Jonas' Angel- Chapter 1

The late winter sunlight casts a thin glow over Marienplatz, the heart of Munich. Partial swathes of snow coat the mottled grey stone of the Rathaus like marzipan icing. The buildings cut crisp, clean outlines against the blinding horizon. The square fills gradually during the course of the morning, like sluice gates slowly easing open: first the serious-faced office workers with their wrists permanently twitching to their faces to check the time, then the tourists. Later there will be students, the girls linking arms and hunting bargains, the boys laughing and hunting girls. At eleven the Glockenspiel chimed as it always has and always will; the same slow sweet off-key songs which gently lift the mesmerised crowds and transport each one of them to a soft-edged secret place, a sanctuary, where life is simple and pure. Jonas has seen the whole process hundreds, possibly thousands of times before, and he no longer watches the gaily-painted dancers twirl under their garlands, nor the knights whose lances cross for Bavaria’s honour. Instead his gaze falls upon the people, individuals in the crowd- the spellbound three-year-old girl in a puffy pink jacket who sits on her father’s shoulders to see better, the teenaged boy who texts throughout, pulling faces suggesting this family holiday is a form of acute torture, the tourists who have been waiting half an hour for this, film the first minute on their expensive phones, then get bored and shuffle out of the crowd towards the shops. The side streets cradle many temptations. The scent of hot candied nuts tossed in deep vats of syrup glaze carries far in the cold air. The sugary layer melts on the tongue, oozing rich liquid flavour from an earthy core. Somewhere around the corner a band is playing a spirited rendition of ‘Flight of the Bumblebee’.

Jonas Knepp is of a medium height, and has reached that age where he appears to be all angles and bones and edges. He has large grey eyes which peer out anxiously from under a tangle of dusty blond hair. A scatter of sand-coloured freckles dance across a pale, easily-bruised canvas. But most days, Jonas Knepp does not look like Jonas Knepp- not between sunrise and sunset. He is a street performer, a busker- a living statue. He rises early each morning while the flat is still bathed in shadow, skirting nimbly and noiselessly around the obstacles of furniture, and pulls on baggy clothing- an old suit jacket of his father’s which almost skims his knees and has a pair of gloves bunched up in the pockets, his everyday boots which disappear under the cuffs of the loose trousers. The boots are very important for warmth in winter months and stability all year round- they provide a solid base. It is easy to begin swaying slightly when you grow tired, and he has learned the hard way that toppling off your pedestal does not make the best of impressions, though you can pretend it is part of the act. He claps his bowler hat onto his head, picks up his crate and roots around in the kitchen for something to hold the coins he hopes he’ll receive. Sometimes it’s a bowl, other times a lunchbox, or an old wooden jewellery box of his mother’s. It can’t be anything light enough to blow away, or anything enticing enough to tempt a small child into carrying it off.

After a few washes the silver spray paint on everything begins to wear off. Every couple of weeks he takes everything to his friend Klaus Reinthaler at the auto repair studio, who’ll tidy it up for him in return for a short performance for his little boy Franz, who is only two. Franz giggles and claps his pudgy hands in delighted astonishment when Jonas gravely inclines his head, winks, does a little jig.    

He tries not to let anyone see him set up- he wants it to appear as though this statue springs up out of nowhere each day and disappears again under the blanket of night. People, mostly parents, gaze at him for long moments, realising how young he is under the make-up, and wonder why he does it. Doing it for a bit of extra pocket money, they suppose, or maybe he’s a drama student hoping to be ‘discovered’. They don’t understand the pure joy he gets out making strangers smile and laugh. He has it down to a fine art; he knows how to suppress a sneeze, how to keep his mind active without drifting off and boring spectators, exactly how long to stand motionless- a split second before the viewer grows bored and is about to turn away- and how to move. A young lady, for example, may be offended by a mischievous wink, but a child will squeal and tug on their mother’s arm until they too turn around- by which time Jonas is still once more. Yet there’s something more. When he is a statue, he is an entirely different person- someone unfettered by the expectations of others, by the limitations of himself. He does not just put on his costume; he puts on his persona, his new fearless self, who serves to entertain and has not a care in the world.

Today he knows that he will not be alone. Shops and offices will close halfway through the day, and the people of Munich will tumble into the streets, a higgledy-piggledy raucous bunch smeared with face paint, sporting hats, headdresses, brightly-costumed. There will be cartoon characters, celebrities, polar bears, cowboys and beer bottles; television sets, gift-wrapped presents, fairies and cavemen- and probably even a few more statues. From the madcap students who have spent months designing and making their costumes to the begrudging boss who is coaxed into putting on a Viking helmet, everyone is taking part. It is Fasching- a festival of music and colour, an explosion of frivolity into the sedate town, warding off the lingering apathy of a dull winter with costumes, drinking and song. Already the doorways are beginning to fill with people, and more stream out from the station exits; a stage has been erected, there are banners suspended from lamp-posts and opportunists selling shopping trolleys full of bulging bags of confetti. Soon the square is packed full of people, all of them cheering and dancing and laughing in spite of the chill and the snow underfoot. A brass band blares. A new surge of revellers almost topples Jonas from his crate; he is jolted out of his statueness, he has lost his audience. Creatures are everywhere, a roiling mass of bodies; the coins he has earned scatter across the ground. Swept along the street, he cannot stoop to retrieve them; it is like swimming upstream. A little boy with a red clown nose begins to wail.

Fresh snow is falling swiftly, thick fresh flakes, cold against Jonas’ painted face; it is refreshing. Everything seems to be falling away- the din, the colour, the sensation of a wall of bodies shoving against his own. His mind is growing dim, his body a mere suggestion of existence. Confused, he stays statue-still, rooted to the spot.

A woman dressed as an angel is weaving her way seemingly effortlessly through the costumed masses. She is not tall, yet she glides as gracefully as if everyone around her is made of paper. People slide around her subconsciously, as though she is protected by some strange force field, paying her little heed. Her long white gown, so white it puts the snow to shame, sways above the ground like the crest of a wave. Curved ivory wings arc smoothly from her back, the tips almost touching. Suddenly she is gone from sight- has she fallen? No- Jonas can see her bright copper-blonde hair, cascading in waves over her wings, tumbling to hide her face as she stoops to the ground. Wonder fills him. She is going to help him.

A slender white hand reaches for his own, cool and impossibly soft, gently folding his fingers over the coins. They are cold and hard and he revives, his concentration returning, the chaos flooding his senses once more.

“Vielen Dank,” he murmurs, but she is already gone, lost in the crowd, submerged in a bright sea of masks and fur and feathers, and he has not even seen her face. An angry man shoves him. “Hey, kid, watch yourself!” Startled, he stumbles, manages to burrow his way out. He stands on the sidelines, picking confetti out of his silver hair, and thinking.

Who was that? Why did she help him? And why- he hesitates to think it, but it is true- does he feel this strange connection to her? It is as if he can feel her slipping further and further away from him, tugging an invisible thread which grows longer and longer. For no reason he can explain, urgency wells up within him, spilling over, akin to panic. She could be from Munich, living a few streets away, or she could have come from the other side of the world. He has no way of knowing, and he does not know where she went. The enormity of the task before him is immense, but he knows he has no choice. With a firm, decisive motion, he tugs his hat onto his head. He does not notice the small dove-white feather tumbling from its brim and landing at his feet.

The clock strikes one.