Wasnât there a song about that?  âWhat will happen, will happen.â Something like that, but Emre didnât ask because he was used to the disparity of ages and eras on Meridium by now. Instead, he teased,  âIs all Germans as wise as you, bruv?â
Wenzelâs joke made Emre give a burst of a laugh, and he leaned back as if squinting to imagine Wenzel in tiny, lacy blue underclothes.  âBruv, you donât know modern audiences. You play a violin totted up in girlâs knickers, and people will call it art. Honestly - even on the island! Everyoneâs soâŠbloody open here. Right - but first weâve got to find you a violin, though. Havenât seen any around, soz. Seems instruments is harder to come by than most. Most people didnât drown with their flutes and like, Iâd wager. Pity that. Iâm learning all sorts of people got that talent innit.â
Wenzelâs mother wanted to call him âCarlâ. But it was the context in which Wenzel said it -considering they were talking about Nick and Mik Nick. If Wenzel was named Carl, then the joke was thatâŠhe wouldâve been with other men named Carl. Given Emreâs massive ignorance on the subject (despite Iyaz patiently trying to educate his brother; Iyaz had a lot to cover and Emre wasnât a kind or comfortable student), it was strange to think people from older eras could live gay lives, once upon a time. Still, Emre was trying to be understanding now. Of course he was, all things considered. So he tentatively asked,  âIs Carl a girlâs name too, in Germany?â
He snorted about his own name.  âNo. But loads of English girls is named âEmmaâ innit. Shortened to âEmâ or âEmmyâ. And people back home called me the same. Had fun with it with one Emmy, until she got all weird and racist about it,â Emre said this, but he was amused at the recollection.  âLearned that night I didnât have a kink in that certain manner.â He didnât know why he enjoyed chatting (mildly) racy stories with Wenzel. Maybe it was the reputation of Germans, at least in Emreâs time. Maybe because it was a fun, relaxing game to find ways to tease and scandalize timid little Wenzel. Maybe it was just nice to belay his exhaustion, just for a little while longer whilst he escorted Wenzel about.Â
He smirked then.  âI reckon youâve got stories of your own innit. Wild One Wenzel?â
Once they were outside, people about, Emre casually released Wenzelâs hand. He sauntered slowly, figuring Wenzel needed to take in all the sights heâd lost for the past couple-odd years.  âFarmâs more built up than you probably remember innit,â Emre commented, watching Wenzelâs reaction. Hoping to see something good.
âDunno who lived in the house before, youâd probably remember. But we - I took it, and made some improvements innit. Proper luxury now - suited to a big-time banker.â Emre paused them at the end of the cresent of houses on the edge of the farm. He pointed at the small hut.  âDonât look impressive now, but. Come along. Thatâs the doctorâs hut, by the way,â Emre pointed to his left, a few paces away. The âdoctorâs officeâ that Emre had created for Iyaz originally. Now Nesh and Hazel inhabited it mostly, as well as Tomas.Â
âSome porch chairs for sitting out.â Emre hopped up the short flight of stairs, taking Wenzel into the house. His eyes momentarily blurred. The temptation to scream and thrash, destroy everything heâd abandoned. It clawed up his throat, and Emre forcibly swallowed it down. He didnât want to be here. He hated it here. He hated the reminder of how stupid he was, in so many ways, in this little hut. Delusion and false complacency stained the walls.
âBed with mosquito net in the privacy area, and down to the left youâve got the semi-outside kitchen, fully equipped with a coldbox and chulha - a stove - and everything. Shelves and good shutters on the windows. Table, chairs. Loads of space on the inside, right. Right, come along -â Emre paraded to the back, latching onto Wenzelâs wrist now to pull him to the back of the house, outside.
Emreâs pride and joy.  âOutdoor shower, uses collected rainwater. No bathtub, soz. And at the back, the water closet. Proper loo, though it does need regular maintenance to, well.â Emre gave Wenzel a hearty slap on the back. âMaintain it and that, know what I mean. I can show you how.â
Suddenly Emre worried that for some reason Wenzel might not care for any of this. Maybe Emre was selling it too hard, and he guessed Wenzel was the polite sort who wouldnât say ânoâ in the face of someone elseâs enthusiasm. He searched the little manâs face.  âYou can take it, or you can leave it. Iâm honestly not bothered either way, mate. Whatevs.â
Were all Germans as wise as Wenzelslaus? "For a German I am unwise," he said humbly bowing his head towards Emre. "But compare me to an Englishman..." he countered, a jab he was dizzy at himself for landing now, and not two days later when his mind inevitably drifted over this conversation once more.
Emre kindly informed Wenzel that modern audiences would call his performance in a woman's underclothes art. Back home, that would have been a rather tame Tuesday night at a drag burlesque. Not that Wenzel ever performed there. "Ah, these modern audiences," Wenzel mused, tutting sardonically. "So easily swayed by lace and ribbons. They would not last a minute in my time. They would have to be much more scandalous." Wenzel sighed, filled with a sudden longing to skive off of work stupidly late, skipping dinner and filing directly into a salacious night bar on the wrong side of town.
"I had my violin with me," Wenzel revealed to Emre, before he had a chance to think over the repercussions of bringing up that day might have. Wenzel grimaced at his fumbling, chided himself for wanting so desperately to continue the pace of conversation with Emre, and continued, "But I have not seen it since." Emre was his lucky charm. He had found him glasses, he was to find him a home, perhaps he could help him find his violin?
Wenzel had taken a gamble in joking about calling others his own name if he had been called Carl. But as a rule, the majority of people from the modern times, as Emre called it, were more open about homosexuality. Wenzel could see the cogs turning in Emre's head, an extended pause as he considered the words. It was nowhere near as scandalous as shouting at women for want of their hole. What he had not expected, or braced himself for, was the absurdity of Emre's question. Wenzel burst out laughing, a high giggle that mutated into a deep, aching belly laugh, self-perpetuating as with every breath he remembered Emre's question over again. "Is Carl-" Wenzel could not get the question out, titillated by the thought of bringing home one of the Carls he had bedded to his family, insisting that Carl was a woman's name now. "No... It is not a girl's name," he finally was able to tell Emre, not without having to wipe the tears from his eyes.
Emre had his own adventures with sharing names with lovers. Wenzel, having been pushed over the edge of laughter, tittered in delight with Emre's explanation of his time with an Emmy. He did not have a kink... He did not have a pain in the neck? Wenzel held himself from asking Emre further about that word, sure that Emre would only use his ignorance as an opportunity to tease Wenzel further. And Emre needed no invitation to tease Wenzel at all. He wanted to fish for Wenzel's wild stories. Wenzel politely, demurely smiled at Emre. "My stories would bore your modern tastes."
It was astounding, how much work had been poured into the farm. All to keep up with the flux of new arrivals here. Everything was crystal clear and sharp in its clarity, including just how many unfamiliar faces were busying themselves around the farm, collecting fruit in baskets, weeding between the lines of vegetables. Wenzel took it all in with slack-jawed wonder.
It was too much information, a pulsating, rushing kaleidoscope of shapes and colours and faces, all etched in painful detail. Wenzel hardly knew what to look at, his bewildered state continuing as Emre took him to a house (Emre's house? Wenzel's house-to-be?). It was a proper building, one of William's early makes, that Wenzel could see by the overall shape of it, but as Emre said, he'd made changes. Had it been Mrs Maja's house? He couldn't say for certain.
He focused on the grain of the wooden walls a split second before Emre took him in further. It was dark inside, and Wenzel found the dark comforting, the comfort of being blinded, of the details of the room being obscured to him as he waited for his eyes to adjust. Emre described the layout of the hut, a bed and kitchen, furniture, and then, to top it all off, a shower. Wenzel let himself be dragged along to stare at the height of civilisation. Emre must have been confused, Wenzel must have misspoken, he did not wish to see Emre's house, and Emre could not possibly be willingly giving up his home for Wenzel. They had only met early that day. But Emre, taking his confused stupefaction as distaste, politely gave him a way to refuse the offer.
"Emre, I am... confused," Wenzel admitted, turning his sharp focus onto the other man. He could see the hairs of Emre's hair, his beard, his eyebrows, even the dainty lashes of his eyes. He could see the triangle of pink at the inner edge of Emre's eyes, the pores of his skin. It was too much, far too much to take in, to take. "I... I do not expect you to give up your house for me," Wenzel said plainly, incredulous at the very idea. That Emre would do such a thing was unthinkable. "I would not deserve it, why would you give it to me?"