Vignette:Dreams of More
Dreams of More
- Kobakati, Kingdom of Siwi Kondre
September 10th, 1945
ven a man like Wilhelm Laurin “Willy” Schwarz knows he can be a bit eccentric.
Does he joke around far too much for a man rapidly nearing his seventies, when he should be donning the mask of anger for what his generation had lost? Perhaps, but putting a smile on someone’s face never hurt anyone. It’s a miracle he’s even got this far, from scraping by in university to being brothers by oath with the younger Eckhert in the sea of chaos that swept across his world in 1925.
Looking back, they were quite a good fit. He dreamt, and Paulus created. His midnight ramblings, fueled by caffeine, gave Paulus new concepts to consider. In return, Paulus gave his ideas structure and a place in the world for them to scrutinize and improve. Their factory, however small it was, compared to the others that had resettled in Lower Alva, was vibrant and forward-thinking in a sea of despair. They were tough times, but he’s proud to call that period his most productive.
Paulus fell ill one Sunday in 1939; he was as old as he is now. Not long after, his daughter and ex-wife were by his bedside; the doctors placed the blame for his rapidly declining health on metastasized lung cancer, going as far as implicating his “excessive” smoking habits as the primary actor. Not wanting to disturb the family, he kept his mouth shut and eyes slightly glazed. He thought it was bullshit; the most likely reason was that his communist brother had probably ordered his death.
"Fucking communists," he mutters. Only the ocean tides hear him.
As much as he would have liked to carry out his revenge, his new home had other plans. They may have shared the same goal, but by the Messiah, they were stupid about getting to it. Six years of running Eckhert-Schwarz alone had sapped all the joy out of his work, and when those bastards in that gangly fuck Arendt’s circle announced nationalizations of “military-adjacent industries” they were going to stamp the innovation out too. It didn’t help that he’d gained a new interest (or as his detractors would call it, an obsession) in Eckhert’s older naval aviation projects, the ones he and his older brother had been forced to abandon during the war for more conventional, resource-efficient works.
Alva was looking south, away from the high seas, and Willy was dead set on looking anywhere else but south.
At first, he considered Sungkou; through letters, he found a suitable location on the outskirts of Neumichelen, in the eastern half of the state. On one summer day last year, SiPo agents had charged into his factory, raided his office, accused him of selling state secrets, and used those letters as evidence. For fuck’s sake, he was trying to expand the business; would it have hurt to choose a location where they spoke the same damn language as him? (Yes, his crooked nose reminds him.) He’d gotten off scot-free thanks to some strings pulled, but the black cars that now found themselves surrounding his factory and home gave him the distinct impression that he wasn’t welcome anymore.
Funnily enough, all he had to do was look just a bit more south of Sungkou.
Siwi, he thinks, isn’t too dissimilar to Alva. It’s still too damn hot for his liking, the infrastructure is of similar disrepute (and disrepair), and he can’t speak the local language either. His (admittedly very visually appetizing) interpreter, an Ovancian exile of noble birth going by Gabriel de Montjoie, is of immense help to him in this equally foreign land. There’s plenty of space here; the port town of Kobakati needs some modern local industry that isn’t fisheries or pearling, and he’s got the capital to establish a factory complex with some Marks to spare. He chuffs, remembering the exchange rate; he’ll still have plenty for himself afterwards.
He takes one last drag of his cigar, blowing the smoke into the frigid southern sea.
From where he stands at the edge of the dock, he has to look back at the small town. It’s a nice place; he could get used to the cuisine, and the men here are devoted to their work (even if it’s archaic, unrefined work). The seas here are calm, and perhaps he could take up painting in his spare time should this new venture be successful. There wasn’t much nature to paint in Neuamden, but Kobakati could be the start of something different.
“...were you listening to anything I said?”
“Nope.”
Gabriel is speechless; his cheeks flare a hot red. “You Goets…”
“Just me, I’m afraid.” A smirk spreads across his face.
Gabriel doesn’t bother to look. “Let’s go back; the contract’s ready to be signed.”
“Lead the way, darling.” He flashes a toothy grin and gets a disappointed sigh in response.
"So anyways, this radio project you've got going on is..." Almost immediately, he lets the sound of the waves wash over Gabriel's warbly voice.
Paulus might have died in Alva, but perhaps his dreams could be revived here.