On our last day, Fred and I sit on the terrace looking out at the sea. Maya’s asleep in our bed. About twenty minutes ago I put on a blissful smile especially for Fred. It’s intended to signal my fundamental approval of him, of the holiday we’ve just had, of life in general. Smiling fixedly, I gaze into the distance and say: Here, beside the sea, I’m always aware of how badly I need freedom. Infinity, with all its possibilities, of closeness and distance. Fred says: Aha. I say: It really is paradise. Fred says: Yes, but it stinks a bit after the storm, I think it’s the seaweed drifting in the water over there. I take a sip of my orange juice, then I put my hand on his forearm and say: You can’t admit that it’s paradise because you’re afraid of being driven out. Your fear of being driven out is so great that you have to drive out the idea of paradise before it can even occur to you. That’s possible, he says. I take back my hand and have another sip of juice. Gulls scream above our heads. He says: The seaweed spreads on the surface of the water. It forms a thick, slimy carpet that rots in the sun and suffocates all life underneath. I look at him and say: You’re a nincompoop. No one says that, my pet, says Fred, that’s a Fifties word; you’ll only come across it in trashy novels or kitschy TV soaps these days. What else can I call you, I ask. Don’t know, says Fred, idiot? If Maya wasn’t sleeping in our bed, we could go and lie down in it now, I say. He looks at me sideways and says: I love you. I hate that. It forces you to respond. It’s impossible not to respond to I love you. I take another swig of orange juice. It tastes unusually sweet and good. I slowly drain the glass and put it down. Then I say: I love you, too.

Just then, Umberto comes around the corner. His face is red and damp, as if he’s got a fever. Come, please, he says, I think something has happened. We follow him around the house. I glance at Maya through the window. She’s sleeping, with the dolphin-­faced ball lying in bed beside her. Come, says Umberto. We walk a few hundred metres along the road that winds up the heat-­scorched hill. Look there, says Umberto. Our dog is lying dead by the side of the road. His coat is dishevelled and dirty. There’s a gaping wound in his belly, and something like a bluish, shimmering bubble spilling out of it. Flies are buzzing around. Fred groans. It’s a sound I first heard him make a very long time ago. He raises both hands, as if about to greet someone, then drops them again, runs to the dog and falls on his knees beside him. Umberto says: It was a car, the bends are tight. Yes, I say, a car. He says: I’m sorry. I nod. Fred pushes his arms under the body and tries to move it. He strokes the dog’s hair, just behind its ears, and waves his hands to chase away the flies. It’s strange; now, of all moments, I find myself thinking of the first time we caught sight of each other. He was standing outside the stationer’s on Marktstrasse with a piece of cake in his hand. I saw his face mirrored in the shop window, and I saw a few cake crumbs fall to the ground. He wasn’t good-­looking or otherwise remarkable, but something about him touched me. I think I felt sorry for him.