Book Title: The Tiergarten Tales
Author: Paolo G.
Publisher: The Conrad
Cover Artist: Charlotte
Release Date: May 31,
Genres: LGBTQ+ / Historical Fiction
Tropes: Boys’ friendship
Themes: Toxic masculinity and fatherly love
Heat Rating: 3 flames
Length: 90 035 words / 384
It is a standalone book and
does not end on a cliffhanger.
Berlin. Its boys. Their stories
Boys and men of Berlin. A captivating journey through their
lives, love affairs and misdemeanours across the city’s turbulent history.
Felix and Walther bestride a deep class divide, forging an
enduring bond in 1890s Prussia. Kaspar and Max navigate the fraught upheavals of the
Weimar Republic by skilfully marketing the only commodity in demand. Young Kazimierz
leaves his impoverished Silesian village and sets off on an epic journey to the Prussian
capital, the seat of an ageing Frederick the Great. His heavenly beauty, endearing naivety
and, ultimately, fate will transform his life once through the gates of the city.
Echoes within echoes. Circles within circles. Wealth,
poverty and moral compromise. The privilege and toxic masculinity of the Prussian officer
Excerpt from The Lodger
Grey sky. It has been so for the last few days, or weeks,
months perhaps. It had been his decision to move here so there is no one else to blame.
That irks him no end, no
one to blame, no one to shout at.
Up here on the sixth floor one can barely hear the
fic below and there is never much of it anyway; it’s early
morning and he lives on a quiet and leafy street, upmarket, expensive, unaffordable for
The air is warm and all he wears is pyjama bottoms; he
prefers to walk around the apartment barefoot though he misses a soft thick carpet. But
more often than not homes come with beautiful wooden parquet here: beautiful but
uncomfortable for his feet which have lost some of the supple elasticity they used to have.
Age, always age; he wishes he could log out from thinking about ageing.
Coffee time. He walks back inside through the French doors
and inserts a capsule in the machine, the mechanical noise reassuring, another morning
with the same routine.
Frau Greta is on her way and he needs to get out. It’s his
rule number one or, rather, hers: get out of the cleaning lady’s way, you’re just a hindrance
and when she took on the job she dropped a few stern hints which allowed no debate. Very
German, he smiles.
No breakfast at home; he’ll walk to the Bismarck Bistro for
mid-morning brunch. The temperature is warm enough to sit outside with just a light jacket
and watch the world go by.
Except that it never does. The bistro is quaint and the fare
of good quality but it never seems to be that busy, though the lack of a crowd has lately
developed into a pleasure rather than a shortcoming.
Either way the bistro is close, reasonably priced, and on the
edge of that vast and wild forest in the centre of the city peculiarly described as a
He’s ready now and he feels pleasantly casual: slacks, a
polo and a light blue jacket. A scarf around his neck protects him from the light
And sunglasses. He has spent a good chunk of his previous
life in a part of the world where everyone wore sunglasses, outdoor and indoor. You could
never see anyone’s eyes. Beautiful eyes, old eyes, blue, green, black, it didn’t matter; they
were all behind dark lenses. All the fucking time.
But he has kept the habit; perhaps one day he’ll lose it.
Habits come and go.
He strolls along the oak-lined paths before turning towards
the bistro. Empty roads. Is that Sunday? Perhaps not, but the roads are always empty here
anyway. Which he loves. Or not. He’s not yet sure.
When he reaches the bistro, he lazily scans the area: a few
tables outside, almost empty as usual, one middle-aged guy tapping away at his laptop in
the far corner.
He takes a seat and then remembers the free newspapers
inside so he gets up again and strolls in to pick up a copy of the Morgenpost.
Ella is at the till. The owner greets him in a low voice and
with a smile. She must do that with all the regular customers, he thinks, but he likes it as it
makes him feel special even if he is dead sure he isn’t.
After three years his German has improved dramatically. He
has subjected himself to a gruelling and eye-wateringly expensive blitz of private tuitions.
He can now finish read- ing long-winded and often completely irrelevant opinion pieces.
Nothing much ever seems to happen here anyway. He prefers books to news but he forgot
to bring one along.
‘Good morning sir, what can I get you today?’
Not Ella’s voice. It sounds soft and warm, young, almost
female though clearly not.
As he turns, a young man of perhaps less than twenty
stands there with a smile and detectable eagerness. The eagerness of the new employee,
the excitement of a new job, the freshness of a new chapter.
The boy gently shifts the wheat blond fringe along his
forehead; a pair of black framed spectacles sits on his angular nose, the thick prescription
lenses magnifying his light blue eyes.
‘Good morning, let’s see: a cappuccino for a start, I haven’t
decided on the food, may I have a minute?’
‘Sure, sir, I’ll get the drink ready for you, take your
The manners are calm and polite. Unassuming, he
After a few minutes the young man returns with the
cappuccino and briefly stands there, clearly waiting for the order but with no impatient
About the Author
Paolo G. Grossi was born and
raised in Milan. Thirty years ago, he spent a weekend in London and decided to stay. Like
most Italians, opera and the visual arts are his main passions. When not writing, you will
surely find him attending a performance, visiting a museum and, of course, spending some
time cycling in Berlin or around the Wannsee. He lives in London with his partner David.
Tales is his first book.