And that was what I carried with me for the rest of my long journey: the image of my child’s eyes like two bright drops of water in the darkness of the night.

The next day they opened the road and we moved on.

I spent so many interminable hours staring at our shadows on the ground in front of us that it seems to me they must still be travelling today, all alone, without us, on and on and on.

Heiner Joseph Landmann

Good morning.

What did you feel, citizens of Paulstadt, when you lowered me into this hole and Richard Regnier threw a bent hazel twig after me in farewell? What did you think when the priest gave his speech? He had to stand on a kitchen stool to make himself heard, because you all came – and for that I thank you. These are my final thanks, from the grave, which, by the way, is nothing like as uncomfortable as I always feared.

And what a lot of trouble the poor priest took with his speech! Not a word of it was true. Because truth is merely something for which we yearn.

Here I lie, your mayor, Heiner Joseph Landmann. My father, Heiner Joseph Landmann Snr., lies beside me, less than an arm’s length away. We were never this close in life. And his father in turn, my grandfather, Theodor C. Landmann, lies about a metre and a half below us. You sink down over time.

Theodor C. was an architect and, as I’m sure you know, he designed the municipal park and the school building. He was good at calculation, and could draw trees better than anyone. He was also a philanthropist. Which Heiner Joseph Snr. definitely wasn’t. He couldn’t stand people. In fact, he hated most of them, including my mother and me. This was probably exactly why he became mayor and managed to hang on to the position for almost seventeen years. It created the distance he felt was necessary between himself and other people. He was a bad man and a bad father, and I was a stupid kid who wanted to do everything better than him. And, in a way, I succeeded.

I stuck it out even longer than you, Papa: twenty-­nine years. That’s how long the fate of this town was in my hands.

And if that doesn’t sound good, then I don’t know what good is.

And yet you all never tire of reproaching me for my mistakes. Even here, in the damp depths of my grave, your complaints filter through. You say I made unscrupulous promises I couldn’t keep. But what else was I supposed to do? I was a politician. And I did try. I stood for office because I wanted something for the town. The best. Or at least: nothing bad. Something different from Papa, anyway.

You say I eliminated my competitors, one after another, by any means possible. Yes, that’s exactly what I did. (Though not that many means were needed, incidentally.)