But today this country policeman does not look at all cheerful to me. No one will one day have him as a husband, because he's already married and asks his wife almost every third day how she is. Then he's away again, from place to place, where he stops cars, as if he could stop himself. To see in love of all things the fulfilment of his financial longings, in a caring hand, which hands him stocks and shares, anonymous saving bank books and golden watches, in a soft body, which offers him its fantastic, firm, magnificent covering, provided with a super veneer, so that he, the country policeman, at last has security, what do you say to that? You are bored by such tenderness? What can I say to that?

No further lights went out, Gabi's will be the only one, I hope, though one can never know what will occur to the unappreciated mixed-up minds of the desperate. Other women have disappeared here, at greater intervals, no, I'm not saying anything more about that now. Growling, the tires get stuck into the ground, don't want to let go, then hurry on nevertheless, where to, fortunately it's still the winter tires on this cold track, on which they rush away in two deep well-worn icy ruts. The air rises up against the vehicles, which are driving along poorly cleared detours, which force them to go up into the mountains by way of the forest tracks, where snow is still lying on hidden routes which outsiders don't know. It plays happily with them, the oncoming air with the few cars, caresses their shiny, colored bodies, one of them belongs to the country policeman, his face is quite expressionless, what does it matter, no one sees it. A woman is supposed (he called earlier) to be stretching out expectantly towards him in her house, and she is supposed to snuff it, but not too soon. That would perhaps be the best long-term solution, for the house as for the woman. But not too soon. He just came off duty, now we're driving straight to her. Can it be that she didn't open up yesterday, although she was definitely at home? No. That's impossible. That she was eating thoughtfully at home, piling salami and ham on bread to the accompaniment of her favorite music, by candlelight, which is romantic, but only a deux, since it's a pleasure to make a fuss. Except every flame is a potential fire hazard, let's be honest, and should be avoided, if Christmas is over and a person hasn't disposed of his Christmas tree in time. The country policeman will at all events try, after some walking up and down and scouting around, to get into this house, which today he wants to conquer in a surprise attack. It's all taking too long for him. His fingers are itching to angrily beat the woman if she doesn't want to give up her house voluntarily, he clenches his fist on the driving wheel, just not to feel once again the steely firmness of her nipples scratching around between his fingers, are such tiny taps, which have remained shut to every child for life, only later to fall into the hands of a freebooter for free, I too now almost feel their contentless pointed stoniness between my fingers, I have properly sealed and hung these two old sacks, these skin-colored airbags with the milky-blue veins, the producers made quite an effort there on their silken assembly line, which-there's not much to be done about that now-forthwith and to the end will no longer contain anything that could even remotely serve anyone as nourishment. They are to serve purely for pleasure, the two of them, but please not for the pleasure of the country policeman again, who's not interested, and it's not a pleasure either, he doesn't care if they make more agreeable acquaintanceships, how nice for them. But the house for him! I wish I could say the same about myself. They would jump into the country policeman's hands with joy at any time, the two dumplings, because he at least, one among millions of the like-minded, who from time to time get instructions to confess something which they haven't done, so that they can remain silent about what they have done, he at least knows exactly how to turn a woman's switch between thumb and index finger, look, it's quite easy to be a creator when the corresponding creature is already present but doesn't know it yet. The desert lives, and in order to live, it must already have contained all this energy, this momentum. No? This desert wants to be decently serviced, if you please, that's the least that can be expected, otherwise perhaps it will wait in vain. You won't believe it, but to make it bloom requires only a little skill and the affection of a talented handyman who knows the way things are and will perhaps be moved once again, just once more, pleaseplease, through kissing and pleading, at last to step a little closer, even if he's already standing on one's toes with all his weight. We wouldn't even have noticed that. Please, gentlemen, come and pinch my nipples, pinch them really firmly! And we'll manage to go a little further down as well, my dear fingers, that little race track, not worth mentioning, down to the fleece, this matted material at the end of the stomach, made of organic fibers, which would melt in the heat if anyone could ever warm to them. Well, we won't set the whole house alight to get a woman on heat and to guide the turbulent flow movements of a cock into her, until everything goes down the river bank and disappears in the water. The house is supposed to remain standing. Then we won't need much more to be happy.

What do you want? The woman appears in the door, as if surrounded by a whole troop of guards. Why. This security will, as always, disappear completely in about ten seconds. She'll be trembling then and not know why. That's a start. The man pushes past her, as if he were avoiding a vehicle in the snow, he doesn't brush against her, will have to bump her later on, because it's expected of him that he'll be rough. And he couldn't act any differently anyway. He hates her. He could keep still, yet the coarseness would break out without him doing anything about it and crash through the thin fence in front of the feeding enclosure, while the more docile hinds are still politely showing their admission tickets after forming an orderly line. Have you already heard about Gabi. This is her bag. She forgot it here, you remember, the day before yesterday. Did she. Give it to me, I'll hand it over to my colleagues dealing with the case. I don't know where Gabi could have gone afterwards. Do you know? She must have been somewhere. Why haven't you moved out yet. Be quiet. I'm talking now. I told you, the next time you should already be undressed when I come, why don't you do what I say. On the contrary, you did what I said. Give me a kissy pleaseplease. I always want to be among the first, right there at the front. Perhaps that's my mistake. If my father were still alive, then my life would have been completely different. In my father I would have had someone who's got a similar character to mine, who understands me and protects me. He was killed in the war. I miss someone whom I never knew more than someone whom I know now. Most of all I miss someone who doesn't exist at all. Not yet. But one mustn't give up hope. Says the woman, whose home is warm, cozy and clean. No one is listening to her. The country policeman tugs absent-mindedly and clumsily at her top, which she has lifted up especially for him, she thinks there's something there just for him, that he will absolutely want to study. But he doesn't read, not in her eyes, not on her body, because he knows this book, every book, by heart beforehand. He gulps down the woman at the kitchen table, where everything is prepared. She quickly has to put the plates on the sideboard again, as she hears the material of her skirt tear, she clears everything away, though there's no charm in the arrangement, she can't bother with that now, when it comes to the last little bowls with olives, miniature corn cobs, more olives, and pickled pumpkin chunks, she can no longer see where she's putting them and hears the clattering of china, but it's only the good-humored collision of two ships, meeting at night on a sideboard instead of at sea, not the grinding squealing of things shattering. Hopefully, that will not all come flying down now and make a terrible mess, she's still thinking, as he's already shoving up her dress, pulling her panties past her knees and turning her around, all as usual, so that this time, too, he doesn't have to look at this charmless face, which would like to ask him something and doesn't dare, well, and now he presses the upper part of her body, her chest, which he has briefly and hurriedly kneaded, after he had first lifted the whoppers out of the bra and, squeezed together like two pancakes, because he's loaded the whole of the woman's weight onto them and basically squashed them flat, giving them a form, which was not originally intended, throws her down on the unfloured table top, and her head as well, gripped by the neck, like a whip, the hair gripped by another hand, giving additional assistance, down, down with you, you tramp, down, while she's still quickly trying to explain the Nice Weekend Program that she's prepared for him, together with the starting times, feverishly, as if what counted was to plan the whole weekend in five minutes and immediately put it behind one as well and if possible also quickly attach the instructions for the video recorder. So. She'll be quiet in a minute, the woman, and her hair falls over her, beside her on the table top, where to begin with she still tried to support herself with her hands, in order to take a little of the weight of her body off the hard table, to relieve the pressure. She can do that, if she likes, she won't keep it up for long, she has to bear his weight behind her as well, so, and now spread the legs and relax the inner muscles, otherwise you'll get a whack on the ass. I see she still finds this task difficult, and in such an uncomfortable position as well. Yet she planned everything carefully, even if quite differently. A leading role was to be played by a mountain hotel on the Semmering Pass. But God thinks and the director does what he wants. Rejected. Too expensive. Lend me the money. I can't leave. What could I say to my wife. Are you going to open up now, I don't have to get in there, you're the one who always wants it, what are you waiting for, I don't need you. Financially speaking I'm facing ruin anyway. A pile of ruins. And what are you going to do about it. The woman feels him breathing heavily on her neck and biting into the two tendons that attach her head to her body. Please. Please don't. Ow. Good, if one's honest. But one should at least know beforehand what one wants. You want it or don't you? Yes but. But why do I always have to suffer like this? Why is my hair so tousled, right after going to the hairdresser? Why is my new skirt torn? Why does the country policeman not feel sorry for the woman? Why does she love and sacrifice herself and not entertain any suspicion? Why is this woman so weak and often has very bad moments when she is alone? Why did he promise her a weekend on the Semmering if he in any case never wanted to go there? Why did she not know that he wouldn't want to go there? Why does her fear not subside? Why don't we often go abroad, where we, too, could feel like new? Perhaps because we like each other enough to just stay here? Why do we love and sacrifice ourselves? Why don't we change our approach, even if we have to admit to ourselves that we are deceived and exploited? Why does this man always stick his cock, after he has wiped it with a piece of absorbent paper (take a look at the screen, yes, that's the paper I mean, the one with the particularly absorbent honeycombs, your ears are nothing compared to it, and your mind ditto, one can even pour water onto it and put a pound of vegetables on it) from a kitchen roll, in so quickly again? Why does he always pat her head briefly like that, as if he would really like to hand out a couple of good slaps instead, that can drive one crazy? When will she come down to earth? After the journey back, which isn't necessary, because the woman is already at home? Why doesn't she have a photo of him? Why has he never given her a present, not even flowers or a piece of cake from the cafe? Why does she always have to wipe herself without him helping her? Where have the paper tissues got to again? There's only this paper towel, and its little dress is absorbent, that's true, but a bit stiff. And this careless pincer-pinching of the left nipple between the fingernails, did he absolutely have to do that, too? The pain is terrible, I've never felt anything like it, it'll turn red and swell up, and the next time he does it again, in the same place, hello. Yes, pinching and no kissing was definitely part of it. It simply occurred to the man, specialist and pleasure-seeker in one, and he immediately did it, it's not work for him, merely something to do. It occurred to him and he immediately carried it out. We can understand that, it was perhaps the final playful surprise, which an artist bestowed on his completed work, before yet again no one will buy it from him. When will the difficult everyday life of the woman continue? Tomorrow? The day after tomorrow? Next week? The music still radiates in its case, but cannot penetrate the darkness. In a moment it will once again be allowed to pour out its treasures before these two people, who have not found their way to one another. It can hardly wait to break out behind the cordon of the CD player and be allowed to flood this home, desired like hardly another, like an angry torrent of people protesting against the government and prevented only by a couple of wire fences from sweeping away everything that is not in keeping with their will. Nazis out. The country policeman's cock has slipped in and out again, this loose bird, which knows its way around its little house, which is just as big as it is itself, but no bigger, a wonder, however, that it can move around in it at all. It doesn't only want to eat, at least it sometimes leaves something behind, its little doing, its dropping, that's the way they are, the birds. Basically they are no different from us. They can control themselves just as little, and yet our gaze rests on them with pleasure as they hop to their nesting places and away again. They leave their shit behind, but they themselves never stay. And: No, they don't treat anyone. They're treated, the sparrows, fetch their grains, sunflower seeds, nuts, cereals. The feed is there, so the birds are there, too. If there were no grains for them, they just wouldn't come. Nature has absolutely no mercy on us, not even in little things. Nothing comes from nothing. And if there were no grounds for existence, we wouldn't exist either. We do possess the honest aim of slipping through fate's fingers, but this country policeman is someone who gets a grip on things, on the neck, on the hair, on the ass, he doesn't leave off and he doesn't leave any bit of us out. Nor does he leave any of this cut meat, which he gulps down standing, straight from the sideboard, where the plates have been shoved under and on top of one another like icebergs. It surely doesn't matter where the plates are standing. Wherever they are, there I'll come and eat. Would be a waste otherwise. No problem. What's the problem about that. Only God, shocked at everything that he's forced to see, has determined at which bird table he expects himself to be distributed, in wafer form, as food. We're not allowed to take him home and perhaps even stick him in the oven to heat him up. Yesterday a lawyer drew up an agreement. Please take a seat, sit down and don't listen to me any longer. Just do it. I'll be brief. But not just yet. Please wait.