One liberated truth, which no one tried to recapture and could therefore romp about freely, belonged to Farmer Häubel’s great-grandson. He had finally told the mayor’s daughter that at the last May Festival he had danced only with the shopkeeper’s daughter simply out of pique because he had thought she didn’t want to dance with him. After Selma’s dream, Häubel’s great-grandson told the mayor’s daughter that he actually loved no one but her and that he was convinced nothing could ever get in the way of his love. The mayor’s daughter also loved Häubel’s great-grandson, and everyone was happy that this truth was out. It had escaped at the very last minute not because death was near but because otherwise life would have taken a wrong turn. Häubel’s great-grandson had almost moved to the county seat out of pique and the mayor’s daughter had almost begun to talk herself into believing that Häubel’s great-grandson was not the right one for her. Everyone was happy that this truth was free to romp about and they would all have liked to celebrate the marriage right away if not for what happened next, after which no one wanted to celebrate any wedding ever again, at least not for a while.

At six-fifteen, twenty-seven hours and fifteen minutes after her dream, when everyone assumed time had saved them, Selma packed my lunch box. I sat at the kitchen table. I was late and wouldn’t have time to copy all my homework into Martin’s notebook. I can still remember that my shoes were too tight, that I said to Selma, “I need new shoes,” and she answered that we would drive to the county seat the next day and get new ones—Elsbeth also needed new shoes.