twenty-one, it had almost knocked him over.
He wondered whether he should say something that would completely horrify the technician, but still condemn him to silent attention and inactivity, something strange and yet logical, something like: Donât you have the feeling that the sky outside has turned red? Or: Have you ever let God into your life? It was that simple. He didnât even have to look at the technicianâs face.
â Whatâs his name?
â The monkey? Didi.
â Nice name, said Robert.
And he added in the dubbed German voice of Adam West:
â So you see, Robin, itâs always important to give animals a name. For they are our friends.
They were silent for a while. Then the technician said:
â Hm, thatâs funny. Do you ever paint from photos?
From his more composed voiceâthe anxiety window was slowly closingâRobert could tell that he had finished smoking his cigarette. Nothing brings back self-confidence as quickly as the stubbing out of a cigarette, while the world turns on its axis and somewhere far away suns shrink into red dwarves.
â Iâve taken photographs, said Robert. Sometimes. But Iâve stopped ever since some psycho has been sending me his photos. It started a year or so ago. They just come in the mail. Always from a different sender, all made up, of course, nonexistent.
â Crazy, said the technician. What are the pictures of?
Like lightning Robert went through a catalogue of the uncanny: sexual acts between faceless creatures, close-ups of human skin, photos of his own apartment taken from impossible angles, photos of family members who are long dead, photos of corpses on operating tablesâbut then he told the truth after all:
â Oh, nothing special, just landscape photographs. But strangely blurred, all the details fuzzy. You see only the general picture.
The technician made a hissing sound in acknowledgment, the unarticulated version of crazy .
â The letters frighten my girlfriend, Robert murmured. Well, anyway, that . . .
He broke off and let the paintbrush speak its ancient whispering idiom.
The wonderful inner peace, the first in a long while, dissipated immediately when he stepped out of the building. Twenty-nine years on the planet and in all that time probably four hours altogether of perfect peace. During the years at Helianau, it had most likely been no more than three minutes. Not counting sleep.
He had to carry the painting with some care to the car, but for the last few paces that care was so hard to maintain that he would have liked nothing better than to fling the painting like a Frisbee. The car chirped cheerfully as it felt him getting closer.
When he was sitting at the steering wheel, he tousled his hair with his fingers until he felt disheveled enough.
Then the car drove him home.
As always he rang his bell before unlocking the apartment door. That way the soft echo of the motif consisting of three notes descending in a D-major chord received him like a welcoming melody.
Welcome, you burnt-out lightbulb . . . your apartment is ready for you.
He stood at the window and looked down into the courtyard. The sky had become angry about something and now showed the earth the grim gray back of its head. The blue had disappeared. A storm announced itself. The white shirts hanging on the clotheslines in the courtyard gesticulated excitedly and tried like nervous dogs to break free from their bonds. The window shutters of the neighboring houses had come to life and began to knock, rattle, and squeal like prison inmates in adjacent solitary cells when the guard passes by; some were seized quickly from inside and subdued, others went on clattering grouchily or slammed shut with a bang, only to reopen shortly thereafter, slightly dazed and astonished that their pane had remained intact. On the old cobblestones (meanwhile endowed by the city council with a sort of landmark status, which was, however,
He wondered whether he should say something that would completely horrify the technician, but still condemn him to silent attention and inactivity, something strange and yet logical, something like: Donât you have the feeling that the sky outside has turned red? Or: Have you ever let God into your life? It was that simple. He didnât even have to look at the technicianâs face.
â Whatâs his name?
â The monkey? Didi.
â Nice name, said Robert.
And he added in the dubbed German voice of Adam West:
â So you see, Robin, itâs always important to give animals a name. For they are our friends.
They were silent for a while. Then the technician said:
â Hm, thatâs funny. Do you ever paint from photos?
From his more composed voiceâthe anxiety window was slowly closingâRobert could tell that he had finished smoking his cigarette. Nothing brings back self-confidence as quickly as the stubbing out of a cigarette, while the world turns on its axis and somewhere far away suns shrink into red dwarves.
â Iâve taken photographs, said Robert. Sometimes. But Iâve stopped ever since some psycho has been sending me his photos. It started a year or so ago. They just come in the mail. Always from a different sender, all made up, of course, nonexistent.
â Crazy, said the technician. What are the pictures of?
Like lightning Robert went through a catalogue of the uncanny: sexual acts between faceless creatures, close-ups of human skin, photos of his own apartment taken from impossible angles, photos of family members who are long dead, photos of corpses on operating tablesâbut then he told the truth after all:
â Oh, nothing special, just landscape photographs. But strangely blurred, all the details fuzzy. You see only the general picture.
The technician made a hissing sound in acknowledgment, the unarticulated version of crazy .
â The letters frighten my girlfriend, Robert murmured. Well, anyway, that . . .
He broke off and let the paintbrush speak its ancient whispering idiom.
The wonderful inner peace, the first in a long while, dissipated immediately when he stepped out of the building. Twenty-nine years on the planet and in all that time probably four hours altogether of perfect peace. During the years at Helianau, it had most likely been no more than three minutes. Not counting sleep.
He had to carry the painting with some care to the car, but for the last few paces that care was so hard to maintain that he would have liked nothing better than to fling the painting like a Frisbee. The car chirped cheerfully as it felt him getting closer.
When he was sitting at the steering wheel, he tousled his hair with his fingers until he felt disheveled enough.
Then the car drove him home.
As always he rang his bell before unlocking the apartment door. That way the soft echo of the motif consisting of three notes descending in a D-major chord received him like a welcoming melody.
Welcome, you burnt-out lightbulb . . . your apartment is ready for you.
He stood at the window and looked down into the courtyard. The sky had become angry about something and now showed the earth the grim gray back of its head. The blue had disappeared. A storm announced itself. The white shirts hanging on the clotheslines in the courtyard gesticulated excitedly and tried like nervous dogs to break free from their bonds. The window shutters of the neighboring houses had come to life and began to knock, rattle, and squeal like prison inmates in adjacent solitary cells when the guard passes by; some were seized quickly from inside and subdued, others went on clattering grouchily or slammed shut with a bang, only to reopen shortly thereafter, slightly dazed and astonished that their pane had remained intact. On the old cobblestones (meanwhile endowed by the city council with a sort of landmark status, which was, however,
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