“Because . . . because you really should have become hard. You were such a weakly, helpless child. Such children later on become hard or—”

“Or they die, you were about to say. Well, I too died. Oh, I was dead for many years. From the last time I saw you at home, until . . .” She reached for something on the table. “See, this is a picture of him. It’s a little on the flattering side. His face is not so bright, but more lovable, simpler. In a moment I’ll show you our child. He’s sleeping in the next room. It’s a boy. Named Angelo, like him. He is away now, traveling, far away.”

“And you’re all by yourself?” asked the doctor, distracted, his mind still on the picture.

“Yes, the child and I. Isn’t that enough? I will tell you how that came about. Angelo is a painter. His name is not well known. You won’t have ever heard of him. Up until recently, he struggled with the world, with his plans, with himself, and with me. Yes, with me too. For I had been telling him for a year: you have to travel. I felt how much he needed that. One day he asked me jokingly, ‘Me or a child?’ ‘A child,’ I said, and then he left.”

“And when will he be coming back?”

“When the child can say his name, that’s the agreement we made.” The doctor wanted to say something, but Klara continued with a laugh, “And since it’s a very difficult name, it will be a while. Angelino won’t be two till this summer.”

“Strange,” said the doctor.

“What, Georg?”

“How well you understand life. How you’ve grown up, how young you’ve become. What did you do with your childhood? We were both such helpless children. You can’t change that or undo it.”

“So you think we had to suffer from our childhood, that that was coming to us.”

“Yes, that’s just what I mean. On account of this heavy darkness behind us, with which we have such weak, uncertain relations. A time comes when we have already put our first things into it—all our beginnings, all our trust, the seeds of everything that might one day come to pass. And suddenly we are aware that all of that has submerged, has sunk in a sea, and we don’t even know when. We didn’t even notice when it happened. It’s as if somebody gathered all his money together, bought a feather with it, and stuck it in his hat. And whoosh, the next wind takes it away. Of course he comes home with no feather in his hat, and there’s nothing left for him to do but think about when it might have blown off.”

“You think about that, Georg?”