Master Till and the local press

My job means that I go to a lot of events, and as a former reporter for a... well, let's just say 'local paper', almost everything was important enough to cover. It was at one of those big company parties where they say goodbye to people who are retiring that I first noticed him.

Standing on the podium was a man I would never have bought a used car from. He was talking a lot of sweet nonsense – about loyalty and commitment, about everyone being part of one big family – and whatever other platitudes there are. He spiced up the nonsense with witty remarks and, just to be on the safe side, followed it up with his greasy laugh. Then the 15 people who had to go were presented with a certificate and a fake copper relief mural of the company.

Everyone here knew that the company was nothing but a rip-off, so I actually felt really bad about it. In this small town, almost everyone knows someone who works for the company, if only because there are practically no other major employers. So I wondered why someone would feel the need to lie to people.

While I was half listening to the programme, I saw him. He was standing against a side wall near the stage, arms crossed, grinning in a way that somehow caught my eye. He was wearing jeans and a jacket, so he was actually quite inconspicuous. A slide show was now announced on stage and I immediately felt this almost uncontrollable urge to yawn. For a moment I didn't look at the wall – and the guy was gone.

The greasy voice wonder now spoke of a 'journey through the past' and gave a sign. It grew darker and the first photo was projected onto the screen. I had slowly approached the side wall, trying to keep an eye out for this strange person... and suddenly he was there again. He was standing in the same spot as before. But now he had his hands in his pockets and was staring up at the stage with sparkling eyes. Pictures from around 1900 appeared, showing moustachioed men in long aprons and gloves. Then steam lorries and, again and again, the changes on the factory site. There was a hush in the hall; most people had probably dozed off.

But then everyone was wide awake – because what was now being shown on the wall was no time for a nap. The current head of the company was enthusiastically grabbing a buxom lady who wasn't wearing much. Apart from her high boots, she had nothing on her curvaceous body. As everyone's jaws dropped, the next picture appeared, showing some very interesting invoices. Then a letter, stamped 'INTERNAL', instructing the foremen to put pressure on people to work extra shifts 'voluntarily'. And again and again, people from management in interesting company.

By now the room was roaring, and someone tried to turn off the projector, but for some reason it didn't work. Then the show stopped, probably because someone had pulled the plug. But I didn't enjoy the spectacle too much, because I was watching this particular man. He was walking towards the exit with a sardonic smile on his face, his hands still in his pockets and a strangely prancing gait. I fought my way through the crowd to follow him, but by the time I reached the door he had disappeared (I was not allowed to report on the pictures, of course).

I had almost forgotten about him when, a few weeks later, I was taking pictures at an election rally. As the grinning opponents sat opposite each other to answer the moderator's questions, I saw him again. He was standing quite far forward with his arms crossed. Immediately, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, an almost expectant shiver ran through me and I got my camera ready. Once again he disappeared for a few minutes and then reappeared. And as the two candidates disappeared behind the scenes, everything that was said in the dressing rooms was broadcast over the loudspeakers in the hall. I can say that it was very interesting. This time I was allowed to cover it.

When I followed him again, he turned and smiled at me – as if he remembered me. I took a picture before I lost him again. When I got back to the newsroom to look at the pictures, they were all fine – except for this one. It just no longer existed.

Then I saw him more and more. He was at the carnival friends meeting and at the opening of the new town hall. I saw him at the ultimate promotional event for a multi-level marketing juggernaut and at a fund-raiser for the local orphanage. And each time something very, very extraordinary and, above all, very scandalous happened. He always smiled at me, usually with a twinkle in his eye.

When angry animal rights activists threw vegetables (at the opening of the zoo's new aviary), he was there too – disappearing just before the projected video showed two zookeepers throwing beer cans at the pheasants and prancing towards the gate in the ensuing commotion. This time I didn't want to be left behind and ran after him. He didn't disappear, he turned and smiled into my eyes. Then he pointed at the camera and struck a pose. He made a strange gesture – as if to turn his nose up at me. As if in a dream, I pressed the shutter and stared after him. I didn't go to the office, I went home and immediately turned on the computer. I couldn't wait to see the picture, knowing that this time he hadn't disappeared.

In the photo he was standing among the people, making that typical movement with both hands. His extremely clever face wore a mischievous expression. This was exactly how I had seen him when I took the picture – only I had photographed a man in jeans, a shirt and a jacket. In the picture, he was wearing colourful clothes that ended in many tails. A kind of tight hood, also decorated with tails, completely covered his head except for his face. And there were little bells everywhere.

And then I remembered where I'd seen it before... in an old illustrated woodcut book. One of them looked exactly like my photograph and had the following caption: "Master Ulenspegel does the gentlemen a tort."

* Tort (archaic): to harm someone, something unpleasant. – Till Eulenspiegel (Low German: Dyl Ulenspegel) is the protagonist of a European narrative tradition. A German chapbook published around 1510 is the oldest known extant publication about the folk hero, but a background in earlier Middle Low German folklore is likely. Source: Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

© "Master Till and the local press": A short story by Pressenet (translated by Izabel Comati), 04/2025. Image credit: Till Eulenspiegel, CC0 (Public Domain Licence).