Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2007 by Ulrich Haarbürste

  All rights reserved.

  Bibliographical Note

  This Dover edition, first published in 2019 , is an unabridged republication of the work originally printed by Serapion Books, Great Britain, in 2007.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Haarbürste, Ulrich, author.

  Title: Ulrich Haarbürste’s novel of Roy Orbison in clingfilm : plus additional stories / Ulrich Haarbürste.

  Other titles: Novel of Roy Orbison in clingfilm | Roy Orbison in clingfilm

  Description: Mineola, New York : Dover Publications, Inc., 2019. | This Dover edition, first published in 2019, is an unabridged republication of the work originally printed by Serapion Books, Great Britain, in 2007.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018053643| ISBN 9780486834672 | ISBN 0486834670

  Subjects: LCSH: Orbison, Roy—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6108.A22 A6 2019 | DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018053643

  Manufactured in the United States by LSC Communications

  834670012019

  www.doverpublications.com

  For Jetta

  Contents

  Roy Orbison in Clingfilm Stories

  Roy in Clingfilm Story 1

  Roy in Clingfilm Story 2

  Roy in Clingfilm Story 3

  Roy in Clingfilm Story 4

  Roy in Clingfilm Story 5

  Roy in Clingfilm in Space

  Roy in Clingfilm at Christmas

  All Wrapped on the Western Front

  Roy in a Bubble

  Shrink Wrap

  South Sea Pirates

  “It’s a Wrap”

  The Roy Orbison in Clingfilm Novel

  Appendix

  German-Language Tales

  Auf Dem Strand

  Auf der Sprache Klasse

  Die Unmoralischen Mädchen von Bavaria

  Roy Orbison

  in Clingfilm

  Stories

  Roy in Clingfilm Story 1

  It always starts the same way. I am in the garden airing my terrapin Jetta when he walks past my gate, that mysterious man in black.

  “Hello, Roy,” I say. “What are you doing in Düsseldorf?”

  “Attending to certain matters,” he replies.

  “Ah,” I say.

  He appraises Jetta’s lines with a keen eye. “That is a well-groomed terrapin,” he says.

  “Her name is Jetta,” I say. “Perhaps you would like to come inside?”

  “Very well,” he says.

  Roy Orbison walks inside my house and sits down on my couch. We talk urbanely of various issues of the day. Presently I say, “Perhaps you would like to see my clingfilm?”

  “By all means.” I cannot see his eyes through his trademark dark glasses and I have no idea if he is merely being polite or if he genuinely has an interest in clingfilm.

  I bring it from the kitchen, all the rolls of it. “I have a surprising amount of clingfilm,” I say with a nervous laugh. Roy merely nods.

  “I estimate I must have nearly a kilometer in the kitchen alone.”

  “As much as that?” he says in surprise. “So.”

  “Mind you, people do not realize how much is on each roll. I bet that with a single roll alone I could wrap you up entirely.”

  Roy Orbison sits impassively like a monochrome Buddha. My palms are sweaty.

  “I will take that bet,” says Roy. “If you succeed I will give you tickets to my new concert. If you fail I will take Jetta, as a lesson to you not to speak boastfully.”

  I nod. “So then. If you will please to stand.”

  Roy stands. “Commence.”

  I start at the ankles and work up. I am like a spider binding him in my gossamer web. I do it tight with several layers. Soon Roy Orbison stands before me, completely wrapped in clingfilm. The pleasure is unexampled.

  “You are completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I say.

  “You win the bet,” says Roy, muffled. “Now unwrap me.”

  “Not for several hours.”

  “Ah.”

  I sit and admire my handiwork for a long time. So as not to make the ordeal unpleasant for him we make small talk on topical subjects, Roy somewhat muffled. At some point I must leave him to attend to Jetta’s needs. When I return I find he has hopped out of my house, still wrapped in clingfilm. The loss leaves me broken and pitiful. He never calls me. He sends no tickets. The police come and reprimand me. Jetta is taken away, although I get her back after a complicated legal process.

  There is only one thing that can console me. A certain dream, a certain vision . . .

  It always starts the same way.

  Roy in Clingfilm Story 2

  In this fantasy I am driving along the Autobahn between Köln and Aachen.

  A large Winnebago has pulled to the side of the road ahead. An anxious-looking man flags me down.

  “This could be trouble,” I say to Jetta. “It is certainly irregular.” Jetta says nothing. Little do I know what is in store.

  “Can you help me?” says the man. “I am Roy Orbison’s tour manager.”

  “Also?” I say in polite surprise. I have already read the legend “Roy Orbison tour bus” on the side of the vehicle.

  I get out of the car. “What seems to be the problem?”

  He leads me to the back of the van. “Roy has succumbed to a heart attack and is clinically dead,” he explains, indicating a certain well-known man in black sprawled on the floor of the vehicle.

  “So,” I say.

  “Are you perchance a doctor?”

  “No. I studied at a catering college for some years but was forced to leave for reasons I prefer not to disclose.”

  “Ach! Then I am at a loss what to do.”

  “There is one thing we might try,” I say with elaborate nonchalance. “If we were to wrap him in clingfilm, this would prevent corruption setting in until we can get him to a hospital.”

  “It is certainly worth a try. But I have no clingfilm.”

  “Fortunately I have several rolls in the car.” I go to the car and retrieve it. The tour manager looks anxiously over my shoulder as I set to work. “I must work undisturbed,” I tell him. He nods and gives me privacy.

  Now it is just me and Roy Orbison and the clingfilm. I start from the ankles and work up to the trademark dark glasses, wrapping slowly and carefully. Soon Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in clingfilm. He is like a big black beetle wrapped in a silvery cocoon. The satisfaction is unparalleled by anything in my previous existence.

  “He is completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I call to the manager. “I will accompany him as you drive to the hospital.”

  Four hours later Roy Orbison sits up in bed in the hospital and smiles at me.

  “I hear I owe you my life,” he says. “Please accept these concert tickets.”

  I bow politely. “There is something you perhaps should know. While you were in a coma I was forced to wrap you entirely in clingfilm.”

  “Quick thinking,” says Roy.

  “You did not mind?”

  Roy’s expression is unreadable. “I wasn’t aware of it.” But was there the slightest twinkle behind those dark glasses?

  Of course, I reflect as I return to the patient Jetta, there can be no question of him enjoying it, for he was dead at the time.

  Or was he . . . ?

  Roy in Clingfilm Story 3

  It begins innocently enough in the pet shop. I am seeking worms for Jetta.

 
“Hello there,” says a vaulting tenor voice behind me. “We meet again.”

  I turn and take in the black clothes and trademark dark glasses. I bow and smile. “Mr. Roy Orbison, I presume. What brings you to our little emporium?”

  “I was passing through town on my way to a rock star conference in Essen when I decided to get some deworming powder for my dog.”

  “Ah! How ironic! Your dog has worms and my Jetta eats worms.” I decide to risk a little joke. “Perhaps we should bring the two of them together!”

  But Roy does not laugh. The eyes behind the dark shades express no mirth. “What? What are you saying? Are you saying your terrapin should eat worms out of my dog’s ass?” he snarls.

  It is all going wrong. My palms sweat. I wish to die. I try to wake up.

  I blush and mumble apologies. Fortunately just then a distraction arrives.

  Two criminals burst in waving shotguns.

  “This is a robbery!” they yell. “You two are hostages.”

  “Make them tie each other up,” says the lead robber.

  “Ach! I have forgotten the rope,” says his cohort.

  “I happen to have a roll of clingfilm with me,” I offer diffidently. “Perhaps that would serve?”

  “It will have to. Wrap that man in black in clingfilm at once or it will go badly with you.”

  “Very well.” Trembling, I take out the clingfilm. “I am sorry, Roy, it looks like I have no choice.”

  “Do what you have to.”

  I start at the feet and work my way up. I wrap him as tenderly as a mother swaddling an infant. I marvel at the play of light on the miraculous translucence. Soon, Roy Orbison is entirely wrapped in clingfilm. I thank God that I was born to live this minute.

  “He is completely wrapped up in clingfilm,” I report.

  “Good,” says the bandit. “Now I want you to wrap the clingfilm around the two of you so that you are wrapped up with him.”

  My mouth dry, I stand pressed against Roy, who is wrapped completely in clingfilm. Awkwardly, I pass the film around both of our waists several times, until we are bound together by the miracle substance. My synapses overload with joy.

  “We are both wrapped in clingfilm,” I tell the robbers. “I am not completely wrapped, however, but there is more clingfilm in my briefcase if you would care to finish the job.”

  “No, that will do.”

  It certainly will!

  It is an hour or more before the police come to release us.

  “Well,” I say to Roy Orbison, “it was nice to meet you again.”

  “I’m not a philosophical man,” says Roy thoughtfully, “but it seems like we are bound together in some way.”

  “Yes—by clingfilm!” I say.

  This time Roy does laugh.

  Roy in Clingfilm Story 4

  This time I am at the health spa having my cuticles attended to and procuring a pedicure for Jetta.

  “Also,” says the garrulous beautician as she works. “You will never guess. We are favored by a visit from a celebrity today.”

  “Unglaublich,” I say without much interest. “Some dreary town councillor or rising star of the banking industry, no doubt,” I say with a wink at Jetta.

  “No, no,” says the busybody as she plies her trade. “This is a big American rock star who wears iconic black clothing and trademark dark glasses. His name is Roy. . .Orbital? Orbheissen? Rasmussen? Something of that nature.”

  It takes a second or two for the penny to drop. “Black clothes and dark glasses you say. I implore you to think carefully. Could the man’s name conceivably be Roy Orbison? This is a matter of extreme urgency to me.”

  “Yes! That was it exactly! Fancy, he is in the next room waiting for me to give him a seaweed wrap.”

  I rise from the chair. “I find I have to go out for a moment. You will please remain here and attend to Jetta. I have decided you will give her a shell wax. I will be locking the door after I leave to ensure your compliance.”

  “So.”

  “So.”

  I adjourn smartly to the next cubicle. Roy Orbison is lying on a massage table naked save for a strategically placed towel. Some soothing unguent has been applied to his face and slices of cucumber have been placed over his trademark dark glasses.

  “Good day,” I say. “Are you relaxed?”

  “I am highly relaxed but expect to be more so following my seaweed wrap,” says Roy.

  “Regrettably I find we have run out of seaweed following a maritime disaster in which various contaminants were released destroying the world supply of sargasso for generations to come,” I say smoothly. “Instead I urge you to try our new clingfilm wrap. The health-giving properties of this miracle substance cannot be overstated.”

  “Clingfilm?” Roy cannot see me but tries to peer round the cucumber slices occluding his glasses. “Don’t I know your voice?”

  “I am an eminent doctor and am to be trusted implicitly.”

  “Ah,” says Roy. “Then you may commence.”

  “Speaking as a doctor, that is a wise decision.”

  I start from the feet and work my way up. It is strange for him to be naked as I wrap him but I suppose it would be too suspicious were I to ask him to put his trademark black clothes back on. I am like an Egyptian priest enshrouding his pharaoh. Soon, Roy Orbison is wrapped up in clingfilm. I let out a soft mew of content and mutely acknowledge that all things work for the best in this world.

  “You are completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I tell him. “To get the full benefits you must remain so for several hours or until someone comes and finds us. To keep you company I will stay in the room and breathe heavily.”

  “That is kind of you.”

  There follow several hours of almost unbearable bliss. Presently a masseuse comes and looks at us quizzically.

  “We are closing now. Have you seen Frieda?”

  “Yes, I locked her in the room next door.”

  “Ah. Why is that man in clingfilm?”

  “Medical reasons.”

  “So.”

  I permit the woman to unwrap Roy as it is not in my nature to do so.

  “You know,” I say, “if you were to remain wrapped in clingfilm forever I estimate it could extend your lifespan by a thousand years.”

  “I will bear that in mind,” says Roy.

  And it wouldn’t do my health any harm either, I almost add!

  Roy in Clingfilm Story 5

  Where does reality end and dream begin? Who can tell. . .

  I sit before the television set absorbing the evening news with my terrapin Jetta.

  “Also,” says the news announcer, “tomorrow the famous conceptual artist Christo will visit Düsseldorf to wrap our statue of Prince Jan Wellem in a white sheet.”

  “How that man has wasted his life,” I say. “To be obsessed with wrapping things in white sheets! What could be more pitiful?”

  Jetta blinks slowly in agreement.

  The announcer continues: “The famous rock star Mr. Roy Orbison, that well-known man in black, will preside over the installation of the new artwork.”

  “And yet,” I say musingly, “who are we to judge? For which of us does not have his own private dreams he would like to act out? Even you, Jetta, in your secret terrapin heart may harbor dreams of wrapping certain things in other things. I believe I will attend Herr Christo’s performance after all.”

  Jetta merely blinks again. Is there a hint of warning there?

  Comes the morning, and various civic dignitaries and an interested crowd are gathered in the town square. Roy Orbison, laconic behind his trademark dark glasses, waits to unveil the statue of Jan Wellem so that Christo can then veil it again. I am at the forefront of the crowd with Jetta nestling in my coat and we have had a busy night. Little does anyone suspect what is about to befall.

  The crowd grows impatient for the time for the installation has passed some minutes since. Murmurs of discontent at the inefficiency are heard and the hoi pol
loi look pointedly at their watches.

  “I must speak to the mayor!” says a breathless flunkey.

  “He may do so,” says the mayor. “Let him approach me.”

  “I have to report that the conceptual artist known as Christo cannot be found! He has not been seen since the early hours of the morning when a man claiming to be delivering a terrapin visited his hotel room.”

  “Also!” The mayor is disconcerted. He eyes the unruly mob who are shuffling their feet and muttering slogans such as “Time waits for no man.”

  I cough diffidently and step forward. “Perhaps I may be allowed to take Christo’s place? I have some small experience with wrapping things.”

  “Capital!” says the mayor. “Do so.”

  “But,” says the flunkey, “the artist’s large white sheets cannot be found either.”

  “Ach! ” says the mayor. “This is a catalog of errors.”

  I cough again. “If you permit a suggestion. For sundry reasons I happen to have several rolls of clingfilm on my person. Perhaps they might suffice? Clingfilm is anyway a more appropriate material for a dynamic and modern city to wrap a statue in, is it not so?”

  “You are a prudent and resourceful fellow. You will commence.” The mayor takes the microphone. “I am pleased to announce that in place of the scheduled event Ulrich Haarbürste, a local man of commendable diligence, will now wrap our statue of Jan Wellem in clingfilm, a miracle substance befitting our dynamic city. Mr. Roy Orbison will now unveil the statue.”

  Roy starts to pull at a rope and then stops. “I think you should come see this, Mayor,” he says grimly.

  The dignitaries look behind the curtains and find that during the night the statue of Jan Wellem has been painted with various slogans denouncing the mayor. I whistle nonchalantly and pick a piece of lint off Jetta.

  “Unglaublich,” says the mayor. “This is a public relations disaster waiting to happen. The statue cannot be shown in such a condition.”

  “But the crowd!” says the aide. “If nothing is to be wrapped today they will tear us limb from limb.”

  “Then logically some substitute will have to be wrapped but I cannot think what.”