Leipzig has a lot of bridges. The number varies, but if you’re a troll looking to levy, you’ve a good 430 to stand on. (Maybe more — the city’s statistics office has published 6 volumes of bridges so far, relying on all the different municipal departments remembering where they laid them.) That makes it one of the bridgyest cities in Germany. It even beats Italy’s Venice. (In number — beauty’s another matter.)
Rivers, streams, canals, ditches, brooks — they all need to be traversed. And here’s the thing: whatever goes over has something that goes under, and under the bridge is where the magic happens. It’s where the currents cross. It’s where I find their meeting place.
The Underbridge Society. Its members are shrouded in mystery and their meeting places are impromptu, but I stumble across their furnishings one sunny day in spring. Two plastic chairs — one pink, one white — are placed beside an upturned industrial spool. These must be the leaders’ chairs, I think. They face a concrete bank that rises to the bridge above. The occasional tram rumbles overhead.
I squat on the bank and try to imagine what they talk about. I see a bit of a clue on the white chair: someone’s scrawled FCK AFD on the backrest. Poliitics then?
I stand and walk around. I see that the centre of the spool table is scorched. It looks like more than the debate was heated. Maybe something was burnt as part of the opening ceremony. A heretical text perhaps? A heretic? I look around for ash and bone.
The thunder of another tram booms dramatically as I notice a headband on the ground. It’s small and furry, has two fluffy bear ears and a polka dot bow. Something for a child.
Putting aside thoughts of dark Carthaginian rituals in Leipzig, I come to the more rational conclusion: changeling. It’s common knowledge among a good three of the local Irish pub’s patrons that Saxony has a shapeshifter problem. And here was the evidence: a magical band that, when worn, holds the wearer in human form. When removed — discarded? lost? — it retains the essence of the owner’s animal form. In this case, a bear.
I see a dog walker coming down the path and realise I’ve the face of someone who’s figured something out. I take a quick photo and head home, in the opposite direction.
Left-wing, militant, changeling bears. I wonder how I’ll explain this to The Mathematician. I shrug. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
