Der Trinker: Roman

A languid spring afternoon swirls with melancholy wind as John leans against a wagon in his father’s courtyard, his thin‑grey hair and haggard smile hinting at a life already worn by too much drink. Though only twenty‑seven, his lofty bearing and careless gestures make him seem a fallen Roman emperor, while his younger brothers watch from the window, half‑amused and half‑concerned. The scene is alive with the clatter of wooden clogs, the rasp of the old coachman Rodenberg’s voice, and a household that teeters between bitter humor and vague dread.

The Zarnosky family drifts through days of grain‑trading and idle conversation, their imagination sharp enough to carve out rumors and fantasies that often turn to trouble. John’s compulsive thirst draws Rodenberg into a ritual of fetching his “mixture,” a habit that both binds and destabilises the cramped family dynamic. Amid whispered wishes for John’s demise and the uneasy affection of a mother’s sigh, listeners are invited into a world where excess, entitlement and fragile loyalty clash on the wind‑battered courtyard.