I start to feel uneasy. A premonition of departure. I have the sense that I belong. But to whom? Suddenly he’s standing beside me. We talk. The back of his neck and his hair smell good, and he’s smiling. We sit, and I put my hands in my lap. The fabric is cool beneath my fingers. His explanations are friendly, but firm. He talks with his head bowed. I hear no words yet understand everything.

It’s time. Most of them are already downstairs. And at this moment I realize that I’m alone again. It’s very simple, someone calls over to me, he’s gone up to the bedroom! With her! Those two are together now.

Later, I walk down the mountain path with quick, light steps. The cold wind is blowing in my face. Behind my eyes, though, it’s hot. They’re up at the top, far behind me.

I love you . . .

A thing is lying by the roadside. Its face is covered in dust and its eyes look like blue puddles in limestone. Suddenly I feel terrible pain, and that’s when I notice that my left arm is missing. It’s been torn off at the shoulder. Horrified, I start to run down the mountain. I close my eyes. The pain slowly subsides, and finally, finally . . .

II

A rumbling issues from the heart of the night. Cold stars snow from the sky. The child lies deep in the forest. Don’t bother, I say, you won’t find it . . . I feel a degree of schadenfreude. I press my face into the warmth, because I know that now it’s all right. Now nothing else can happen. Gradually, silence falls. Not a breath of wind. I hibernate in your armpit.

III

Everything here is filthy, the man says, gesticulating wildly; a filthy, stinking mess, but at least it’s fun! I walk up Marktstrasse. The shops line up in a row on either side like brightly painted boxes. You feel like just muddling them all together. What are you, Paulstadt? Your roots scarcely go deeper than the town hall basement. The rats are gnawing already! someone shouts, staggering across the pavement. He’s the personification of stupidity. I know this, but I can’t do anything about it. The man laughs. His arms are flags of farewell. The smell of burnt wood drifts towards me from the church square. And that’s when I realize: it’s just a dream within a dream. There will be no awakening.

Bernard Silbermann

I can hear them. I hear their footsteps on the small, round pebbles of the path. I recognize them by their footsteps. I know who they are long before they stand above me and start talking.

I know what they’re saying before they open their mouths.

I hear them when they’re silent, too. I know them.

Their footsteps.

Pom. Pom. Pom. Soft and heavy. Pom. Pom. Pom. Slowly, slowly; everything takes time.

Right, Camille?

Good morning, Bernard. It’s a nice morning today. Warm. You should smell the earth. It smells of autumn. Aromatic. And kind of smoky, somehow.