My Alsatian cousin

My Alsatian cousin

My Alsatian cousin

My Alsatian cousin was not my real cousin. I grew up believing we really were, but in fact he was the son of my grandma’s neighbour. My grandma always referred to them using the father’s name as if it was their family name, “Die Wolfgang’s”, making of them an indestructible clan of weird but fun people. That was too much of a party though in my grandma’s view, so I could only see my “cousin” once a week. Not that I got used to their excessively cheerful lifestyle.

That was during the Summers, when my parents sent me to my German “Omma” —“grandma”. The rest of the year I was living in Barcelona.

The Wolfgangs’ house was not exactly opposite to my grandma’s, because houses and gardens were like a checker board alternating green squares with houses. That’s how I imagined my German grandma’s quarter if I could have seen it from the sky. My bedroom window on the second level of my Omma’s house was facing their garden, and their house was a bit to the right, opposite that dead end little street in a humble Ruhrgebiet town.

My cousin’s name was Daniel.

Once it was the right day to see him, usually on a Wednesday, it was a true happening to me! I could then cross the little street and enter their big kitchen, where the Wolfgangs clan used to spend the evenings. His dad was a big man with a beard, always wearing a frog, his deep and cheerful laughter making fun of everything. There was nothing he couldn’t fix, he was the ultimate handyman. 

Alsatian cousin’s garage

When something broke at my grandma’s little house, she always mumbled we’d call “Die Wolfgangs”, meaning my cousin’s father.

When I was a child the logics of everything were really different. As an example, my cousin’s dad didn’t have to be my uncle.

Their kitchen had always that smell of toasted bacon, beer and wood. His mother was always wearing an apron and baking cakes —all sort of cakes, many of them Alsatian specials, according to my Omma.

Die Wolfgangs had a large garage, where Daniel’s bearded dad kept his dark blue VolksWagen —a “Käfer— “Bug” in English. I loved the peculiar sound of its motor, and even from Omma’s garden I could tell when he was leaving or arriving home. I was certain I’d have one of those whenever I reached the right age!

That garage had space enough to keep hundreds of tools, chaotically hanging from nails on the walls or scattered over a large wooden table.

Daniel had his own table, where he was constantly building and rebuilding an infinite project of a model train. He had little houses, trees, even some mountains with a tunnel, a station and little cars of many colours —and incoherent size scales— stopped at the level crossing.

That toy was simply a dream. It came only true once I could spend some hours with my cousin. Time literally flew while we were playing in the garage. We were so concentrated in setting the tracks in the most efficient way to use as much space of the table as possible. When we ran out of straight track segments, that felt frustrating. Because we knew it was unrealistic to ask for a box of more track segments.

My grandma once talked about buying me a model train for my own, so I never run out of tracks, no matter straight or curved. She also offered me to make some room for it in her cellar. Then I realised what a treasure it was to me to spend time with my cousin.

The blond brothers

Even at such a young age I had fantasies with Daniel. The kind of dreams I’d now say would be sexual. Back then, I had no vocabulary or any concept about that sort of prohibited excitement.

I once told him we’d get married as soon as we’d attend High School. He giggled though never asked me what that could possibly imply. We were just 9. I wanted to be with him forever, not just during the Summer. 

That blond skinny boy. People really thought we were brothers, since we looked so similar, in hair color and even brown eyes.

Things started to evolve as we grew older. I remember the Summer when I was about to be 12 years of age.

Daniel greeted me with a huge smile on a bicycle the next day I was arriving from Spain to spend that Summer.

To my surprise, Omma was hiding a brand new bicycle for me in the cellar. That was one of the most happy days I remember! Once I started to pedal away I looked back and saw her smile, waving goodbye from the little garden fence. I could guess some little tears in her eyes, as if she was losing me forever to the bicycle and the immense world.

Daniel and me spend less and less hours in the garage with the model trains and more and more evenings cycling like crazy around the neighbourhood. Soon also into the nearby woods, which were specifically forbidden by my Omma.

My grandma would always tell me that wolves were living in those woods, so entering their shadowy tracks felt incredibly dangerous —and exciting!

I quickly found my own logics: “if Daniel does, me too”. I followed along, sometimes much faster than himself, so the whole game transformed into a choreography.

Exhausted, we then stopped, leaning the bicycles against a tree, and sat down on the fallen and humid leaves.

Back to the woods

I think I didn’t realise the first day it happened, but soon we both did —in an awkward silence.

We were both having erections inside our pants. But we didn’t know what that meant. Not to mention what to do with it.

The most daring thing we did was pissing. We looked at each other’s penis, hard as a rock, and started splattering urine in all directions, like a funny game. Who was able to wet the biggest surface for the longest time?

That only happened the last day before I had to travel back to Barcelona.

I wonder what would have happened if we had more chances to experiment and play with our little dicks.

Back then, during the Fall and Winter, there was no contact with Germany other than speaking to my grandma over the phone. Since that was so extremely expensive, it happened only with my parent’s permission every two or three months. I never asked about Daniel.

Please keep posted! I will soon publish the next chapter!

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