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Blutreigen Ein Fall für Trautmann - pp 151
Einige Wochen später ereignete sich im 2. Bezirk, in der Venediger Au nahe dem Wurstelprater, wieder eine spektakuläre Gewalttat. Die Venediger Au hat ihren Namen möglicherweise von einer vor Jahrhunderten dort angesiedelten venezianischen Glasschmelzerei. Früher war sie ein kleines Augebiert zwischen Lassallestraße und Ausstellungsstraße gewesen. Seit dem Jahr 1905 hatte sie ihre Benennung als Straße. Seit dem Jahr 1905 hatte sie ihre Bennenung als Straße. Heute war die Venediger Au ein gut erschlossenes Wohngebiet mit in der Regel nicht gerade billigen Wohnungen und einer guten Infrastruktur, aber leider gab es auch eine üppige Straßenprostitution, die von der Polizei bekämpft wurde und eines Tages wohl verboten werden würde. Die vorhandene Infrastruktur, die Nähe zum Prater und die guten öffentlichen Verkehrsverbindungen wogen das für die meisten der dortigen Bewohner jedoch auf.
Near fragment in time
Marc Vanhagen schlenderte über den Schwedenplatz. Das Schönwetter und die nach den Regentagen angenehmen Temperaturen hatten die Sonnenanbeter hinausgetrieben. Speziell für Jugendliche hatte sich der Schwedenplatz zu einem beliebten Treffpunkt entwickelt. Leider mischten sich immer mehr kriminelle Subjekte unter die jungen Leute und fanden hier Abnehmer für ihre dunklen Geschäfte. Der Drogenhandel jedenfalls war im Vormarsch, das wusste Marc aus diversen internen Berichten. Marc hatte seinen Wagen im Halteverbot abgestellt. Diesmal hatte er das Auto gut sichtbar als Dienstwagen gekennzeichnet. Zu Fuß hatte er sich auf den Weg gemacht. Sein Ziel war die Galerie Art Ensemble am Fleischmarkt. [...] Er bog in den Fleischmarkt ein und stand direkt vor der Galerie. Er betrat das kleine Geschäftslokal und bemerkte, dass er der einzige Besucher war.
pp 445-446 from Canard Saigon by
Near fragment in space
We went then to the roundabouts. He chose to ride not on a dappled horse - I had noticed already his dislike of horses -but on a swan. He enjoyed it, but he didn't want to go round again. It was an experience complete in itself.
Then came the Wurschtlmann. He's so famous the Prater is named for him and you can see why. A hideous rubber man with a red nose who, for a few kreutzer one can thump and pound and wallop to one's heart's content, knowing that he will right himself undamaged and come up for more. Give him a name - that of your mean-minded boss, your bullying commanding officer - and you can punch him insensible and walk away, purged.
'Would you like to have a go, Sigismund?'
Even before he shook his head I saw him instinctively shield his hands, hiding them behind his back - and that was the first time I remembered the concert.
In the end, though, the Prater is about the ferris wheel whose fame has spread throughout the Empire. It towers over everything else, its carriages take you a hundred metres into the sky. To be up there and look down on the city is to ride with the gods.
So I asked him: 'What about the giant wheel? Would you like to go on it ?'
His hand tightened in mine. A tremor passed over his face. She had not been frightened even at six years old, but the boy was scared.
'The view is very beautiful from the top. You can see all Vienna.'
He stood still in the middle of the path. He tilted his head and gave a small sniff.
'I want very much to be brave,' he said in his low, cracked voice. 'I very much want it.'
And suddenly it all dissolved - my long antagonism, my restraint, the resentment that I felt at being asked for what belonged only to my daughter. I saw him sitting beside his dead mother in the Polish forest, waiting for her to wake … Saw him wobbling on the Encyclopedia of Art, playing and playing because he could no longer talk. I remembered the silent patience with which he'd endured his uncle's bullying, saw the graze on his forehead of which he'd said no word.
And I knelt beside him and took him in my arms.
'You are brave, Sigi. You're very brave, my darling,' I said - and kissed him.
So now I can tell you this. They are entirely exact descriptions of what happens, those ones in the fairy tales which tell you what occurs when you kiss an ugly frog, a hairy beast, with proper love.Sigi didn't kiss me back or cling to me. He just straightened his shoulders and then in a calm, almost matter-of-fact voice, he said: 'Now we will go up,' - and then led me to the brightly painted carriages swaying high above our heads.
pp 177-178 from Madensky Square by
Then came the Wurschtlmann. He's so famous the Prater is named for him and you can see why. A hideous rubber man with a red nose who, for a few kreutzer one can thump and pound and wallop to one's heart's content, knowing that he will right himself undamaged and come up for more. Give him a name - that of your mean-minded boss, your bullying commanding officer - and you can punch him insensible and walk away, purged.
'Would you like to have a go, Sigismund?'
Even before he shook his head I saw him instinctively shield his hands, hiding them behind his back - and that was the first time I remembered the concert.
In the end, though, the Prater is about the ferris wheel whose fame has spread throughout the Empire. It towers over everything else, its carriages take you a hundred metres into the sky. To be up there and look down on the city is to ride with the gods.
So I asked him: 'What about the giant wheel? Would you like to go on it ?'
His hand tightened in mine. A tremor passed over his face. She had not been frightened even at six years old, but the boy was scared.
'The view is very beautiful from the top. You can see all Vienna.'
He stood still in the middle of the path. He tilted his head and gave a small sniff.
'I want very much to be brave,' he said in his low, cracked voice. 'I very much want it.'
And suddenly it all dissolved - my long antagonism, my restraint, the resentment that I felt at being asked for what belonged only to my daughter. I saw him sitting beside his dead mother in the Polish forest, waiting for her to wake … Saw him wobbling on the Encyclopedia of Art, playing and playing because he could no longer talk. I remembered the silent patience with which he'd endured his uncle's bullying, saw the graze on his forehead of which he'd said no word.
And I knelt beside him and took him in my arms.
'You are brave, Sigi. You're very brave, my darling,' I said - and kissed him.
So now I can tell you this. They are entirely exact descriptions of what happens, those ones in the fairy tales which tell you what occurs when you kiss an ugly frog, a hairy beast, with proper love.Sigi didn't kiss me back or cling to me. He just straightened his shoulders and then in a calm, almost matter-of-fact voice, he said: 'Now we will go up,' - and then led me to the brightly painted carriages swaying high above our heads.