I go to Uhlandstrasse. Afternoon. I do a recce. It’s not that I expect Birgit to be there: I’m looking for some kind of confirmation.

The women, as is to be expected, have gone. Calm dreariness reigns. People walk into pharmacies; they confabulate in cafés.

Warschauer Strasse’s an extremity. I go there to get my bearings. By now, she’s an excuse. I’m looking for her, but I’m also curious about where the world goes in the evening. She can’t be in this crowd.

•

The trains emanate sorrow. Not like humans. The humans, in fact, are distracted and impatient. The trains aren’t alive in the way we understand the word. But they feel.

•

Domination of steel: steel smoke, steel sky.

•

I walk around, no longer looking for Ostkreuz. I’m lost again, but not exercised. I can turn round any time. The trains go to Oskar-Helene-Heim.

•

I must have blacked out. I’m not sure if it was the Warschauer Strasse evening or another one. There’s a memory of the moment. Gigantic figures above. Men in hats, crossing a road; a woman in a skirt that came down to her feet.

•

When I opened my eyes, I didn’t know where I was. People were helping me up from the platform. The past had let go of me. The present was a flicker. Those hatted men were unmindful of being very close.

I’ve blacked out again. I’m awake now. This is a ward. The walls and scent of disinfectant are placating.

Someone’s speaking Bangla. ‘Ja bitte!’ ‘Ich bin froh, dass es ihm gut geht!’ It’s German, of course. I’m immersed in the gaucheness of the accent. The voice hisses suddenly – a smoker’s laugh.

The second time, I have stitches on my forehead. I recall the men in moustaches and hats crossing the road in Rüdesheimer Platz. I mention them to no one.

•

I’m no longer definite about how I met Birgit – or if she came with me that night from Uhlandstrasse. Was it another? I don’t have the energy to check the veracity of the details in my inbox.

•

Jonas calls.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The word in the department is you aren’t well. Can I take you to see a doctor?’

I dig my heels into the Böll Professor’s apartment.

‘It’s ok, Jonas. It’s been fixed.’

‘I’m sorry – what’s been fixed?’

‘The dizzy spells.’

Jonas retreats. He’s deciding whether to trust me.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Very.’

Gently he points out I missed last week’s class.

‘But don’t let that worry you! The students will be relieved to hear you’re well!’

•

I reread A Personal Matter. I place my backside each day on the spot where Oe descended; why not relive his life? The writing’s untidy; unbridled. Oe must be difficult. I’m surprised how placid-looking he is.