The skyline of Paulstadt materializes in front of us through the morning mist. Fred slaps both hands on the wheel and shouts: You see, you were wrong, it didn’t disappear, it’s still here!

Yes, shouts Maya, it’s still here! It’s still here!

The first surge of commuters comes towards us on the approach road. Maya waves. No one waves back. It’s going to be a good day, says Fred, summer’s not over yet, not by a long chalk. I see a movement across the fields, like a fleeting shadow. And no clouds. No birds. Nothing but the big, big sky. I think I’d like to go straight to the doctor, I say, it might be best. Fred looks at me. Then he shifts down a gear and puts his foot on the accelerator. After that it all goes very fast.

Harry Stevens

A living person thinking about death. A dead person talking about life. What’s the point? Neither side understands the other. There are intimations. And there are memories. Both can be deceptive.

Do you remember Richard Regnier? The one they called the madman. Maybe he was a bit mad, but then so was I, and that’s what was good about it. That’s what I thought, anyway, and what I still think, if this can be called thinking. We weren’t exactly what you’d call friends. We didn’t tell each other our secrets or anything like that. We just liked to spend time together, that’s all there was to it.

One evening we’d arranged to meet in the town hall square. We were going to the Golden Moon for a beer or two. He was wearing his overalls and his filthy work boots. ‘Hey, Regnier,’ I said. ‘I’m paying today.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you do that.’

We walked slowly, taking a couple of detours. It was one of the last warm autumn evenings. The sky had clouded over. The air was damp and mild. Regnier took two apples from a pocket in his overalls. We ate them as we walked, and I have no idea why those two apples on that particular evening tasted so good to us.

The door of the Moon was open, the sour smell of spilt beer escaping from inside. Two men were sitting at the bar. One of them suddenly guffawed with laughter, then lowered his head and sat motionless.

‘Come on,’ said Regnier. ‘Let’s keep walking.’

We did a couple of circuits around Marktstrasse, then walked past the school and on towards the outskirts of town. Every few metres Regnier would pluck something from a bush or hedge, pop it in his mouth and chew it.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Greens,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t believe all the stuff that grows here right under your nose.’

By now, night had fallen. There were hardly any lights left in the windows. The moon was high above the trees. We left the last of the gardens behind us and walked along a path across the fields. Out here there was a gentle breeze, blowing the smell of fertilizer towards us. We walked for some time without saying a word. Suddenly Regnier stood still.