nothing but a curse, because it forbade them from transplanting their exhausted medieval souls into new, fresh stones) the wind blew something around that looked like plastic utensils, pliable little knives, forks, and paper plates, accompanied by an agitated horde of fluttering napkins. Robert stood on tiptoe to take a look at his bike, which was probably not doing well in the approaching storm. He sensed the slowly inflating ball in his chest. With each breath the hollow space grew somewhat larger.
Some marmels with dull red, almost black snouts roamed around the garbage cans below.
Now he felt the first thunder, it was still inaudible, but the finer nerves of the buildings had caught it and passed it on. Robert began to feel aggressive. He had to turn away from the windowâand instead went for the little bonsai tree on the kitchen table. I shouldnât do this. But the tree was so small, and besides, it was an insult to every eye trained in perspective, because no matter where it was in the room, it always appeared to be several hundred yards away, as if in that spot space had been bent and pulled into the distance with tweezers. A thing like that shouldnât even exist, he thought. And he also thought of the monkey, of its eyes, which had made him so calm, the little attempt at an emergency brake, but the monkey was painted, done, the peace was gone, and tons of water would soon fall from the sky, as heavy as studio rain in old silent films, liquid threads lashing wildly back and forth, capable of sweeping hats off bald human heads or knocking over sun umbrellas or within a few seconds turning whole façades into dark, shiny reflections of the street lighting.
Stop, stop.
Batman, I want to destroy this little tree. â Yes, you know, Robin, sometimes we have to do what our inner voice tells us to.
Just at that moment, as he reached for the ridiculously tiny cup in which the Japanese miniature tree existed, the melody of the bell sounded, the descending major triad, and the apartment door immediately exerted the strong magnetism emanating from a still-invisible visitor.
â Yes, who is it?
â Hello, Herr Tätzel. Iâm the mother of . . . of the . . .
â Oh, yeah, okay, said Robert.
He didnât invite his neighbor in, but rather stood pointedly in the doorway. Her name was Rabl, he didnât know her first name. Or her sonâsâeven though he knew well that this was about him. A few days ago the kids who played in the courtyard had backed away from Robert as he walked to his car and had shouted something at him. Okay, he hadnât really been angry about it. He hadnât even understood what they had said.
â Yes, said the woman, I wanted to apologize to you for my son.
â What did he do?
â Um . . . well, itâs about last week . . . He confessed it to me only now, you know. And thatâs not the way Iâm raising him, which is why I was appalled by it. By what he called you.
Called?
Robert opened the door a little wider. A representative object pricking up its ears.
â Um, Iâd rather not repeat it, of course, I . . .
â No, said Robert, go ahead and say it, because I donât remember, honestly. I hear quite a lot of things. So what did he say?
â The d -word.
â Dingo?
His neighbor nodded.
â Okay, thatâs . . .
Robert searched for the right word. He couldnât think of anything.
â A-and . . . s . . . septic pig . . .
His neighborâs voice was barely audible. But Robert had understood.
â Fuck, he said, taking a step toward her out into the hallway.
â Oh, God, I shouldnât have said . . . I mean, repeated that, Herr Tätzel, Iâm sorry, please, my son has no idea what those words mean. They just use them casually!
â Yes, said Robert. You should see what they do with the mongoloid from the yard next door!
The woman winced.
â You know, said Robert, feeling his
Some marmels with dull red, almost black snouts roamed around the garbage cans below.
Now he felt the first thunder, it was still inaudible, but the finer nerves of the buildings had caught it and passed it on. Robert began to feel aggressive. He had to turn away from the windowâand instead went for the little bonsai tree on the kitchen table. I shouldnât do this. But the tree was so small, and besides, it was an insult to every eye trained in perspective, because no matter where it was in the room, it always appeared to be several hundred yards away, as if in that spot space had been bent and pulled into the distance with tweezers. A thing like that shouldnât even exist, he thought. And he also thought of the monkey, of its eyes, which had made him so calm, the little attempt at an emergency brake, but the monkey was painted, done, the peace was gone, and tons of water would soon fall from the sky, as heavy as studio rain in old silent films, liquid threads lashing wildly back and forth, capable of sweeping hats off bald human heads or knocking over sun umbrellas or within a few seconds turning whole façades into dark, shiny reflections of the street lighting.
Stop, stop.
Batman, I want to destroy this little tree. â Yes, you know, Robin, sometimes we have to do what our inner voice tells us to.
Just at that moment, as he reached for the ridiculously tiny cup in which the Japanese miniature tree existed, the melody of the bell sounded, the descending major triad, and the apartment door immediately exerted the strong magnetism emanating from a still-invisible visitor.
â Yes, who is it?
â Hello, Herr Tätzel. Iâm the mother of . . . of the . . .
â Oh, yeah, okay, said Robert.
He didnât invite his neighbor in, but rather stood pointedly in the doorway. Her name was Rabl, he didnât know her first name. Or her sonâsâeven though he knew well that this was about him. A few days ago the kids who played in the courtyard had backed away from Robert as he walked to his car and had shouted something at him. Okay, he hadnât really been angry about it. He hadnât even understood what they had said.
â Yes, said the woman, I wanted to apologize to you for my son.
â What did he do?
â Um . . . well, itâs about last week . . . He confessed it to me only now, you know. And thatâs not the way Iâm raising him, which is why I was appalled by it. By what he called you.
Called?
Robert opened the door a little wider. A representative object pricking up its ears.
â Um, Iâd rather not repeat it, of course, I . . .
â No, said Robert, go ahead and say it, because I donât remember, honestly. I hear quite a lot of things. So what did he say?
â The d -word.
â Dingo?
His neighbor nodded.
â Okay, thatâs . . .
Robert searched for the right word. He couldnât think of anything.
â A-and . . . s . . . septic pig . . .
His neighborâs voice was barely audible. But Robert had understood.
â Fuck, he said, taking a step toward her out into the hallway.
â Oh, God, I shouldnât have said . . . I mean, repeated that, Herr Tätzel, Iâm sorry, please, my son has no idea what those words mean. They just use them casually!
â Yes, said Robert. You should see what they do with the mongoloid from the yard next door!
The woman winced.
â You know, said Robert, feeling his
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