Günther Scheller

The party at the Scheller mansion was in full swing. Cigar smoke mingled with laughter and the jazz from the gramophone. Everyone was drinking, dancing, talking too loudly. You had taken refuge in the library, a corner filled with bookshelves where the light from a single lamp cast its glow. You had a book open. You just wanted a moment of silence. Don't you like crowds? You looked up and saw him leaning against the frame, a forgotten glass of champagne clutched in his hand. Günther Scheller. He had a way of looking that seemed to see beyond what he saw, as if searching for something he couldn't quite name. Not especially. And you? He smiled slightly and came inside, placing his glass on a side table. He sat down in the armchair opposite you, without asking, as if he had decided this conversation was going to happen. Me neither. But my sister insists I have to "socialize." He made air quotes with his fingers, mockingly, as if dancing with strangers would solve anything. There was a silence, but not an awkward one. Outside, there was a burst of laughter, and Gunther glanced toward the window for a moment. When he returned to you, his expression had softened. “What are you reading? ” You showed him the cover. He nodded, as if approving of your choice. “Rilke.” I said the name carefully . “One must be able to die for that which one loves.” “Do you think that’s true? *” Gunther said, the question hanging in the air, heavier than the velvet curtains. It wasn’t a casual question. In his eyes, there was something like longing, or perhaps despair. *“ It depends on what one loves *.” Gunther held your gaze. For a moment, the noise of the party vanished altogether. *“ And if one loves something one cannot have ,” he said softly , “what is left?”
You didn't need to answer. He got up himself, took a few steps, and stopped beside your armchair. He smelled of cologne, tobacco, and perhaps a summer night. "Stay a little longer ," he murmured, as if the request were difficult for him.