Faces concreted with make-up, white, blue, violet hair whipped up like candy floss and topped with a hat, a scarf, a beret, pinned, tied, hooked, knotted. On the other side of the street Buxter the butcher is shutting up shop. Bloody apron, bloody hands, tired face. A bull of a man, but his shoulders nothing like as broad and round as they used to be. Just shutting up shop, at this time of day. Perhaps he doesn’t need the custom. Or there’s no more meat. Or no customers. One hears things. A man comes out of the Black Buck. Briefcase, suit, hat, in this heat. Over to Stranzl’s bakery. Coffee, a bread roll to go, with butter, saus­age, gherkins, and slices of egg so thin the green shimmers through the yolk. Or in it. You wouldn’t have had that in the old days: cold meats at the bakery. The man in the hat likes it. Probably couldn’t get breakfast at the Black Buck, or declined it, did some work on the frayed sofa in the foyer instead, or watched television in his room, now hurrying on, by car or bus, the bread roll on his lap and egg crumbs everywhere. Clanging and hammering from Tessler’s ironmonger’s. But the neighbours can complain as much as they like; police reports won’t make any difference, nor will petitions to the town hall. Because old Tessler sits on the town council, and so does his daughter. This constant clanging and hammering all afternoon; sheet metal, supposedly. But why so many sheets of metal? Perhaps you don’t hear it in Wittmann’s wine bar across the road. Good wines. From Spain. The sun shines at you out of every glass, says Frau Wittmann, even in winter. Though there’s nothing sunny about her at all. Her face is as white as a sheet. Applied umpteen times for a licence for tables outdoors. But the town hall won’t budge: coffee and beer yes, wine no. Salaam aleikum! That’s what you say, isn’t it? The greengrocer. A true Paulstadter. You’ve got to hand it to him. Greets every passer-­by, and tips the postman. The vegetables always fresh, like a painting. Something’s going on at the police station. A man comes out. Looks around. Puts his hands on his hips. Used to be a terrible hooligan, now a policeman. Crosses over to Sophie Breyer’s tobacconist’s; copy of the local paper and chewing gum for the kids. Doesn’t pay. Frau Breyer just laughs. And back to the police station; nothing else to do. The occasional fight. Very rarely, someone runs out on a bill. Once there was a suspected murder, but it was reduced to manslaughter. There was a letterbox fire recently, though. Flap pulled open. Wall covered in soot, blackened all the way to the ceiling. No other incidents. You can rest in peace in Paulstadt. For ever, ultimately. There was another recently. Old Frau Kern, Hermstrasse 5, blue front door, only ever got letters from her grandson. Just nodded off in her armchair, plate of pickled gherkins in her lap.