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This story is 100% fictional and is by no means depictive of the life of any person, place or thing. Any resemblances to actual people (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or place are entirely coincidental.
Comments are welcomed and would be very much appreciated.
Asterisk (*) will be used to describe past events, dreams or thoughts.
- Summary:
Nikolas Dietrich is a successful lawyer from Berlin and leads a seemingly perfect life: he lives in a luxurious apartment, dates a hot guy and can have anything he wants. But every night he is tormented by a nightmare that leads him to a past life, making him witness the death of a young man that he promised to love forever.
Everything changes when he travels to a small town and meets a man, he believes is the same person from his dream. But, to his suprise, the man runs away, terrified when he sees Nikolas.
Now Nikolas must find out who this man is and what is the connection between them.
...... oOo ......
Chapter 01
** Over his body, only a thick linen gown, loose, poorly stitched and dirty. A hole to stick his head through. Bare feet. Short curly brown hair. Caramel skin. On his wrists, hands and ankles, the marks of torture. Wounds on his feet. Shackles and iron chains bound his wrists and ankles. He doesn't look more than twenty years old.
The eyes. That what catches my attention the most. The brightness of the eyes. Dark brown. Surprisingly, they are alive, as if illuminated by an inner light. Looking down at his executioners.
Despite his condition as a prisoner, he seems superior to everything and everyone. Contempt is evident in his eyes. They show a certainty and obstinacy that mesmerize me.
With his head held high, he defies the people who are there. There's a hidden truth behind that look. The crowd that formed to see the great spectacle is agitated. Men, women and children, filthy and ragged. They are talking at the same time. Young boys are throwing stones at the prisoner. The sound of the voices goes up and down, like waves. I manage to catch a few words. It's a strange language, which, to my surprise, I can understand it.
Thus I discover that the young man's mother was accused of being a witch and sleeping with the devil. The mother was killed and now the young man, who people believe to be the child of the devil due to his skin colour, was condemned to be burned alive.
With difficulty, the soldiers contain a small group of people. Among them, a girl. Blonde hair, slightly curly. A little younger than the prisoner. Face wet with tears. Muscles tensed, like those of a beast about to attack.
I pay more attention to the conversations around me. To the language. It is German, but not the one spoken nowadays. What I hear now is truncated, with guttural sounds that seems to scrape the roof of the mouth. Maybe it's a dialect.
I become aware of myself. It's me, but at the same time it isn't. I look at my hands. Big and rough, resting on a heavy, rustic black velvet suit. They are my hands, but they aren't at the same time! My fingers are long. Those are thick, battered. I never wear rings or any type of jewelry besides a watch (if that is considered a jewelry). On those fingers however, there are many. One of them catches my attention: it has a gigantic ruby, surrounded by crystals, encrusted in gold.
Next to me, on a silver throne, sits a woman in black, covered with beautifully crafted jewelry. Gold earrings and precious stones. Her black hair, pulled back, gives her a haughty appearance. Thin lips, pale skin and rosy cheeks. I can't help noticing how beautiful she is. I stare at her. She gives me a smile of satisfaction. Of victory.
Where am I? It's the courtyard of a stone castle. Our seats have been placed on a wooden structure. At the top, the throne where I am with the woman. The crowd is standing on either side of the courtyard.
The pile of wood in front of us is ready to be set on fire. The court and the priests are ready to watch the execution.
My throat hurts. I feel suffocated. I want to scream, but the scream is stuck in my throat. I want to move, but I feel paralyzed. A wave of helplessness washes over me. I can't bear to watch what's about to happen.
I want to understand who I am, why I am here. My face, what does it look like? There's no mirror to see my own features. I look at my clothes. I'm wearing a purple tunic over the black suit. On my feet, leather boots.
A loud noise from the crowd brings me out of my reverie. The prisoner was pushed by one of the soldiers with the intention of making him fall, but he stood upright. He walks, still with his head held high.
I feel an urge to get up and face the soldiers. To save the young man and take him somewhere far away. But I don't move. I watch him walking haughtily towards the wooden pole to which he is to be tied up. There, he will be burned alive.
To my horror, I remain motionless. My heart seems to want to jump out of my chest. Even so, I stay seated. Ashamed of myself. Of my cowardice. I'm sure that it will be impossible to face the soldiers surrounding him.
I feel the black-haired woman's gaze on me. She lifts her chin in satisfaction. She approves the execution. More than that, she looks triumphant. Several members of the court look at me with respect.
My eyes are fixed on the prisoner, watching his determined gait and his penetrating gaze. Suddenly the truth hits me like a bolt of lightning.
I love him!
Yes, that's it!
I want to hold him. Kiss him. Take him away from there, save him from his tormentors, and maybe admire the moon and the stars together, as lovers do. In the deepest silence, just letting myself being enveloped by the pleasure of his presence.
It's just a wish, a quick daydream that passes through me like the wind. I become aware of reality again. I feel weak, drowned in my own fear, in cowardice. And so I remain silent.
I lower my eyes. I cannot look at him without a great shame invading me. I see the dry, scorched ground. The sun is shining brightly. It's hot. Too hot. My clothes feel heavy on me. It hasn't rained for two years. The vines have dried up. The earth is not producing anymore. The animals are dying and people are starving. Witches are killed to obtain God's grace. Restore order to the world and bring back rain and prosperity.
Someone shouts. The blonde girl wants to throw herself on the soldiers. Her companions stop her. If she tries to free the man, she will die too.
The prisoner climbs the steps that leads to the top of the wooden structure. Two soldiers remove the shackles from his wrists and ankles. Only to then tie him up with ropes to the wooden pole. They leave him there, alone on the dry wood. The executioner holds up the torch, ready to set the wood on fire.
I feel a thud in my heart. In a few moments it'll be too late. Desperation makes me overcome cowardice. I try to get up but the hand of the captain of the guard rests firmly on my shoulder, preventing any movement.
The blood throbs in my head. I bend down to cover my tears. But only for a few seconds. I feel the prisoner's gaze locked on me, as solid as a person's touch. He's staring at me. His face, unmoving. The expression of one who condemns. Our eyes meet.
"Goodbye," I whisper "I'm sorry." My vision looks blurred now. I fight the tears not to fall. I can't cry, not when his eyes are dry.
A soldier plays a thin, cutting-sounding wind instrument. The executioner lowers the torch. People shout in ecstasy. The torch ignites the first pieces of dry wood. They easily catch on fire and burn.
The prisoner avert his eyes to the blonde girl, who is crying. He almost smiles at her, despite the rapidly rising flames. Painfully, I realize that he already feels the abrasive heat of the smoke invading his nostrils.
And again he turns his head towards me. Eyes intense, but strangely still. The flames rise up. Soon they reach his clothes and quickly his body becomes a torch. But his eyes! Ah, they are still fixed on me!
In the last moments, before his face disappears among the redness of the fire, his eyes become sad as he whispers a few words. It's impossible to decipher them. I can barely see his lips, but I'm sure, they are addressed to me.
In agony I watch the fire devouring his legs, his arms, his head. Putting an end to his life.
I look at the crowd cheering and right there I make a promise in my heart. Word for word, inscribed in my soul.
"I will love you forever!" **
I wake up with a start and feel a terrible anguishing feeling. Again, the same dream! Clear and detailed images. The face of the young man being burned alive has already become familiar to me. I would be able to recognize him, if he was real and not just a character that frequents my dreams.
Of course, it's only a dream. A fantasy that populates my mind. It's impossible to understand why that dream full of suffering routinely invades my nights if my life is going so well.
Since I was a child my dreams were agitated. I would wake up screaming words in an unknown German dialect. Falling asleep after it wasn't an easy task. I was afraid of closing my eyes and returning to a terrifying world. But the dreams back then must have been different, I imagine, because I can't remember what they were like. Now I've been having the same dream, which repeats with a frightening frequency. As if there's an urgent message I should take note of.
Useless to try falling asleep again. I get out of the bed. My body aches. All the tension I experienced in the dream is now stuck in my muscles. Not only that, I feel a terrible urge to cry. It's strange because I don't cry.
As a young boy I was taught that men don't cry. Crying is for women. It symbolises weakness. I was taught to hide my emotions. They were my secret! I grew older and mastered the ability to never show them. I learned to control them. Faking a smile and pretending that everything is fine is a piece of cake now. I can't bear to show signs of weakness.
I look at the alarm-clock on the nightstand. It's four in the morning. I go straight to the shower. Yes, a long shower will make me feel better again. And at peace. Warm water always calms me down. I let the pain caused by the dream being draining away by the water. Then I rush to dry myself.
As I look myself in the mirror I see a twenty nine years old man, 6'1 tall, with short blond hair, hazel eyes and a lean body. The dark circles around the eyes are becoming more and more visible due to the sleepless nights.
There must be some reason why I have the same dream so often, I think as I wear a pair of grey sweatpants and go to the balcony. The sky is still dark. The streetlights are still on. I glance at the buildings in front of me. They are pitch black. Surely nobody is suffering from insomnia. Nor did they have nightmares. Or recurring dreams.
It's so weird to me because my life has never been as comfortable as it is at that moment. I wasn't born rich, but my family didn't have to struggle with the basic things. Of course we couldn't afford certain luxuries, like going on trips on vacations, getting certain things that we wanted or eat a big nice goose on Christmas, or even sometimes throw a birthday party, but we also didn't starve.
Our house wasn't big either. Two bedrooms, a small kitchen, a living room and a bathroom that you couldn't use it more than 5 minutes or else you would have someone knocking on the door and telling you to hurry up.
I didn't enjoy living like that. I wanted to be able to afford anything I lay my eyes on. And now I have everything I asked for, but somehow it still feels like it's not enough. As if there's something missing.
I sit in an armchair on the balcony and I inhale the cold air. My eyes are fixed on the silhouettes of the buildings and wonder how many stories would there be in each of those buildings?
I stay on the balcony for the rest of the night. The landscape framed by the gigantic buildings of the city calm me down. I fall asleep some time later, right there, without even realizing it. When I wake up, for a moment I don't know where I am. I almost scream, afraid of having the same dream again, of being trapped for eternity in its webs. In a body and a time I don't know.
The sun is already rising, weak and warm. I can see it between two buildings. A sense of relief come over me. It makes me feel better to realize that I live in Berlin in the 21st century. I never felt so happy hearing the traffic noises.
I need to talk to someone about the dream, I think. I know very well that I should have already sought specialized help a long time ago. But the idea scares me. Making an appointment with a therapist? What if the diagnosis is some mental illness? I read somewhere that confusing dream with reality is a symptom of dementia or oneirophrenia. I prefer to believe that I don't have any of these. Am I going crazy? I think, laughing at myself. Then I reaffirm, No, no! I'm not crazy or have any type of mental illness. Still, I'm scared of talking about it. Not just with a therapist, but with anyone.
In the dream, everything feels so real. As real as me being alive, sitting there on my balcony. How to talk about this feeling? What will people think if they hear me talking about it? I'm a lawyer, I work with reality. My office is hired by big companies. What will a client say? Or my partners, if they know that the emotions I have in my dreams are often brought out to life when I'm awake? More than that, what will they think if I reveal that the young man being burned alive is as real to me as any other person in real life? Yes, I know he doesn't exist. It's impossible. But I feel like meeting him. To talk to him. Above all, to prevent him from being executed. It's a desire without logic.
How to bring to the real world someone who exists only in a dream? Rationally, I know it's impossible. Even so, when I think of him, I feel a strange emotion. An immense desire to know who he is and why he had such cruel death.
The day finally clears up. I get up slowly from the armchair, as if there's a weight on my shoulders. I lean on the balcony railing and look at the tree-lined street. I couldn't live in a better place! A quiet neighbourhood in the best part of Berlin. The centenary trees sheltered birds of many species.
A new day is beginning and I'm still stuck in the dream that took me back to the past, to the brutality that populated my night.
I leave the balcony and go to the kitchen, open to the dining and living room. I live alone, in a spacious apartment, originally with four bedrooms. When I bought it I wanted the architect to break all the walls. I was left with a big living room, a bedroom and an office, now decorated with contemporary furniture. Dark sofas, dark tables, dark chairs, everything so dark that I find it unimaginative. But it was all chosen by a very famous interior designer, and I trusted her taste. Only a few colourful paintings, which she also chose. Sometimes I feel like I'm living inside a showroom. An apartment with no identity. No portraits, personal objects or travel souvenirs.
When I first saw the apartment decoration, I was pleased, but now, looking at it, I miss human warmth. I miss my family.
Living with my mother was always difficult. She kept her emotions hidden inside her heart. As she taught me to do. She didn't cry when my father passed away and she force us not to cry either. The look she gave me was always hard. Without affection.
I always thought that maybe because we didn't have too much money, she was strict with me. Maybe she wanted me to be someone in life. And I couldn't get soft. "Men don't cry, Nikolas!" She would constantly say to me.
The desire to show her that I was capable of doing anything, followed me throughout my childhood and adolescence. Like a needle stuck in my skin. There, in sight, not letting me forget for a moment that, if I succeed in life, I would have the affection I so longed for. I would have my mother's love.
I studied hard. Got a job at a law firm and worked even harder to build my career and reputation. When I started making good money, I wanted everyone to see my success. I wished to be recognised by others. Most of all I wanted my mother to see what I had achieved. I was a winner and I wanted her to see that. To be proud of me and give me the love I always wished for. The love she gave my sister, but not me.
But it seems that everything I have done so far is still not enough. Nowadays we don't even talk. Whenever I go to visit her, she locks herself in her room and refuses to see me. I can only talk with my sister. I get news from our mother through her.
Many times I wonder if it's because of my sexuality she doesn't like me. When I told her I'm gay, she didn't react. In fact, she didn't say anything. Just continued on preparing dinner. Same thing happened when I would take a boyfriend home. Her behaviour only changed when I started dating Marco. When I introduced her to him, she didn't even wanted to stay in the same room as him. She looked as if she was in the presence of a beast and any brisked movement from her, the beast would attack.
It was weird, really.
Standing there in the kitchen, entertained with these thoughts, I quickly make breakfast and eat it. I go back to the bedroom and put in my briefcase the copies of a file I took to study at home. I wear a black suit and leave the apartment when it's half past six. A little bit too early, but that way I won't get stuck in the traffic.
As I took the elevator to the parking garage, the dream come back to my memory. So does the intensity of my emotions. I reflect how my reaction to the dream is incomprehensible. Why does it move me so much? It doesn't make sense. Once again, I repeate to myself, "It's just dream. I've never seen that man before. I don't speak some weird German. And most importantly, I never made such a stupid love promise."
Love? I never loved anyone. Nor fell in love. When I hear people talking about love, I don't understand all the enthusiasm with which they refer to this feeling. Maybe love doesn't even exist. Maybe it's pure imagination. Then how could one speak of eternal love?
It's impossible to understand that dream. Yes, impossible. There has to be some deeper explanation. Psychological maybe. It's now a question of getting the courage and to seek for a therapist. I need a good night's sleep. Something I don't have for a long time. "I'll look for a therapist as soon as I get a break from the office," I decide.
I get into my car and go to work. The car traffic is calm at that hour of the morning. The weather is cold. I stop by the office, pick up some documents and leave. I scheduled a meeting with the directors of a company on the other side of city.
I don't return to the office until afternoon. And as soon as I step out of the elevator, my secretary, come running in my direction, "Mr. Dietrich, good morning. I'm glad you're here. Mr. Tim Wöffen has called several times. He said he needs to talk to you urgently. He called your mobile phone, but it went to voicemail."
"I turned it off for the meeting..."
This is another thing that is also becoming a habit. Turning off the phone and forgetting to turn it on again. What is happening to me? My phone is one of my working tools! Ah, the dream is really taking my concentration away.
I grab the phone from my jacket pocket and turn it on. Tim called me several times. That doesn't surprise me. He has always been like this when he wants something. "Did he say what it was about?" I ask.
"No, sir."
Tim is my best friend. The closest. I met him in university. We studied together for the first two years. At the end of the fourth semester, he just dropped out. For no important reason. He thought he'd make more money if he invested in a big business. Which one? I don't even remember anymore.
In the last few years Tim has moved from business to business as if changing shoes, always looking for the big opportunity to get rich. He's restless, unable to resign himself to routine. He lives immersed with dreams of achieving greatness.
Impulsiveness follows him in almost everything. If he gets a job, he quits a few months later. He says it's because he feels like he isn't being valued. Or because he thinks he has found another and much better job.
Tim doesn't have the slightest idea how to make money and keep it. That's the truth. The few times he got a deal right, he spent the profit quickly on shopping, travelling and other luxuries.
After dropping out of university, he got into a series of ventures - selling cars, producing organic vegetables, organising events - and even tried to become a pop singer. Each time, he would say: "Now I'm on the right track! I'm going to make some money!"
I'm always amazed at how easy it's for him to get partners for his crazy ideas. I'm even more amazed at how quickly the same ideas fall apart.
When we met, we soon became friends. We were very different from each other. Water and oil, as they say. Son of a middle-class family, Tim had no financial problems, he didn't need to work. He was just studying. He would give me his expensive books and also invite me out to eat, when he noticed that my money was tight. I almost always accepted his invitations and to this day I'm grateful for the good meals. But it wasn't only that. Tim accepted me when I told him about my sexuality. He treated me no differently.
It didn't take long for his parents cut him off. Telling him that he needed to make his own money, create a life for himself. They did that in hopes that he would go back to university or a find a fixed job. However Tim was always with his head in the clouds, dreaming of the fortune that would come with the dawn.
But, as the saying goes, money doesn't take kindness. As time went by, my friend's financial situation got worse. Unlike mine, which improved a lot. The situation was reversed. Now I was the one in a position to help him. I just refused to become a partner in his business. It would be the fastest way to lose the friendship that was so important for both of us. Whenever I could, I tried to talk some sense into him.
A few years ago I became a partner in a big law firm and started making money. Even so, I decided to do the same as Tim's parents and avoided giving him money in hopes that, driven by need, he would dedicate himself to a more solid project. But as time went by, I began to help him with small amounts of money to prevent him from losing his house.
He also used to fall in love easily. So much so that when he introduced me a new girlfriend, claiming to be the great love of his life, I would joke by saying, "Let's wait for the next one."
He would look at me funny. I knew that the following week he would be there with someone new. So it was really a surprise when I saw that his relationship with Julia lasted more than three months. And then six. And then two years. It was even more shocking when he invited me to be the best man at his wedding.
When I met Julia, I noticed an immense serenity in her gestures, in her way of smiling. In her green eyes. But there was also an incredible firmness in her voice. Of someone who knew what she wanted. Maybe she could talk some sense into Tim. Make my friend a sensible man.
But apparently, not even love could make him change. He persuaded his wife, albeit with difficulty, to quit her teaching job. "Her salary is too low. It's not worth it," he justified.
Indeed, Julia didn't earn well, but that was the couple's only source of steady income. When Tim's business once again went wrong, he and Julia were left completely penniless. Their daughter, Emilie, was born during that time.
Julia went through a very complicated pregnancy and gave birth too early. Emilie had a brain injury. She needed intense medical care. I would never abandon my friend at that time. I helped the family a lot. Julia wanted to go back to teaching, but her daughter demanded total dedication.
Tim kept trying new businesses. From time to time I would "lend" him some money. "Lending" is a polite way of saying "giving". I knew that the money would never be returned. But my professional life was getting better and better, so it didn't really matter. Not only that. Emilie needed medical care and I would never let her suffer because of her father's lack of sense.
Tim swears that any day now he will make a big deal. He will be a millionaire. He even promises me, "I'll even give you a beach house! And make up for all the help you've been giving me."
On those occasions, Julia and I just look at each other in a disguised way. What can I do if Tim is daydreaming? At heart, he's like a brother to me. That's how I see myself: like the caring brother of a brainless man.
I shake my head. If he's calling me so insistently, he must have a good reason. "He needs money. A new 'loan'. Probably for rent, or Emilie's school?"
I call him. He answers on the first ring. "Nik! How nice! I've been dying to talk to you!" I'm about to ask, 'How much do you need?' but he cuts me off. "You'll never guess what happened."
"How about you telling me?" I ask, half ironically, half smiling.
I enter my office and put the folder on the table. I sat down on the comfortable leather chair and open my laptop. When Tim tells a story, he sticks to the details. So it will be a long call. I begin to sort the papers on my desk into piles, according to urgency. But this time Tim is direct and objective. "I received an inheritance."
"What do you mean, an inheritance?" I ask, surprised. In fact, so surprised that my hand remain paralyzed on the papers I'm sorting.
"From an uncle, my mother's brother."
"I didn't even know you had an uncle, Tim." And I thought I know him well! What else is there in my friend's life that I don't know?
"I didn't know him. All I know is that his name was Philipp. He was much older than my mother. He ran away with the circus when he was 16."
I couldn't resist to make a joke, "Now I know who you took after."
He feels offended, as if I said something absurd. As if he isn't like his uncle, capable of dropping everything and running away with a circus. "Don't joke, Nik, I'm serious."
"Okay, then explain this inheritance story to me," I try to sound as serious as I can.
"I don't know much either..." And so he begins his long story: his uncle dreamed of the world outside the city where he lived in. One day, a circus came to town. The boy was charmed. He made friends there and left with them, against everyone's will. But sometimes he would come back to visit his parents and sister. The last time Tim's mother saw her brother, Tim was still in university. "Every once in a while, he would send a postcard. And my mother would write him letters. She even sent him a picture of me because she thought I looked like him. And that was all. After that we never heard of him again." He concluded.
"In this modern times, with the internet, how can anyone live without news from their family? Especially a brother?"
"Nik, you know my parents. They never learned how to use a computer. My uncle ran away from home without finishing his studies. He lived in a circus for god's sake. My mother knows this from his letters. I doubt he even used the Internet for anything."
"What was he? A magician? A clown?" I want to know.
"I haven't the faintest idea. From time to time my mother spoke of her brother's adventurous spirit. It was funny, because I wanted to meet him. To me, he was a fearless hero!" says Tim.
I'm impressed by the way he speaks, charmed by his uncle. After all, we've been friends for a long time and he never said anything about this uncle. It's a weird story really. Why would someone leave an inheritance to a nephew they only knew through pictures? On the other hand, as a lawyer, I learned that people don't always act as we expect. Especially when it comes to inheritances.
Sometimes a will can reveal a pleasant surprise for the whole family, but other times, the beginning of a war where family relationships are destroyed over a silver cutlery set.
"What did you inherit? Don't say it was a circus." I can already see Tim hanging from a trapeze. "No, no! Tim, do you intend to run a circus? I won't let you go out into the world with a wife and daughter. You don't want Emilie to live in a circus."
Tim remains silent. He stays that way for so long that, if it isn't for the background noise, I would've thought he hung up the phone. "Nik, why do you always think the worst of me?"
"Should I list you the reasons?" I retort, smiling.
"I have more sense than you think."
I sigh. People often have a much better idea of themselves than the reality. That's the case with Tim. Despite everything going wrong in his business adventures, he considers himself a shrewd entrepreneur, only a victim of life's injustices. "Just answer me one thing: did you inherit a circus and do you intend to go out into the world, Tim?" I insist.
"It's not a circus, don't worry. It's a farm."
"A farm?" I almost fall off my chair. I loosen my tie. Could Tim's dream fortune have fallen from the sky? Or rather, from a circus?
"Yeah. I got a notice. Luckily my parents haven't moved since my uncle last showed up in town, so it was easy to find me. My uncle had their address."
"Details, details!" I ask, wanting to know more about this surprising news.
"As I understand it, the farm is in a small town called Wolkenberg."
I never heard about it. Quickly I google the name, but there is barely anything about it. "Do you know where is it?"
"Yes, it's quite close to Berlin, you know. I'll send you the coordinates on WhatsApp. It's not more than two hours by car from here. Imagine me having a farm! What a luck, Nik!"
"Do you know what's on this farm?" I ask, trying to make my friend put his feet on the ground.
"I'm as curious as you are. I have no idea. But, you know, even though my uncle left the farm to me, I'll have to do the paperwork. I don't know anyone in that town. Let alone a lawyer. I need you to help me."
I don't hesitate, "You know you can count on me, Tim. I'll take care of everything for you. My office is at your disposal." I feel tremendously happy for him. A farm! It could be the solution to his life. The stroke of luck he'd always hoped for. "I'll send one of our lawyers there. He'll take care of everything."
There is a pause. His tone of voice changes, "Nikolas, I'd like you to represent me."
"Tim, handling a will is hard work, but not difficult. I'll send one of my lawyers. They are all reliable, rest assured," I insist.
"Not quite. It seems that someone is contesting the will. The person has not yet filed a lawsuit, but I have been informed that they will."
"Who is it?"
"A young man."
That was too easy! I think. "His child? If he proves that he's your uncle's son, it'll be difficult for you. The will can be considered invalid and this guy get the farm."
"I know. And I don't think my uncle had any children. But this guy must have some reason to contest the will, right?" Tim lets out a deep sigh. "Listen Nikolas, I really need your help." For the first time in his life, Tim doesn't seem so optimistic. There's anguish in his voice, "This could be the great opportunity of my life. You always say that I'm too old to be chasing adventures." I remain silent. He pauses for a moment. When he sees that I'm not going to say anything, he continues, now in a lamenting tone, something I've never seen Tim do, "I've never had a steady job, nor would get one now being 30 years old. They tell me I'm too old, and don't have a degree or experience in anything specific. You know how it is. All my businesses have fallen through. This farm could be the solution to my life, Nikolas. It could be the end of my problems."
It isn't just me. Tim is different. He seems to have understood that it isn't possible to live life as if it's an eternal adventure, without responsibilities or plans for the next day. And he's right. The job market is cruel to people that aren't on their twenties anymore. Especially with no previous experience.
My friend won't lose the farm. Never! Whoever is contesting the will, I will make them lose their case. I won't fail Tim. "Don't worry Tim, I'm going with you. Stay calm. Now tell me everything that you know, even if it's only a little."
"I called the lawyer who's handling my uncle's affairs. Mr... Olaf Reiter. He's very laconic. Only said what I already told you. But I'm going there later today..."
We talk some more and plan the trip to Wolkenberg. Tim and his family are going today and I'll meet them tomorrow. I need at least one day to inform my partners and get everything organized in the office. I'm sure I can help Tim. I have experience, knowledge and good reputation. I've worked on much more difficult cases than this one and I've always succeeded.
With the experience I have, this man won't have the slightest chance, I think as plan the last details with Tim. "Tomorrow morning I'm going there. The best thing is to talk to this Mr. Reiter and get to know the situation. Do they have a hotel in the town? If so, can you book a room for me aswell?"
"Actually, I'm not staying in a hotel. Looks like I can stay at the farm."
"Already?"
"That's what I understood. Mr. Reiter has the keys to the main house, he said I could stay in the farm. He even insisted. He seemed to want to give me the keys right away"
Something is wrong in that story, I'm sure. If the will is being contested, with the risk of a lawsuit, why would the lawyer give Tim the keys? "Did you really get the impression that he was anxious for you to stay in the farm?" I ask.
"I did. I was even shocked, you know. But since he's going to hand me the keys, I'm staying there. Then no one can take me away," insists Tim, now turning back into his old self.
"Careful, Tim. It's not like that. If you lose the case, you'll be forced to leave the property." I warn him. I'm ready to give myself, body and soul, to this case. But it's good not to let Tim thinking that everything will be easy. Otherwise his head will be in the clouds, as always.
"Sometimes it's better to be radical. With me living on the farm, everything will be more difficult for this man who is contesting the will."
I already know Tim well enough to know that it will be useless to argue for hours. He won't change his mind. I can only hope that nothing goes wrong again. I still try to advise him, "This lawyer's attitude is suspicious, Tim."
"Nik, we'll talk tomorrow."
I give up. If I want to help him, I have to guarantee his rights over the farm. Advices are useless.
We agree I'll call him when I get to Wolkenberg. "You'd better tell the lawyer that I'll be arriving tomorrow."
Mentally, I decide that it will be better to bring a suitcase with clothes for several days. I don't know what awaits me. The only thing I'm sure of is that I have to help Tim.
I hang up the phone, apprehensive. My sixth sense insists in telling me that something isn't right in this story. But one thing I'm sure, this trip will change my life forever!