NINE

Let us treat small figures as something big. We become uneasy, because we ourselves could be among them, without having grown big. Likewise. To have remained forever small, despite everything: the judgment. Whatever we produce, it finds no takers, no one takes it. No buyer. We protest many things, we didn't mean it like that, but the EU tugs at us with its maternal hands, we can't even blow our noses anymore without being sternly watched by it. What have we got up to this time? A tasty dessert pancake. Mr. Fuchs with his arm stumps which went down a bomb wouldn't have managed that, he's not allowed to belong to us, although all his work was on our behalf. Now he's hanged himself on a hook in the wall. He peeled off the cable covering of his electric razor with his teeth, unpicked all the plastic with calm patience. At the end death was thirsting day and night for the sight of him. His chin he had described as Germanic, the nose does not express anything, Germans of the North, of the East, non-Germans and the remaining Slavs have one exactly the same. The battle is already over. Mr. Fuchs from Gralla says he doesn't need weeping and wailing, nothing comes of it. The battle is already over, he certainly thinks that he fought and risked a great deal. That too is over. The tourist trade is over a bit too now, because we're being boycotted in Europe. But that something, too, will pass, Europe will get used to us, it will also get used to people wandering around hanging their heads because they don't have a job. If you please, we'll give them one. Without money there is no customer whom we could get back to.

Let's drive to the capital, the woman says to herself early in the morning. Before, as every day, the feeling of anxiety comes, we'll get into the car. Life owes it to her to drive, she's sat long enough and looked at it. Now everything should move a little faster, even if not as fast as at the Villach carnival, where everything races fast-forward past us, so that it doesn't occur to us to want to grasp anything. Here's the gray ribbon of the motorway already, which looks quite like the lake, which on some winter days also looks like a concrete surface. Hello. The car gets the ribbon under its tires and resolutely measures it out, perhaps at the end it will give a little encore, the way in an old-fashioned haberdasher's the sales assistant adds a little extra, but not on the speed. It's never quiet, because here, too, the woman has immediately inserted a cassette and is listening to a piano concerto. Although I don't know her character, and so could not describe it, I think, in some photos, but not on others, it's as if she's waiting for something, but it's probably because one's not supposed to move for a photograph, yet at the same time at least look animated. Yet not every quiet person is waiting for something. Some wait at last to be allowed to move into themselves. They have made provision for that. Before one places the furniture inside oneself, the joys and longings, one should at least cover up everything that could remind one of earlier days. Best to give everything a new coat of paint. If that's not possible, one keeps on painting the outside.

I don't know why the woman, who has now already reached the suburbs of the capital, absolutely wants to drive to where she used to live, a spread-out suburban development on the western edge of the city. There no limit has ever been set to the human imagination, that's nice, but what arose is not so nice. Alpine high pressure systems-built villas with ready-made and clamped-on all-round balconies, laden with truckloads of begonias and geraniums, with which the house glows red, please hurl down a bolt of lightning, God, a more powerful charge, so that something more beautiful in us can dream of not having been here at all! Please, this impression in me must be erased immediately. Other houses again are a copy of big city houses, only much smaller. I plead in friendly fashion for the expression of this early Roman front garden, fountains, concrete bracing, rose hedge stress relief to be taken from me again, before it falls out of my eyes and onto my feet. On my feet it won't get far, this ecstatic expression. This is a nice little house, too, they've added extra stories of between 70 and 150 square yards per story and they could have gone on over ten stories, the dear owners. It is surely satisfactory to unsatisfactory to be able to make a skyscraper out of an Alpine hut, at least it would satisfy me, I wouldn't have to look for any second person, because my house would then really be enough for me. The woman always drives off with her car. Already in Spital on the Semmering she's longing for her partner, whom she would likewise, in order for once to enjoy life to the full before it's too late, want to expand into a house in which she can live, cook, eat, sleep, and afterwards escape scot-free. She suspects, however, that he would prefer to own one story of her house rather than her as a whole. He wants to have everything for himself. Even if he got her for free, he would still only be interested in the bonus, the house, so as to be put in it. This is a marriage that will not take place. The woman will have to admit it to herself, I won't leave her in peace until she does. She comes up to me here, sees my social circle, stops short, because only one person is important to her, then she turns round and disappears again into the morning twilight, a pity, because I almost had her in my hands! I had almost caught hold of her, I already felt her fingertips. I hurry after her, surprised that the woman has escaped me, putting my hand to my mouth, as often, when I laugh in my sort of institution, where I live. No, it's not an institution, because apart from me there's no one here apart from the Catholic Charitable organization, which says: here I am and wants money from me and has sent a Giro transfer form. The woman and I, are we one? We are not yet at one, as to whether we have the same plan, but it wouldn't surprise me. So. First we follow the arrow for Center, but then take the turn-off for the Wiental. There, too, a river rushes, but can only bite its immediate surroundings, and even then only at flood, three times a year, at the most. Otherwise one hardly sees it. Is it necessary, then, that the river, too, is as nice as the woman? The river could easily be more cruel as far as I'm concerned, just a moment, here's someone who would like to talk to me, he'll soon be past. I duck down behind the driving wheel, perhaps he won't recognize me. He walks on. I go on. The water will eat us all up and swallow us yet. Like these two men, two of many, who have disappeared and never surfaced again, in the water, this gate, through which some stride, the others, however, through another, where to? Imagine a Sunday evening, a collapsible canoe, which, full of water, is lying in a bed of reeds, a last resting place, so to speak, half sunk in the flesh of the water, at its widest the construction measures thirty-three inches. Two paddlers set out in it and have disappeared, two young men, which is something we would like to be, but not these ones, you're about to find out why. They set out on a winter's day, a cold wind was blowing, the water was ice cold, perhaps there would soon be ice, unbelievably still. Do you see the many children's hands holding up their rubber ducks or the arms that go with them, and they stick out of their water wings like corks stuck in by their parents, do you hear the squealing, the splashing, the laughter, do you see the sand pits? Or do you see, for example, the female figure skater, who in a fast spin cuts a hole in the ice, in which she herself will be the cork? That would mean that it wasn't summer, as it isn't now either. So we take everything back again, it's only words on paper. Now it's gone, I don't even need to understand it. Before my anxiety returns, which is dear to me, but basically always keeps me away from water. Let's just stay, nothing is going to happen to us, with the two men in their collapsible boat in the water. There's a fire burning somewhere, there's a tent somewhere, I'm also at home somewhere, where I can turn up the heating, but not here. Something is being heated up on a Primus stove, human hands curve over the flames, a pot reveals something, then it's on to the next stage of a journey, during which the signs of life become increasingly rare, disappear, also the most curious habits people can adopt, e.g. washing their hands before eating. A couple of pebbles scraped together, branches oddly crossed on top of one another, two bottle shards, a plastic bag half-filled with wind, I don't need to explain it, because it will soon disappear into finality, and with that it will be superfluous. No effort anymore. I, too, have a long journey behind me. A ship of life floats by, a boat that glides, threatened by ice and the depths, I hope it will come back. Markings on a hydrographic chart, which tries to convince us that water is solid, blue in color, and one could lodge in it as in a room and appear where and whenever one wants. Oh, if one could be part of a couple, it doesn't matter with whom, perhaps like these two young men who have disappeared, thinks the woman while driving. The two packed up their collapsible boat like a seabag and traveled by train, until they reached the water. Then onto the water with their awkward baggage. The trail, which places no value on itself, disappears, a trail for which only packing and sending itself forth are the most important thing, no matter where to, just away! That's then supposed to be the end of any cozy pillow business, and here it is already idly circling, the boat, drifting along, later, much later, within a radius of fifty yards, paddles, knapsacks, a tent, cooking utensils, food, an ID card, and a check card of one of the missing can be located, nothing more. You, water, what have you been up to again? Why are there such gaping holes at the bow and on both sides of the boat? As if someone or something had cleanly slit open the bow, as if with a razor blade. We're not the Titanic, and if we were, then we could earn a lot of money with having disappeared. Yet ice can form on shallow waters more quickly than where it's deep. Did it form? When a stretch of water freezes over so quickly, then the layer of ice is very thin, like a film, and so sharp that one can cut one's hand on it, that's even happened to me with paper, in pleasant, comfortable warmth. I really didn't need anything more than paper to do it. If such a collapsible boat collides with such a layer of ice, then things happen relatively fast. The water comes in, and the people have to get out. The boat is full. Let's take a look at the weather: in the morning not much cloud, intermittent sunshine. Until the early afternoon persistent early mist and low stratus cloud. After it disperses the daytime temperature rises to about 6 degrees plus. At night the temperature may fall below freezing in places. Then it's a question of either 300 yards forward or 300 yards back, because even fit athletes don't last long in ice-cold water, only a few minutes. After that they, too, are gone, the minutes and the people. They're still gone today, with their families I think of them now, please do so, too, wherever you are. If you have never thought of anyone, then it's good practice for the beginner. The beginner doesn't have to think of millions, he only has to think of two young men. Think of the dead immediately, e.g. of the drowned, of whom two here can no longer speak for the others and who don't allow themselves to speak either. The mobile phone is switched off. If you look down into the water, the shadows there, they're not people, they're tree trunks, which sank, there, yes, look, that is only a sunken, rusted boat, and that there, on the right, those are just boulders. Whether the dead ever emerge again, that would indeed interest me. They can do so from the past, no question. But can they do it from the water? Gabi certainly can, no problem. Take her case, pack up her worries or let someone else pack them, have worries or give someone else worries, take a deep breath, get wrapped up in a green tarpaulin, but a human being is no airplane, the air doesn't bear and keep her, a human being is not a boat, this water doesn't bear her, a human being is a piece of meat, herself made almost entirely of water and air, if she can get hold of them. Some do not come back at all from the dead, it simply can't be predicted. Current, depth of water, and temperature all play an important part, which unfortunately was not often granted people in their own lives, I almost believe that for some their burial is the best thing they'll ever experience. The colder the water, the slower the process of decomposition and hence of the gas formation, which usually forces the dead up to the surface, where they can happily have their say, if they meet someone. Why then does the latter run away? There was so much to tell him. Don't be afraid of death! There are so many already dead, you'll manage it too. Everyone has managed it so far, even a complete idiot like you, like me, can do it if he one to. Make sure that your body is stored, but not too long! You were already unreasonable beforehand, but now there's an extra difficulty, about which you won't be able to say a single word. If the water is cold, the body does not decompose, instead an adipose formation takes place, in which the soft parts, where fat had developed, are turned completely to wax, that is, what had grown is now firm and remains almost unchanged in appearance, imagine that. Later there follows a kind of chalk stage, which, however, I am unable to describe, because I have not yet penetrated so deeply into nothingness and can also only grasp what exists if I can see it or can put myself in a state of a caring relationship to it. I can't. But I could also turn to a pathology textbook for help, only: It wouldn't help me. This drowned angler drifted under the surface of the water for four months, and he is still as good as new. This girl in the lake with her dead dear soft lips-I urge this delicate area, this beautiful milieu of a lake, to at last hold its mouth, it has already spoken far too often here, but it wouldn't have been necessary, the lake doesn't say a word anyway, unlike me, but earlier it did let something slip, as I see-though it was only in the ice-cold water for a couple of days, but even if she had stayed in the water longer, her body would probably have been almost preserved, although this water is permanently at the tipping point, hop into purity, skip into greater gassiness, eutrophicity, where there are rather too many living things than too few, how often am I still going to say it, well, no doubt you'll reproach me with having done so far too often already: fertilizer, fertilizer, fertilizer!, but no animals, no, one can't see any of the creatures in here with an unarmed eye. It tipped this girl out in time, the water. Silent forest, why is no boat found in you? But there it is, exactly! Someone used this boat on the night of the murder. Rings of ice can form around the reed blades, but not now. Next year again. Goodbye. There are some who would like to stand close beside one another and are not allowed to. Admittedly, as already said, I don't know the character of this woman who's driving here, but from her photo I don't have any negative impressions. It's OK. She continues driving. The car, like every means of locomotion, wants to be active instead of inactive (there's something out of place there, but not my glance, I hope), so now we're already down in the Wiental, which is too jammed to allow one to do more than crawl along. The morning rush hour has started. More stop than start. This woman set out from her house, believe it or not, at five a.m. In the Federal States of Styria and Lower Austria she avoided the early rush hour, but in Vienna she was hit by the whammy of Hadikgasse. Going out of town is still relatively OK, going into town, just take a look towards Schonbrunn Palace, where the giant tourist buses, instead of decently waiting at the edge of the city, are scuffling for bathtub-sized parking places, which, since they are so small, can't be found with the naked eye at all. So we'll leave them to our Vienna tourists, for as long as they're coming at all, and drive on ourselves, we know our way around. Vienna is different, it has a cherry with a heart-shaped pit as its symbol, what is the silly Big Apple against that. Or we can just let the people get out in the second lane and drown out the cries of the disabled and/or enraged by revving our engine, which we can comfortably allow to run up against these and other fates, a moment's patience, please, we're about to drive on anyway, in half an hour or so, and if you hold us up, it'll only take longer. Then we'll drive to the parking lot amidst the greenery, in order to poison trees, shrubs, grasses, and bushes there where they have grown and not where there aren't any. The chestnuts in the Wiental were the first thing to die under a layer of lead and the greedy teeth of the sapper moth, more are to follow. The dead trees will certainly not come after us to take revenge. Living things are replaced by imposing dead ones or also modest ones, but nevertheless dead ones, that is a principle of this city, which has entered into a rather lasting marriage with death and for more than fifty years has wanted to get a divorce, but it never has the documents ready, and when it thinks it finally does have them all and can, for one last time, which will last a very long time, have an energetic and cheerful last fuck, then new clues emerge, that at one time this city lived almost entirely on stolen money and may only die when it has paid back its debts, which can sometimes assume the size of congealed pictures, all these stolen items of value, meanwhile turned sour as milk, curdled in time, because their owners went missing instead of them. How can one not turn sour. There stands a minor official and says: Gome back next week, then we'll have got the latest painting unveilings in and we'll see what was underneath, perhaps yours, who knows. A smart-looking woman like you, dear Vienna, will be able to wait a bit longer for the new marriage, you'll surely manage to get a bridegroom next year as well, and if we have to personally break off every bit of ornament beforehand. You'll say yes again this time, too, for whatever reason we're certain of that. No, we can never be completely certain, otherwise later on they'll say things we said, which in this form we never said in the first place, and if we did, then we didn't mean any harm. Even the opera ball doesn't mean any harm. You see! Do you see how, in its curiosity for the new, the present caught up in itself stands there in ecstatic unity with the future and opens the doors, as the Greeks would have said? The greed for the new, yesyes, it is true, let's be honest, that curiosity is not really directed at something in the future as a possibility, but in its greed curiosity craves the possible as something already real. Or something like that. Take a look. There's a man, he sees houses not as a possibility for living in, but, although they don't even belong to him and perhaps never will, as something that already belongs to him, and that because it MUST belong to him. So now the doors are open and you're taken aback, because someone has climbed on top of you who absolutely wanted to get in faster than you. And then we send you on a peace-keeping mission on another continent, let you spin for hours with the white washing, thoroughly plow you up a couple of times and look: You will still look exactly as you do now! And this house will also stand there just as solidly and be unable to take advantage of any possibility for relaxation. And no, there's no chance that you'll ever change. You'll have all the more need of the Persil voucher, so that you can still be washed whiter than white tomorrow as well and emerge unscathed from the soapsuds-spitting death mill, in which you swung together and were hung together, quite unjustly. There'll be a total write-off, if you don't watch out, but there's no total guilt, because of course this deer or this stroller on the pavement or this two-headed creature on this building distracted you from the car that was driving too slowly, a small car, almost breaking down under the weight of the luggage on the roof rack, yes, that one, in front of you, just a moment, but unfortunately the wrong one.