays, so he hasn’t the time for the interview today.
The ox pulling the plough fell through the ground into a secret passage
But as he does then briefly launch into what he knows about the history of Bussière-Badil, which is what I was going to see him about, he steps back further to increase the safe distance and removes his mask.
M le Maire is my first point of call in trying to research the history of this mediaeval French village. At an earlier meeting of the patrimoine (heritage) society (which I fortuitously attended after having my arm twisted), his wife began to recount extraordinary things about this once important, now dwindling village. For example, that below the existing church, which was built in the 12th century, there lie the remains of a previous church that dates back to 768 CE. That this Romanesque church was once part of a Benedictine monastery in Bussière-Badil, of which today nothing else remains. That there are subterranean passages in the village that connect this monastery with another a good few kilometres away, also no longer in existence. That someone in the village has entrances to one of these passages in their basement, which they had bricked up for security reasons.
I’d heard some of these things before. I was even told that one of these tunnels runs under my garden. As he goes through the few things he says he knows, M le Maire recounts that, maybe a century ago, when farmers still tilled the soil with ploughs and beasts of burden, someone was once working his field when the ox pulling the plough fell through the ground into one of these passages.
There’s much more to be discovered here. Before he hurries back to the mairie, M le Maire mentions the name of someone who would know more. Surprisingly, it’s my neighbour, the Portuguese pottery artist. Next call on the road to discovery.
Can we still give peace a chance?
In the face of the rapid escalation of the war in the Ukraine, tens of thousands come together in Berlin to protest for peace
Twenty thousand were expected. But then more than 100,000 people massed in the centre of Berlin on 27 February to show solidarity with the Ukraine. On a day when Russian president Putin issued a not so veiled nuclear threat in retaliation, he says, for NATO aggression.
According to the Russian media, who are not allowed to use the word “war”, what is going on in the Ukraine is an “operation to secure peace”. Still, in about 50 Russian cities, people also came together to protest the “operation”.
Shortly before the demonstration started, the German government, in a special convocation of the Bundestag (parliament), announced a number of measures to isolate Russia and block its aggression, many of them complete turnarounds from policies they had held even days before.
Not far away, more than a hundred thousand people streamed from the U-Bahn and S-Bahn stations, cycled or walked into city centre with their signs and flags. Infants, children, young adults, the elderly, they came pushing bikes and prams, some accompanied by their dogs, to show solidarity with the Ukrainians, anger at Putin, and hope and desire for peace. In this anxious, fraught moment, where we all hope politicians will hold their nerve, make wise decisions and avert catastrophe, the ability to come together (especially after years of covid-enforced isolation) felt like a hymn to humanity.
No future for Zukunft am Ostkreuz?
Zukunft am Ostkreuz, a much loved arthouse cinema and cultural venue, has not been able to renew its lease. Its demise would represent a huge loss to the local community as well as the city of Berlin
Another casualty of gentrification – Berlin’s most viral pandemic, if not for the current exploding numbers of corona cases. Zukunft am Ostkreuz – the name now conveys a certain irony, as it means “future at Ostkreuz” – is soon to be no more, unless its landlord can be convinced to spare it.
Once a film warehouse during the DDR era, Zukunft is one of the cultural hubs of the Friedrichshain-Kreuzberg district. The building in the east of Berlin, near the city’s Ostkreuz train station, houses an arthouse cinema, theatre stage, exhibition area and music club. Its premises also includes an open-air cinema and stage as well as a beer garden. Zukunft even brews its own beer in an eponymous microbrewery.
Yet, on top of the many hardships of covid and its restrictions, the landlord of Zukunft has not renewed its lease, which was “terminated in an already difficult time, in the middle of the pandemic”, manager Manuel Godehardt told Berlin news agency rbb.
No reason was given for not renewing the lease. But looking around, it’s not hard to draw conclusions. The venue is surrounded by construction sites for high-end office buildings. Luxury apartments are being built nearby, as well as a new tourist attraction: an aquarium for exotic fish and coral, with an accompanying hotel. Property in this rapidly changing part of the city is likely too mouth-watering to be left untouched by developers.
‘We will not and cannot accept this’
Daniel Bartsch, spokesperson for culture administration, Berlin Senate
Many residents, however, feel the pain and deplore the soulless expansion of their neighbourhood. Several demonstrations have taken place in the area to protest building projects. And there is fear for the existence not only of the treasured Zukunft, but also for the clubs About Blank and Wilde Renate.
If Zukunft goes, it’s likely to take its local affiliated small cinemas – Tilsiter Lichtspiele and Kino Intimes – with it, as much of their income derives from the selling of Zukunft’s craft beers: Goldene Zukunft (golden future) and the sadly prophetically named Dunkle Zukunft (dark future).
A local organisation concerned about the explosion in development, Baustelle Gemeinwohl (“public welfare construction site”) has formed a workshop to create a cooperative vision for a possible new building on the site. Together with its partners, it has entered negotiations with the owners of the site, Groß-Berliner-Damm GmbH & Co. KG and Grundwert AG (represented by Orion Hausverwaltung GmbH) to come up with solutions for a building compromise that serves all sides. Results of the negotiation are expected at the end of January, with possible next steps to be discussed.
Let’s hope, for the sake of the future of the neighbourhood, that discussions are fruitful. As Daniel Bartsch, speaking for Berlin’s Senate culture administration, told rbb, every cultural institution that disappears in the city is a loss for Berlin’s cultural landscape, and “We will not and cannot accept this”.
The lease is up on 31 March 2022. People who wish to preserve Berlin’s unique cultural landscape and make their voices heard for the future of Zukunft can sign a petition.
Rebels with a cause
January stage roundup in ExBerliner magazine
Alienation and raging against the machine has been a virulent reaction to the Covid-19 pandemic. A number of shows opening on Berlin stages reflect the mood. Find the full article here on the ExBerliner website.
Hit me, baby, one more time
A new show created by writer Lena Brasch and actor Sina Martens focuses on the Britney Spears in all of us – interview in ExBerliner magazine
“There’s something unrestrained about this father-daughter relationship, a dramatic excessiveness that you look for in theatre,” says Sina Martens in an interview with her and writer/director Lena Brasch in the January edition of ExBerliner. Read it here.
The Ghost of Ballyfeckit Hall
The literary spirit in a writers’ retreat can move people in strange ways
MARIUS pushed himself up from his desk and sighed. Maybe another cup of coffee would help. He’d already had seven today, and it was only 11.30, but didn’t writers do everything to excess? Speaking of which, he carefully closed the web browser on his computer screen. No need for anyone to see what he’d been looking at.
Passing the mirror on his way to the door of his room, he couldn’t avoid another act of self-hatred and stared at himself. What he saw was a sad-looking man, late thirties, balding early, with a soft fold of stomach hanging over his trouser waistband that his dirty shirt couldn’t contain. He noticed a large coffee stain on the crest of his belly that wasn’t there before. Instead of putting on a new shirt, he gave himself up as hopeless and hung his coat over the mirror.
He closed his door behind him – without locking it, no keys needed, or given out, at Ballyfeckit Hall. A writers’ retreat, in the middle of nowhere: nobody had anything worth taking. Especially Marius. Because he’d only written about a page since he got there last week, and he’d already thrown it in the bin. The floarboards creaked their disdain at him as he walked down the old wooden hallway. What, he asked himself, was he doing there? Yes, somehow he had managed to win a competition to spend a month there. God knows how. The story he had sent in didn’t seem worth it, just a tale about nothing in particular, but still, he won. And now he was there, taking part in workshops, meeting other writers who seemed full of talent and confidence. And after a week he had nothing to show for himself but a long face and a dirty shirt.
Going down the stairs, he heard voices in the kitchen. One of them was Alicia. And now he wished he had changed his shirt. Instead, he grabbed a cardigan that was lying across a chair in the hall and quickly buttoned it up over himself. It wasn’t really big enough, and the edges gaped in between the buttons, but better than the big coffee stain over his big belly.
But Alicia still gave him a big smile as he hove into view. She was just lovely in every way. Friendly, chatty, and a successful author of chick lit – or as she called it, contemporary relationship literature. He straightened up, sucked in his stomach and entered the kitchen.
“Hello,” Marius said genially. “Hi Alicia. How are you getting on with your work?”
But then there was a noise at the back door, and Alicia had eyes and ears for him no more. It was Reynard, just in from running. He was an author and media figure, and Marius felt a mixture of resentment, envy and guilty satisfaction.
Reynard was sweaty, his clothes damp in the way that Marius’s clothes didn’t get damp. As well as the dark patches under his arms, there was a triangle of sweat on the back of his Hay Festival T-shirt. His face glistened. When Marius sweated – usually from having to climb too many stairs – he got damp patches under his man boobs. And Reynard smelt like, well, like he looked: a sweaty, manly man, oozing pheromones. Marius smelt like nerves and wet dog. He was lucky if that was the worst of it after climbing too many stairs.
“Anyone seen my notebok?” Reynard asked in his strong, fruity voice.
“Your notebook?” Alicia squeaked, her voice about two octaves higher. “You haven’t lost it?”
“Afraid so. I can’t find it anywhere.”
“Let me help you look,” Alicia offered, far too eagerly.
“No, no. Please don’t trouble yourself.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be any trouble,” Alicia said, laying a manicured hand on his arm.
Reynard looked around at all the writers. Marius felt like Reynard looked the longest, the most intensely at him. “Has anyone seen it?”
Marius shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, looked around him. That felt like the most innocent thing to do. “Can I help you look for it?” That, he thought, would make him look even more innocent.
“No, it’s OK. I’m sure it will turn up.”
Reynard strode out. Alicia got up after him. “I’d better go help him. Men … ” She rolled her eyes at the others. “They’re so helpless.”
Marius watched her leave. He had little interest in the coffee now, but poured himself a cup anyway, so it didn’t look like he came down only for her and was disappointed.
“Hey,” said one of the other writers at the breakfast table, “I’ve got a cardigan just like that.” Unfortunately, it was one of the women.
“That’s a coincidence,” said Marius, and left the room with his cup.
As he walked out, someone said, “Maybe the ghost took it?”
They all laughed, but Marius shivered. Ballyfeckit Hall, apparently, was haunted. The people staying there told him stories about the ghost, who was the founder of the manor house. He had died after playing a terrible trick on his cousin, who ran him through with a dagger while he laughed. After that, MacMurdle – that was the name of the dead lord – remained a fiendish joker, even in death. He stole things, hid them, destroyed them, soiled them with his ghostly blood.
Marius was afraid of ghosts. He had not been pleased when he heard this story.
He paused on his way back to his room, looking out the bay window at the vast roll of lawn down to the lake. The sun was nearly overhead and glinted knifelike off the water. He sighed and went up the stairs.
He couldn’t go through with it. He would go back to his room, pull Reynard’s notebook from under his underwear at the bottom of the drawer, where he had hidden it, and leave it somewhere. Then someone else would find it. They’d all think the ghost had taken it. Then it would be over, and Marius could go back to tearing out what little hair he had left at his writing desk.
As climbed the creaking wooden staircase, he unbuttoned the pilfered cardigan with his free hand. The sides of the garment sprang open like an impatiens seed pod as the buttons popped open. He opened the door to his room and tugged one arm out of a sleeve – a delicate operation while holding the cup of coffee – switched hands and prepared to tug off the other – when he heard a cackle.
Someone was lying on his bed. “Lying” was not quite the right word, as the someone was actually hovering several inches above it. This person turned his transparent face to him with glee and cackled again, waving a notebook – Reynard’s notebook.
Marius started and spilt most of the coffee over himself – and, unfortunately, the cardigan, now hanging from his wrist. He didn’t scream – he wanted to, he tried to – but no sound would come out.
“This is the most marvellous bit of literature! With this to hand, who would read novels? HA HA HA HA HA HA!”
“Who … who … ” Marius’s voice sounded strangled.
But he didn’t need to ask. The ghost had a large, messy-looking hole in its chest. It didn’t look bloody anymore, just darker, not reflective moon-white like the rest of him.
“Listen to this,” the ghost rasped, then read, “‘That tart Alicia is really into me. I’ll keep ignoring her for a day or two more, then, when she’s totally gagging for it, I’ll let her help me with something. Maybe I’ll confide in her about my ex-wife being cruel to me. I’ll just have to figure out which ex-wife I’ll mention.’ You couldn’t make it up!”
“You’re it,” Marius stammered. “You’re the ghost.”
“That’s not very polite. I am MacMurdle. You should show me more respect, now that I have the notebook you stole from Reynard. HA HA HA!”
“How do you – ?”
“‘She looks like a sheepdog having a bad hair day,’” MacMurdle read on, “but, still, writers are generally unlovely, and she’s the best of the lot.’ A gentleman, our Reynard. ‘Afterwards, I’ll offer to read some of her manuscript. It’s probably the usual drivel, but there’ll be something in there that will be useful to me, I’m sure.’”
It was true, Marius thought. Reynard did not sound like a very nice person.
“He isn’t a nice person,” MacMurdle said. Could he read Marius’s thoughts? “And doesn’t think much of you, either: ‘There’s a new inmate this year. How he got in I can’t imagine. A doughy dolt who hasn’t a brain in his head. And less personality. Alicia said he looked like a yesterday’s waterballoon with a slow leak.’”
That stung. Marius wondered why he hadn’t actually read any of the notebook. Too much reverence for the famous Reynard. As it was, stealing the thing was turning out to be its own punishment, an own goal.
MacMurdle grinned at Marius. He was enjoying himself. “You stole it, and didn’t read it? What were you going to do with it?”
“I was just … I don’t know. I was jealous.”
MacMurdle cackled. “That big, muscle-bound fathead. He comes here every year. Always steals other people’s ideas. Some woman always develops a fancy for him. And then he steals her work and puts it in his books. And even so, what has he actually published? One book ten years ago that nobody reads anymore. You might say it was ghostwritten. HA!”
MacMurdle bobbed gleefully from Marius’s bed and floated towards him. Marius froze as the ghost grinned into his face. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”
MacMurdle the ghost disappeared through the wall with the notebook. How did he manage to take the notebook through the wall, Marius thought. He was still in shock. And hurt. But feeling less guilty about stealing the notebook, much less. What was MacMurdle going to do with it? Was he going to give him away?
From downstairs he heard a shriek. “It’s the ghost! AAAAAHHHHHH!” It sounded like Alicia.
“Listen to this!” It was the voice of MacMurdle.
Marius smiled with private pleasure and sipped what was left of his coffee.
A version of this story originally appeared in the German magazine Spotlight