He picks up a telephone hung on the wall next to him. I don't remember what happens next; I faint. I wake up in a hospital bed.

I stay in the hospital for three days. I undergo all sorts of examinations. At last the cardiologist comes to see me.

"You can get up and dress. You're going back to the embassy."

I ask, "You're not going to operate on me?"

"No operation is necessary. Your heart is perfectly sound. Your pains are the result of anxiety and nervousness and a profound depression. Don't take any more trinitrine, just the sedatives I've prescribed for you."

He extends his hand to me. "Don't be afraid. You still have a very long time to live."

"I don't want to live much longer."

"As soon as you're out of your depression you'll change your mind."

A car returns me to the embassy. I am brought into an office. A smiling young man with curly hair motions me toward a leather armchair.

"Have a seat. I'm happy that everything went well at the hospital. But that's not why I called you here. You're looking for your family, and for your brother in particular, are you not?"

"Yes, my twin brother. But not very hopefully. Have you found something? I was told that the archives were destroyed."

"I didn't need the archives. I simply looked in the phone book. There's a man in this city whose name is the same as yours. The same last name as well as first name."

"Claus?"

"Yes, Klaus T., with a 'K.' So it obviously can't be your brother. But he might be related to you and could give you some information. Here is his address and telephone number in case you'd like to contact him."

I take the address and say, "I don't know. I'd like to see the street he lives on and his house first."

"I understand. We can spin by around five-thirty. I'll come with you. Without valid papers you can't go out alone."

We cross the city. It is already almost night. In the car the curly-haired man says to me, "I did some research on your homonym. He's one of this country's most important poets."

I say, "The bookseller who rented me her apartment never mentioned it. And yet she must have known his name."

"Not necessarily. Klaus T. writes under a pen name, Klaus Lucas. He's said to be a misanthrope. He's never seen in public and nothing is known about his private life."

The car stops in a narrow street between two rows of single- storied houses surrounded by gardens.

The curly-haired man says, 'There-number eighteen. This is it. It's one of the prettiest parts of the city. Also the quietest and most expensive."

I say nothing. I look at the house. It is somewhat set back from the street. A few steps lead from the garden to the front door. The green shutters are open on the four windows that look out onto the street. A light is on in the kitchen, and a blue light soon appears in the two living room windows. For the moment the study remains dark. The other part of the house, the part that looks out over the courtyard in the back, is invisible from here. There are three more rooms there: the parents' bedroom, the children's room, and a guest bedroom that Mother used mostly as a sewing room.

In the courtyard there was sort of a shed for firewood, bikes, and our larger toys. I remember two red tricycles and wooden scooters. I also recall hoops that we rolled down the street with sticks. A huge kite leaned against one of the walls. In the courtyard there was a swing with two seats hanging side by side. Our mother pushed us, and we tried to swing up into the branches of the walnut tree that may still be there behind the house.

The man from the embassy asks me, "Does all this remind you of anything?"

I say, "No, nothing. I was only four at the time."

"Do you want to try right now?"

"No, I'll call tonight."

"Yes, that would be best. He's not a man who readily receives visitors. It might be impossible for you to see him."

We return to the embassy. I go up to my room. I place the number beside the telephone. I take a sedative and open the window. It's snowing. The flakes make a watery sound as they fall on the yellow grass and black earth of the garden. I lie down on the bed.

I walk through the streets of an unfamiliar town. It's snowing and growing darker and darker. The streets I am following become less and less well lit. Our old house is on one of the last streets. Farther off it is already the countryside. A completely lightless night. There is a bar across from the house. I go in and order a bottle of wine. I am the only customer.

The windows of the house light up all at once. I see shadows moving through the curtains. I finish the bottle, leave the bar, cross the street, and ring at the garden door. No one answers; the bell isn't working. I open the cast-iron gate; it isn't locked. I climb the five steps that lead to the door on the veranda. I ring again. Two times, three times. A man's voice asks from behind the door, "Who is it? What do you want? Who are you?"

I say, "It's me, Claus."

"Claus? Claus who?"

"Don't you have a son named Claus?"

"Our son is here, inside the house. With us. Leave."

The man moves away from the door. I ring again, knock, cry out, "Father, Father, let me in. I made a mistake. My name is Lucas. I'm your son Lucas."

A woman's voice says, "Let him in."

The door opens. An old man says to me, "Come in, then."

He leads me into the living room and sits down in an armchair. A very old woman is seated in another. She says to me, "So, you claim to be our son Lucas? Where were you until now?"

"Abroad."

My father says, "Yes, abroad. And why have you come back now?"

"To see you, Father. You both, and Klaus too."

My mother says, "Klaus didn't go away."

Father says, "We looked for you for years."

Mother continues, "After that we forgot you. You shouldn't have come back. It's upsetting everyone. We lead quiet lives and we don't want to be upset."

I ask, "Where is Klaus? I want to see him."

Mother says, "He's in his room. As usual. He's sleeping. He mustn't be woken up. He's only four, he needs his sleep."

Father says, "Nothing proves that you're Lucas. Go away."

I don't hear them anymore; I leave the living room, open the door to the children's room, and switch on the ceiling light. Sitting up in his bed, a little boy looks at me and begins to cry. My parents run in. Mother takes the little boy in her arms and rocks him.

"Don't be afraid, little one."

Father grabs my arm, pulls me across the living room and the veranda, opens the door, and shoves me down the stairs.

"You woke him up, you idiot. Get lost." I fall, my head strikes a step, I bleed, I lie there in the snow.

The cold awakens me. The wind and snow are coming into my room and the floor under the window is wet.

I shut the window, fetch a towel from the bathroom, and sponge up the puddle. I tremble and my teeth chatter. It's hot in the bathroom; I sit on the edge of the tub, take another sedative, and wait for my shivering to stop.

It's seven in the evening. I am brought a meal. I ask the waiter if I can have a bottle of wine.

He says, "I'll go see."

He brings the bottle several minutes later.

I say, "You can clear away the tray."

I drink. I pace around my room. From the window to the door, from the door to the window.

At eight I sit down on the bed and dial my brother's telephone number.