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  Since then, unknown paintings by Eulenboeck come onto the market quite regularly. In the hands of another heir, things could have taken a bad turn, but he had no family. No aunt from overseas and no distant cousin surfaced; luckily there was only me.

  I must be on my way, looking after an estate is a full-time job. Today I still have a date for coffee, a dinner, and then a second dinner: conferences, projects, more conferences. I look down at the street again doubtfully, where the three young men are just starting to move. A fourth, blond, wearing a red shirt, is coming toward them, and the three of them surround him.

  I turn away from the window and look at Holiday Snap No. 9 as if I were seeing it for the first time. The colors I used are more than thirty years old, as is the canvas: one of several I bought during Heinrich’s lifetime and set aside in his studio. He handled them at the time: if a forensic expert ever examines them, he’ll find the master’s fingerprints.

  I unlock the door, go out, and lock it again behind me. The better part of the day is already over, the rest will consist of administration and talk. The elevator grinds its way down toward the bottom.

  I step out onto the street. It’s hot. The four young men up ahead are no more than silhouettes, the brightness makes it hard to get a clear look at any of them. I just have to make it to the subway, and it’ll be cooler down inside. I wish I could call a taxi, but unfortunately there are no phone kiosks anymore. Sometimes it would be an advantage to have a cell phone.

  Something’s not right. They’re fighting. The three of them have got the fourth in the middle, and now one of them is grabbing his shoulder and giving him a shove while another catches him and shoves him back again. He’s surrounded. And I have to get past them.

  Meanwhile I can hear what they’re saying, but I don’t understand it, the words make no sense. My heart is thumping in an odd way: suddenly I no longer feel hot, and my head is clear. It must be the atavistic responses triggered by the proximity of violence. Should I go back the other way or keep going as if nothing were happening? It looks as if they’ll pay no attention to me, so I keep walking toward them. “I’ll kill you!” one of them yells quite openly and shoves the one in the middle again, and one of the others yells something as he shoves him back, like “I’m going to kill you,” but it could be something else too, and I want to call out to the one in the middle that he should pack it in, there are three of them, there’s only one of you, give up, but he’s big and strong and has a large chin, and—I give him a sideways glance as I go past—oxlike, empty eyes. And because it can’t just stay that way, with a shove and then another shove and no escalation from there, one of the three lashes out with his fist and hits the one in the middle on the head.

  But he doesn’t fall down. That’s not the way things happen in reality, someone doesn’t fall down right away. He just bends over and covers his face with his hand while the one who hit him whimpers and clutches his fist. It could look quite funny, but it doesn’t.

  I’m already past them. They’ve paid no attention to me. I hear a scream behind me. I keep going. Don’t turn around. Another scream. Just keep going. And then I do turn around.

  My pathetic curiosity. See, see everything, so see this too. Now it’s only the three of them standing there, the one in the middle has disappeared, like some magic trick, I think. They seem to be dancing, one of them forward, the other one backward, and it takes a few seconds for me to understand that the one in the middle hasn’t disappeared, he’s lying on the ground, and they’re kicking him and kicking him and kicking him.

  I stand still.

  Why are you standing still, I ask myself. Vanish, so that they don’t realize you’re a witness. That’s exactly what shoots through my brain: Don’t be a witness! As if I were dealing with the Mafia and not with some adolescents. I check the time, it’s shortly before four, and I tell myself that I must move on quickly, this kind of thing must happen all the time, as you can see if you have a secret studio in the worst neighborhood in the city.

  They’re still kicking the one who’s on the ground. From here, he’s just a huddled shadow, a bundle with legs. Keep going, I command myself, don’t get curious, disappear! So I keep walking, step by step—fast, but not at a run.

  But it’s in the wrong direction. I’m walking toward them again. Never have I felt so strongly that I’m not one person but several. One person who’s walking and one who’s giving futile orders to the one who’s walking, telling him to turn around. And I realize that it’s not just that I’m curious. I’m going to interfere.

  I’m just reaching them. It’s taken longer than I expected because with every step I take, time stretches out longer: I cover half the distance that separates me from them, then half of the distance that remains, and then half of that again, like the tortoise in the old story—and suddenly I’m almost certain I’ll never get there at all. I see their legs and heavy shoes flashing forward and backward, I see their arms rising and falling. I see their faces clenched with exertion, I see a television antenna glinting high above them, I see a plane way above that, I see a colorless beetle running its tiny way along a crack in the asphalt, but I see neither cars nor other pedestrians, the five of us are alone, and if I don’t interfere, no one else is going to do it.

  Now would be a really good time to have a phone. I keep walking. The half of the distance still remaining will have its own half, and that half yet another one, and I grasp that time is not only endlessly long but also endlessly dense, between one moment and the next lie an infinite number of moments; how can they possibly pass?

  They’re paying no attention to me, I could still turn around. The boy on the ground is holding his arms over his head, his legs are bent, and his torso is hunched. I realize that this may be the last moment I could actually steer clear of this thing. I stand still and croak, “Leave him alone!”

  They pay no attention. I could still turn back. Instead of a reply, what I hear is the person inside me, the one who’s not listening to the other one who’s begging him to keep quiet, again saying loudly, “Leave him alone! Stop that!”

  They pay no attention. What do I do? Interposing myself between them is out of the question, absolutely no one could expect that of me. Relieved, I’m on the point of turning around, but at that very moment they stop. All three, simultaneously, as if they’ve rehearsed it. They stare at me.

  “What?” says the biggest of them. His face is shadowed with stubble, he has a thin ring in his nose, and his T-shirt says Bubbletea is not a drink I like. He’s panting as if he’d just finished a heavy workout.

  The one next to him—this one’s T-shirt says Morning Tower—also says “What?,” in a shaky drawl.

  The third one just stares. His T-shirt displays a screaming red Y.

  The one on the ground lies motionless, breathing hard.

  It’s the critical moment. Now I have to say the right thing, find the right words, a sentence that will ease the tension, make things better, break them up, clear the air. Fear is supposed to make you think faster, but that’s not happening here. My heart is thumping, there’s a roaring in my ears, and the street seems to be turning slowly on its own axis. I didn’t know it was possible to be this afraid, it feels as if I’d never in my life been frightened before, and I’m just learning what fear is right now. Things were all fine just a moment ago, I was upstairs, behind a steel door, surrounded by safety. Can the switch happen at such speed, can the worst be so close at hand? And I think, Stop asking yourself things like this, you don’t have time, you have to say the right thing! And I think, Maybe there are moments when there are no right words anymore, moments when words have no meaning anymore, when they fall apart, when they lead nowhere, because whatever you say is simply irrelevant. And I think, Just stop thinking! And I think …

  Now Bubbletea is not a drink I like is coming at me, repeating “What!” but not the way it sounded before, not as a question and not in surprise, but as a naked threat.

  “He’s done,�
� I say. “He can’t even move anymore. He’s finished.” Not bad, I think, so I did actually manage to find something to say. “You guys are much stronger. He doesn’t have a chance, there’s no point anymore.”

  “And who are you?”

  That didn’t come from Bubbletea is not a drink I like, it came from Y. I hadn’t expected that of him. He’d struck me as harmless, a hanger-on, a bystander, almost a friend.

  “I’m …” But my voice is inaudible. I clear my throat, now it’s better. “… no one.” The ancient response given by Odysseus, tried and well tested in situations like this one. “I’m no one!”

  They stare.

  “If he dies, you’ll get sentenced to life.”

  I realize immediately that this was a mistake. First, he’s not going to die, and second, nobody under twenty gets sentenced to life. An entire army of juvenile lawyers, juvenile judges, and juvenile counselors makes that impossible, nobody’s life gets ruined that young anymore, as I know from my brother the priest. But if I’m in luck, they won’t know this.

  “The police are certainly already on their …”

  Things come together again: street, sky, voices, shadowy figures above me, and me on the ground, leaning against the wall of a house. My head hurts. I must have fainted.

  Stay sitting down! You’ve done enough. In the name of all the saints and all the devils and all that is beautiful in the world, stay sitting down!

  I get to my feet.

  How strange: usually people in danger turn out to be smaller, more gutless, more pitiful than they thought they were. That’s normal, that’s usual, that’s what you expect of yourself. You’re convinced you’ll be revealed as a coward at the first opportunity. And now this. Ivan Friedland, aesthete, curator, wearer of expensive suits, is a hero. I could have done without it.

  I’m up on my legs. With one hand I’m supporting myself against the wall, with the other I’m struggling to find my balance. This time I don’t have to say a word—the sheer effrontery of my getting up at all is enough: they don’t back off.

  “So who are you?” Y asks again.

  “If only I knew.” People have used jokes to get themselves out of bad spots like this.

  “Are you nuts?” asks Y.

  And Bubbletea is not a drink I like, as if surprised by this realization, says, “Knock it off, Ron. The guy’s nuts.”

  Then I notice that something has opened in Morning Tower’s hand, something small and silvery and wicked. Things have turned serious. Even if I’d thought they were serious already—I was wrong, they weren’t. They are now. “Do you want to kill him?” I ask. But it’s not about him anymore.

  “Ron!” says Morning Tower to Bubbletea is not a drink I like. “Shut up!”

  “No, Ron!” says Y. “You shut up.”

  It must be me who’s confused, they can’t all be called Ron. To cover up the pounding of my heart, I ask exaggeratedly loudly if it’s money they want.

  But they just stare and say nothing, and I get the feeling I’ve made another mistake. The pain throbs in my forehead. Maybe I should show them some cash. My jacket, its thin fabric tailored by Kilgour in London, is so wet I might have just climbed out of the water. I move my hand toward the wallet in my inner pocket, realize that their looks have changed, try to complete the gesture so that there won’t be any misunderstanding, and know, even as my fingertips brush the leather, that this was yet another mistake: Y ducks away, Bubbletea is not a drink I like takes a step back, Morning Tower’s hand shoots out and touches me, and as I am pulling out the wallet, pain shoots through my chest, my head, and my arms, flames outward, piercing through asphalt, parked cars, houses, sky, and sun, filling the world, becoming the world, then turns back on itself and is inside me again. My wallet lands on the ground, but I flap my arms, and keep my balance, and don’t fall.

  I look at the three of them. They look at me: calmly, almost as if they’re curious, and their rage had suddenly dissipated. Not dumb, not angry, just confused. I think Bubbletea may even be trying to smile at me. I try to smile back, but I don’t manage it, I’m feeling very weak.

  Y picks up my wallet, looks at it in a questioning way, and drops it again. Then they run. I look after them until they disappear around the corner.

  The boy at my feet moves. He stretches, moves softly, holds out his arms, turns around, and tries to stand up. His face is swollen and bloody, but still he doesn’t seem to be that badly hurt. No, he’s not going to die. He probably won’t even have to go to the hospital. He rolls forward, gets his elbows on the ground, and pushes himself shakily onto his feet.

  “Everything’s okay,” I say. “Don’t get upset. Everything’s good.”

  He blinks at me.

  “Everything’s good,” I say. “Everything’s good.”

  He takes a few wobbling steps toward my wallet, picks it up, and looks inside. His right eye is closed, the eyelid is twitching, blood is running out of one ear. There’s absolutely nothing written on his red T-shirt.

  “Shit,” he says.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “I really gave it to Ron last week, and now they caught up with me when I was alone.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “They’re coming back,” he says. “They’re coming, they’re coming back, they’re on their way here already. They’re coming back.” Deep in thought, he pockets my wallet, then turns away and wobbles off.

  Did he say they’re going to come back, did he really say that? Cautiously, step by step, I cross the street. I must not fall down. Once I lie down, I won’t be able to get up again. Every breath I take is like a jab, and each time I extend my leg, bolts of pain shoot through me. There in front of me is the door, that’s where I have to go, behind it the elevator is waiting, up there is my studio, secure behind its secure steel door, they can’t get in there, it’s safe in there, I’ll be safe if they come back.

  The street is so wide. I must not faint, it’s only a few more steps.

  On I go. He took my wallet!

  And on I go. If they really are all called Ron, it won’t be hard to find them. But maybe they were just doing it to confuse me.

  And on I go. Can the heat be melting the asphalt, is that possible? My shoes are sinking in, and little waves are running across the sticky mass.

  And on I go. There, the door, the key in my trouser pocket, the key has to go in the door, the door needs the key, but I still am not there yet. Why is there no one here? No car, no one at a window, but perhaps this is good, because if someone were here, it could be the three of them again, he said they’d come back. The door. The key. It must be the right one, the one for the front door, not the one for the studio, and not the one for my apartment, because that’s not where I am, where I am is here.

  And on I go. Just a few more steps. A few. And again a few. Keep going. A few more. A few steps. The key. The door. Here.

  It slips, scrapes across the metal, the keyhole is dodging me, to the right then to the left, my hand is shaking but I can feel it, get the key in, turn it, the door opens, into the house, the elevator, I push the button for the fifth floor, the elevator jerks.

  A man is standing next to me, a moment ago he wasn’t here. He has a hideous gap between his teeth, and a battered hat. He says, “Jaegerstrasse 15b.”

  “Yes,” I say. “That’s here. That’s the address of this house. Jaegerstrasse 15b.”

  “Jaegerstrasse 15b,” he repeats. “Fifth floor.”

  “Yes,” I say. “We’re going to the fifth floor.”

  We’ve already gotten there, the elevator stops, the door opens, the man is no longer there, I get out; now everything depends on getting the second key into the lock. I’m in luck, the door opens, I go in and lock it behind me. Then I take hold of the bolt—for a moment it doesn’t seem to want to move, but then it does slide sideways with a squeak, and the door is blocked. I’ve done it, I’ve reached safety.

  I want to sit down. The chair is over against the opposite wall, but
relief gives me strength. I walk and I walk, and eventually I get there. What I really want to do is sleep, long and deep, until everything is better.

  I touch my stomach. My hand comes away wet, my jacket is wet, my pants are wet too, I cannot remember when I ever sweated this much. I hold my hand in front of my eyes. It’s red.

  And there he is again, with his hat and the gap between his teeth, and even as I’m looking at him, I guess that he’s about to disappear again.

  “Go to your brother,” he says, “help him. Jaegerstrasse 15b, fifth floor. Go!”

  Instead of answering that it isn’t my brother here, it’s me, I blink in the direction of Holiday Snap No. 9, and there he is again, looking in from outside, no mean trick to keep his balance on the window ledge up on the fifth floor! I can read his lips: Jaegerstrasse 15b, fifth floor, and I want to cry, “You there, I know where I am!” but it’s too much of an effort and now he’s already disappeared again.

  I’m cold.

  In fact, I’m shivering. My teeth are chattering, and when I hold my hand up in front of my eyes, I see it’s trembling. Heinrich comes in with his mustache and his stick and his cane, and goes over to the window. Behind his head an airplane moves through the streaks on the windowpane like a little fish swimming through water, and already we’re in a meadow, and I’m smaller than I was a moment ago, and Papa and Mama are saying that I should drink water, and I ask Papa if he wasn’t Heinrich just now, and he wants to know if I’m really not thirsty, and I say, Yes, I’m really thirsty and a little way off Eric is sitting in the grass looking so exactly like me that I feel I’m him. I dig around in the blades of grass, find a worm, and pick it up, it coils itself across my palm, Papa bends over my shoulder, and the feeling of safety remains even as I look around the studio. The worm on my hand isn’t a worm, it’s blood, and Heinrich says, You have to get out of here, or it’ll be too late.