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says. “Died in a short time, one after the other.”
    Only two months ago, when she came back from the hospital, everything had centered around fighting for sleep, she went on to say, but now it was a question of fighting to keep awake. The garden had come to a standstill. Nevertheless she had to complain of her neighbor: “Sometimes she doesn’t turn up here for hours.”
    My father placed his stethoscope against her clothed chest and listened. He filled out a prescription. I noticed that he made an effort to stretch out the call, for all his eagerness to leave.
    Frau Ebenhöh said that her life was a void without music, which she hadn’t been able to play for such a long time now, only imagine (“You know, I can still hear it!”). And for the longest time it had seemed to her as if her body were already dead. “When I look in the mirror I fall into a terrible state.”
    She spoke of her sister, who was in the Oberwölz old-age home, sharing a room with six women her own age. She’d kept intending to visit her sister—that was before she imagined being sick herself. Now she would never see her again.
    “Last night I dreamed I was standing under the Krimmlwaterfall—that was one of my earliest childhood experiences—and calling for my mother again and again.”
    Suddenly she laughed.
    She’d married her husband without knowing him, she said.
    “Three weeks after I met him for the first time at the Corpus Christi procession in Köflach, he came from Stiwoll to fetch me—that was the evening before the wedding in Stiwoll and just the second time I’d seen him.” She was the daughter of a sawmill foreman and had grown up on a hill just outside of Knittelfeld.
    On the chest of drawers stood a plaster bust of Franz Schubert; the head had once broken at the neck and been glued. The bust stood on a pile of sheet music.
    In her youth, Frau Ebenhöh said, she used to love to dance. At sixteen she had swum the length of the Mondsee in Upper Austria. For a long time she and her husband had made a hobby of studying Greek statuary. She’d been in Rome once, and once in Paris. They were both of thrifty habits and had managed to buy their own house in Stiwoll early in their marriage. Soon after the end of the First World War, they had come into some money, with which they had paid off the mortgage.
    For fifteen years, she said, one of her brothers had been in the Stein Penitentiary—“a convict brother, a brother who’s a criminal.” Behind her husband’s back she had sent him letters and money and packages every month. She did not speak about her brother’s crime, but my father knows that he killed his fiancée. Upon his release from the penitentiary her brother had come to Stiwoll and lived in her house. She’d fixed a room for him in the attic, where he’d locked himselfup from the moment he arrived and never went out. Three days after his release from Stein she had found him dead—he’d hanged himself from the window frame. His funeral had been so terribly sad, she said, she hadn’t had the strength to go to it. And her husband had reproached her endlessly for having taken her brother in. That awful thing happening had made him feel uneasy in his own house, he used to say.
    She had a photograph of her brother, taken the day he killed his fiancée and threw the body into the Mur below Fronleiten. She asked me to hand her an envelope lying on the table. I stood up and gave her the envelope, in which she kept the picture. “A handsome man,” she said. For the remainder of our stay she went on holding the photograph in her hand. Looking down at the blanket, she described, in connection with her brother, her childhood years in Knittelfeld.
    Never, not for a moment, had she ever thought of her brother as a bad person, she said.
    My father must have had the feeling that this would be the last time he would be seeing Frau Ebenhöh, for otherwise he surely would have taken his departure.
    “With closed eyes I see