The intensity of Faust’s desire for Gretchen, up to that point imprisoned in the iron bands of his heart, had overwhelmed the simple and well-tried vices offered by Mephistopheles. In her face Faust had seen innocence, and the possibility of goodness within “the constricted life.” The supreme moment of his life on earth, which had passed away as it came into being, had been when Gretchen had returned his kiss and made her own declaration, addressing him as du rather than Sie.

The sun heated the grasses around them. Their agitation alternated with intoxication. A fly drew figure-eights over Hans’s face, and Wilhelm shooed it away. Hans’s skin shared the bitter freshness of the columbines. The silence was jostled by the browsings of a cow whose role it was to appear and disappear from sight.

Even when sharing confidences, they came upon cliffs which brought them to a halt. They weren’t sure they’d be understood. It was difficult to express anything with the required precision.

An hour later, they hiked down the mountain, still talking like pedants. They settled for the cold comfort of double meanings. Faust’s insight into intimacy came as a result of his congress with infernal powers: the lover was inseparable from the pact-maker with the Devil. Hence the reaction of a social order as merciless as Mephistopheles himself. Hence the remorseless approach of public shame. Hence her final words to him: Mute lies the world, like the grave!

On the train back to Charlottenburg they rode third class. A few seats down, a girl sat perfectly composed, a hand on each thigh. The boy beside her looked out the window. “Watch,” Hans remarked quietly, with no preface. “They don’t even glance at one other. They continue touching, as if by accident. Watch how alert they are. How excited.”

“They’re already in each other’s arms, in bed,” he added. Across from them, an elderly woman cleared her throat.

That night Wilhelm made both sides of the pillow hot. He dressed and took a long walk, encountering other headache experts on their wanderings.

He decided on a plan of action that would bury him in his studies.

A week later, he and Hans stayed out all night in the city. At dawn they found themselves in a dismal precinct, in a wilderness of railway lines. Chimneys and warehouses took on distinct outlines in the distance. They climbed a tall, rusty trestle. Sounds from a nearby market lifted up to them. A milk bottle on stone, the crank of an awning, a cart wheeled slowly across cobblestone. Beneath them, out for their own walk, a man and a woman picked their way over the railroad ties. They talked in hushed tones and shared a cigarette. And Hans put his full lips on Wilhelm’s mouth, kissed him, and turned away.