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.
The woman is now moving forward more quickly, she knows the exit, not many people do, to the right off Hadikgasse, follow the Meinl Blackamoor sign, the supermarket that goes along with it is at the back of the brand new apartment block, which the woman hasn't seen before. She still knew the old block, built for employees of the Austrian Fed. Railways, this street is called Kathe Dorsch Gasse, exactly. If she doesn't take the turning in time, then she can drive all the way to Lower Austria on the motorway and drive back from the Maschik side, as people say here, that is, from a long way out of town, by way of the villages before and around Vienna, via Hadersdorf, Mauerbach, Unterpurkersdorf and Oberpurkersdorf (do you know it? A man wants to buy a railway ticket to Peking. He goes to the ticket office window in Purkersdorf and asks for a single to Peking. The man behind the window says, You're putting me on, the best I can do is sell you a ticket to the Polish border, after that you have to see yourself how you go on, with the Trans-Siberian, the Trans-Mongolian, or by dog sled, I don't care. To cut a long story short, the rail customer gets to Peking, enjoys himself like the half-wit he is, because he's got as far as Peking, but then he wants to come back. He goes to the ticket office at the main railway station in Peking and asks for: A single to Purkersdorf, please. Asks the man behind the window: Ober or Unterpurkersdorf? Boomboom. What? What did you say? Please yourself.). Here's Huttelsdorf Station and we cross out the complicated street plans leading past it and make our own, which will likewise turn against us sooner or later. Then follow Linzer Strasse away from the city for a bit, up a steep road, on which the residents politely get down on their knees and beg in vain for the 30 limit to be adhered to, here our children play in front of their own houses and our retirees go out of their apartments and into them again, and others also cross the road, who don't want to die yet either, and don't have any eyes in their head, but the road belongs to them, they know that at least; it doesn't matter, all the people here, as far as the eye can see, belong to us, that is, to themselves, decent, eager to get on and hard working as they are, as a reward for which they are allowed to live here, in the healthy western suburb, and naturally we don't want them to be encroached on or even harmed by outsiders. Who abides by that. No one. We are all precious, and when we possess something and lose it, we have to replace it. Time is passing now, too, yet again, well what do you know, we nearly didn't recognize it this time either. The way it's looking today. We must go to the hairdresser right away and get a manicure, so that we're perceived as well-groomed women, untouched by time. Yes, we have to subject ourselves to this torture, otherwise there'll soon be too much earth under our fingernails bitten down to the quick from working in the garden. There's nothing illegal about the black under our nails, we got the dirt under our nails from gardening, and we're going to go on with it now, this healthy activity, before we ourselves end up under the earth. Before that we should still be looked at nicely a couple of times, and be acknowledged as women. Today once again we clearly rise above the men. Do you see us? Today it can be taken for granted that we have a profession and are independent. The amount that I've written about that, and it was all completely unnecessary.
Well I never, it's you. The woman has stopped the car on a very steep narrow road where she once lived. Here, this little house, inherited from her parents, in order to keep it, now keeps others better than she could have done. A roofer's van is parked outside, evidently the roof is to be renovated at last. The woman sold the house two years earlier to settle in the country, an old dream that is now over. The seduction of dreams lasts for years, the seduction of people happens more quickly. Now, while I wasn't watching, the woman has been recognized by a former neighbor who's taking her dog for a walk. The dog is brand new and bored. Have you dropped by for a visit? I haven't seen you for at least a year. You're looking well. Oh, thank you. But this short dialogue, almost all of which I have left out, ensures that the woman doesn't dare to stop and look at her former house for a little longer. Nice people bought it from her, look, they've got children who are intended to grow up in the healthier air of the suburb, which supposedly comes straight from Schneeberg Mountain, but has for some time been living in sin with the Flotzersteig refuse incinerator (the partner is usually the last to know!), and in their own house. Look, there's a tricycle in the front garden, mommy didn't insist on the child bringing it into the house, although the garden gate is less than three feet high and anyone could climb over. Nice, harmless people, have they ever suffered because of something? Nearby four frog sculptures and two crow sculptures, in amusing poses, they're talking to each other, just look how nice they've made their stay here, because they don't need to go anywhere. The house disappears beside the woman, who reluctantly, she would rather be alone now, allows herself to be pulled along by the neighbor on the short lead of a rather one-sided conversation. No surprises emerge from this mouth still familiar from earlier days. It is as if time, which before could still walk, has now stood still and only the people had gone on, well, perhaps they've gone further than was good for them. The people haven't noticed that time has stood still, they were so deep in conversation like these two women. Who hears a weak cry, which has no need to emphasize itself and so remains almost inaudible? No one. The women walk on, the dog is supposed to be taken up to the camping meadow of the Municipality of Vienna and run, play, or scrap a little with colleagues. It is to enjoy itself in the good air like a song suddenly loudly sung across the meadow. Without any echo. The dog is allowed to repeat the exercise every day. The lucky thing. The trails disappear before they were drawn, people come closer to themselves, because no one else does it, no, they run after each other and never catch anyone. No, that's wrong, too, they would gladly come closer to one another, but it's usually not wanted. Everyone wants to look for something of their own, a house of their own, a child of their own, a partner of their own, entirely for themselves alone. No one is satisfied with a room of their own anymore. Everyone would even prefer to have their own TV channel, because they never like what's on offer. The dead are particularly inconsiderate, because they evade us and the media, which report on dead things (or have you ever seen a more live person than the folk song sprayer Karl Moik, the last thing you saw before you fainted? Well, and even he's dead, as soon as he ended up on the TV screen, although his face is still thrashing around as if he had to escape a shark), so have you ever seen anything alive outside of the nature programs, which had to be specially dedicated to life, otherwise we wouldn't know that this landscape lies here and nevertheless lives? We wouldn't have seen it, unless, thanks to the considerable magnification which the camera granted them, ants, beetles and larvae would fill the screen, blown up to giant size.
Please lend your ear and meanwhile watch as the woman now ascends the meadow, which tops off the hill, no, it doesn't go any higher, it only goes downhill again on two thousand more pages, which, however, I shall spare you. So, now we're there. The grass is meager, but already really green, greener than in green Styria, the spring is definitely further advanced, and now it is already somewhere else altogether. Summer will soon be here, but I shall likewise be somewhere else altogether, I hope I shall meet it there, too, the summer. The dog is let off the leash and toddles off, on the way he has already raised his leg several times at the side of the road, now that the whole hill, the whole meadow are available to him, he'll proceed more selectively with his urine. He looks for a lady to whom he could be married for two minutes, that's silly, none there. The dog finds a like-minded companion, sniffs around her genitals and then right away they hurry off together. The woman's former neighbor has long ago joined a club, which consists of dog owners. These are people who prefer dogs to other people. They get on, also invite each other around in turn. The woman takes her leave, relieved that the neighbor has found her doggy conversation group and has blended into this nice little circle, with many good wishes, visit us more often, don't you want to come for a coffee afterwards, no thank you, I just wanted to drop by the old place before you've all completely forgotten me, ha ha. A human formation strides through the play area of their animals, who mostly in playful fashion pounce on one another and form interesting alliances, just look at those two attacking a third, why on earth, no, they won't do anything, they won't do anything! Don't worry. They never bite, and if they bite today, then tomorrow they'll again never have done it, be like new or almost like new, because the vet will meanwhile have stapled two clips in their pleura. The group moves off, the people put their heads together and chat, the animals don't put themselves together, because now is not the right time for that. Some are weighed down by their corpulence, they are not at all weighed down by problems, they are very spoiled and well fed and altogether happy, although one cannot talk to them in their native tongue. The woman, who is barked at once or twice, because the animals have never seen her on their patch and are confused by the unfamiliar figure, who has not got a four-legged friend on a leash and isn't carrying a leash in her hand either, by which one could recognize a like-minded person, this person, who has perhaps never understood how to attach someone or something to herself, animals sense that, their hearts become completely indifferent and they take their leave without any visible sign, they simply take off, the figure stops now and looks down at the city whose southern segment, which lies before her now with the perfect clarity which sometimes follows the sunrise, which has released these pictures, which now break out impatiently from behind the cordon, and far beyond, as far as the irregular silhouette of the high rises at Alt Erlaa, the underground goes all the way out there now, which on the other side goes as far as Ottakring, a real triumph for the inhabitants, because it's just the place they always wanted to get to. Now at last they can. Here the corpse-like finger of the lighting tower of Engineer Gerhard Hanappi Stadium, the scanty parking lots in front of it are completely out of sight. To the right is the West Motorway, one can see a bit of it, before it disappears between the hills of the Vienna Woods, over there is the Auhof, look, they've built a Ginecenter there, the red neon sign can be easily made out, even in the daytime, because it's never turned off, and the lime green neon lights of the last gas station before the motorway can be admired in all the magnificence and citrus freshness which a company has provided them with.
The horizon gently rocks the eyeballs of the woman who has stopped to look across the city, which once, in part, at least, was hers, to sleep. Yet she convulsively opens her eyes wide, she wants to see everything, everything. And her gaze should also be garnished with church spires, domes, roofs, gasometers, Second World War tower bunkers. The dear places of culture, to which the woman once strode as to work in the fields, are not to be seen. Wrong part of town. The head hair of the city flows somewhere else, one would have to follow the Wiental further, but the Wiental doesn't follow one either. On the left there, the Steinhof, with the lunatic asylum and the famous, unfortunately dilapidated church built by Otto Wagner, which every child knows, and not many children will still get to know (apart from those who in the Nazi period were injected to death, after starvation, cold, sick (no, they weren't sick, but they were given drugs which made them vomit unceasingly, unstoppably) and beating cures, which no one had to invent, because they already existed, a relatively large number of these children are still represented by their brains in jars), because it will soon collapse, the church, one would have to go over that way in order to see St. Stephen's Cathedral, but there the view is vigorously limited and checked by a small hill together with an old quarry, by a hill which presses forward, perhaps because it thinks that people could not bear so much beauty. And then we have to call emergency again. The mixed canine/human group has meanwhile disappeared around the bend, it'll be about ten minutes before it re-emerges, although individual animal heralds, who have run ahead, again and again impatiently appear on the horizon with little sticks and the doggy rearguard, which has remained behind, is bending over something that it wants to eat, but will not agree with it. The woman is completely alone. She is not in Paris or London, she's in Vienna. She would have quite liked to travel to Paris and London again. Well, it probably won't happen now. In the country there's always something good and useful to do, is what she thought, until someone else took it from her, who is extremely interested in everything she has. Where it was necessary he took it in hand, also her, that is what one does in the country. To take something in hand and carry out tasks which are so complicated that the woman never saw through them and from now on doesn't want to see through them. She often cried out, when he, with his wealth of movements, climbed over her and, not to be softened by anything, tossed her little burden around, depending on which side he wanted to penetrate her, while she pleaded for him to give her love, but nothing comes of nothing. Through him she found her soul, she tells herself. It's no use, she doesn't know what to do with her soul. In her he found a building that he could slip into. So one dwells in the other in order to live at last. Only there are some who need more of that than others, who only need a partner in order to be filled with light and the capacity for love. Like this empty vessel, which she is without him, the woman, this dull cup, which is filled with nothing but itself and cannot even see to the bottom, why she does something like that. She doesn't see to the bottom of things anymore. She has poured herself out, but no one wiped her up. Perhaps it's all a form of madness, well, at best a little form, into which children press their sand in order to push it into their neighbor's eye. Town and country, what more did I want to say that has nothing to do with psychological self-analysis, which I have hereby brilliantly mastered? The land is its activities, because it has to be constantly created, wrested from the soil, also from the animals. The city is the activities of others. It is already there. Even if there's always new building going on, the city is what was always already there. Reflecting things flash in the sunlight, panes of glass, roof ridges, tin roofs, cars. Another reflects on houses, let him have them. He's no mere employee, that he would have to earn them. He's a civil servant. He has called something forth and thrown away the bones, no need to bone up himself, up to every trick, imposing no moderation on himself. A shared happiness will not be created, savings will not be put down anywhere. That's too bad, the bank can't always be giving, it has to take as well, of course always more than it gives, otherwise it wouldn't be a bank, but a Church charity organization, but not it either: We've got administration costs to bear and the rest is borne by others. Where do you expect it to come from? The city is more and more coming to life, the clock is moving forward, laughter, cries, the calls of the dog army are approaching again. Has she really been standing here for ten minutes already, the woman? It's not enough, it's never enough, but at least she will have gone for a short walk here. Crows rise comfortably and expertly through the air. They settle on one of the trees and talk to one another by copying us and breathing in a bit of air at the same time and, how amusing, eating a shriveled apple that they've found somewhere. If the bird on the top of the magnificent blue spruce (a sly cultivated species from some country or other, which didn't want to have it there and so expelled it, a plant, which could surely suddenly begin to speak and go away, so that I don't have to see it anymore, but I'll have to go sooner than it will!, it has got a permanent foothold here, the stinging, disgusting thing) now opens its beak in order to caw, the apple will fall to the ground. The woman laughs involuntarily when this is exactly what happens. A black dog hurries up, the crow unfortunately has to shout at it and so loses its precious piece of fruit. That's how fast it happens sometimes, although we don't advocate that animals should be dispossessed. And yet most of them even have to give up their lives, for one reason or another. As we do, only more humbly and painfully, we owe them a debt of gratitude, that they sacrifice themselves for us. And even if they do it involuntarily, it's still nice of them, isn't it? Whom are we supposed to eat? We can't even take what we sit on or what we've set our heart on with us, but some don't know that and measure people by their possessions. And then they prefer to take the possessions and just leave the people. So now a person stands there, looks stupid and out across a central European city, calmly examines it and doesn't believe that her eyes are really right in what they see. It doesn't matter. It doesn't mean anything, if in a city one looks at the other inhabitants. It doesn't mean anything, if in the country one looks at the other inhabitants, it only counts more, because there are fewer people. That's why the woman moved away back then. In order, perhaps, to be more important somewhere else, where there's less competition than here. That's OK. It worked, she can still play the piano as well, which is rarer in the country than a shot fired from a rifle. Desires were told to her, and that she would be important for their fulfillment, but not essential. Now we'll make another impression and go to the hairdresser we always used to go to. It's likewise in this suburb, only on the other side, a small new building with shops on the ground floor. We're now proceeding there, please follow us at last. The dogs are coming, we're going now. We're going to look nice. We'll have our hair and our eyelashes and our nails done, and then we'll go away again, to serve them up in peace and quiet, somewhere else, to someone else. After the full treatment this hair will have become so healthy and strong that one could hang oneself with it. For one bird just one hair would be enough for this purpose.
We're coming slowly, we're coming alone, we'd rather come as a twosome, which has the small advantage, four eyes see better than two. What happens if one doesn't want to see anything at all? I wish you all something big and important, but very few of you will get it. At her old hairdresser the woman can be fitted in between two customers who aren't in a hurry. The salon has just opened in order to lend youthful elasticity to locks, which it has to create in the first place. Wash, cut, and set. You're really due another perm, no, it won't come out yet. Instead we'll give it a nice reddish tint. If you think about your property, it'll certainly be a plus, everything would be a plus. The one whom you would do it for didn't notice it in the holy disorder in which he lives, and of which he is not a part. But we rub the dye on our head nevertheless, it's no big deal. It can't do any harm, but it won't do any good either. The water pours maternally out from the hand shower (as cool as possible, please, it's better for the hair!) and takes the backward-leaning head in its arms with gentle murmuring, envelops it, gently strokes it. For the moment it can't concern itself with the expression on the face, the water, it has the task of rinsing out the surplus dye and leaving some of it over, a remnant, which is, however, the essential part of this procedure. The concerned express themselves in newspaper columns, but not for this woman, who would at last like to express herself through her body, but remains an onlooker, who at the sight of Claudia Schiffer turns pale to the roots of her hair. It's not easy to read while one's hair is being washed, nor when it's being cut either, but then under the drier, we can look through a couple of magazines so that we know what we'll have missed when we no longer need the new spring wardrobe. Aah, nice and warm, the towel, that's always a good moment, the drying, and the cutting is quite interesting, too. Now the nails at last get their due. Still biting your nails? You're quite a big girl now, madam! Not every heart is heartfelt, but this one suspects that it won't have much more time to be friendly to the right person. Out of her imprisonment in herself, into which unfortunately she let another, the wrong one, at the wrong time, the woman forces a few nice words out of herself, as if she were a person like every other. The words hop out of her mouth into inhospitable reality, it sounds as if someone had let them depart without eagerness, without anger. No, it sounds more as if an insect were dropping its shell, but the creature is too small for that to cause even the softest scratching on the ground. So. Finished. Please take a look at the back as well, all right? The hairdresser holds up the round mirror behind the woman's head, the apprentice brushes over the pullover because of the tip, everything takes its course, but which one, where does it end. Time will tell, no, it doesn't tell anything. Very smart, thank you. Out of good manners a good tip is distributed. The woman feels as if someone with a sharp knife had scraped the last meat from her bones, and now the last bone is to be boiled down as well. Well, there are enough round here who are hard boiled, in fact, they're the majority. Let's give the dog the bone. Perhaps it at least will enjoy eating us. We just end up in the soup. There's something comical about wishing for something. One won't know yet that one's probably not going to get it. Over long distances, across which the wind whistles and the wild beasts hunt, this human being here is called a nice, polite woman. Once she allowed the country policeman to take a nude photo of her, in which drawer will that be found? At any rate, right at the bottom. No fear, it's been thrown away long ago. It was snapped for a special reason, but for which? Perhaps the man took it, to spur himself on again and again, to be able to look at her when he is weary of the sight of her. He surely won't have taken it if he didn't have to? Or to laugh at her with others, at the inn, in the station, while changing beside the lockers? In the shower?? That would be nice!
On a romantic tour or a dream holiday one can get to know one's dream partner, but what to do if one already knows him? Then one simply never makes the trip again to all the romantic places. Perhaps this man feels a need to forget being alone, perhaps it's no effort for him to go to bed with her, perhaps he would have quite liked her if he had got to know her. No, the future tells me: well, not that! Don't worry so much about it, worry about something else, you must have your own souvenirs, and take good care of your savings bank books. The woman has for a long time behaved with excessive reserve, and now the opposite is the case, she can't stop herself busily and tirelessly looking for the man everywhere. But probably the interest on her side will be much greater, yes, that's the way it is. She will fall passionately in love with him, she will become a climbing plant, will smother with kisses, until the man will have to fear for his limbs, and that's exactly how it turned out. But no, the man is afraid of nothing. He drives for miles around in order to be afraid, but is never afraid. She would go on for years, lying in wait for him everywhere, offering him her chambers, in which he will never want to live, unless they had previously been abandoned by her, the woman, for his sake. She knows that very well. She wouldn't be able to stop herself. She would always be shooting out of a place of ambush like an adder and shoving her tongue in his ear, because he'd liked that a single time, but not a second time, at least not from her, but perhaps he secretly wants it after all, who knows. She knows that he doesn't want it. No, he's quick and rather bright, and he would already know now if he ever wanted it again. He knows what he wants and what he doesn't. She would, if possible, press herself so firmly against him, till he would feel the hard walls of the house right through her. Brick, concrete, plaster. He would like that better. The woman could furthermore make it very clear that she is ready to repeat something like that at any time. Yet she is herself a repeat of this wonderful model in this photograph, only she looks quite different. Where on earth is the architect's plan of the house, yesterday it was still in the drawer. The man makes the communication and signs it with his dear name, which is not yet worth anything, but will soon be worth something when he has her house and her off his back: I would like, of course, I would certainly like to marry you. Believe me, if it was up to me, immediately. If I only could, not now, but perhaps somewhat later it'll perhaps work out that we become a couple. But I would rather be one with you, how shall I put it? Couple is too little, we have to fuse with one another and become entirely one. What, that's impossible? It is possible. In this house it can be realized. This house is clean, spacious and comfortable, why should I, of all people, not want to live here. I have calculated that's the fastest way of coming by a house, which then later my grandson, Patrick, is to get, then everybody in the family has one, because the old dear will soon take her d.t.'s away with her to hospital and then out to the cemetery. Her house, however, she will have to leave here with Ernst, who has been waiting a long time for it. Nobody digs a grave so huge that a house will fit in, for that we would need a company of the Yugoslav Federal Army, they're used to that. Best of all I would like to enter the house and then sew it up behind me, like a living body from the upper middle class, such a treasure, whoever could raise it would have hit the jackpot, even if under very special conditions. Am I still talking about the house or about a human body now? My mommy always mixed it up, too, and peed everywhere, in every corner, that's why I don't know so much about it. I only know one thing: bricks last better and longer than flesh, high-grade steel lasts even longer, so why stick with people, even if they are good for us and good to us? Even this paint on the kitchen cabinet will last longer than I will. A fir grows green, who knows where, in the wood. A rose bush in which garden? They are chosen, sure, remember, oh soul, to grow and blossom by your grave or something like it, I am not so choice that I know it all by heart.
I bring everything together once again but, as usual, can't hold it and let it drop at the last moment, boing: The woman wants to feel sheltered and yet at the same time nevertheless feel free. She wants to feel a great deal else besides, I'm sorry, it's not possible. She's the type who wants to be led, as her dear parents led her, I'm sorry, it's not possible. So now the situation is as follows: In return for his friendliness the man demands her property, which is her house. The woman would in future never be able to forget the exceptional harmony of this relationship, so it's better that there's no future anymore, for the woman knows: I could never forget it, this great happiness. The woman is not deceived by her feelings but certainly by the matter itself. Should one bleed to death like a beast freshly slaughtered, while the sun plays around the still untouched real estate? Should one wither like a plaster cast, while the real concerns that one has all go under, one after the other? It's much too cold for that. Should one sit down at all in a car, when it hardly feels the small burden that one represents? Should one wave to someone from the window, who doesn't even look, because the eyes of the house are shut and don't sense that the heavens lie heavy upon them, do you see the little clouds there on the window pane? There are none. These are streaks, which the cleaning material has left behind, although in front of millions of witnesses it promised never to do such a thing. It is not heaven which appears on this glass, one must be fair, no one promised it to us either. If someone lies once, he's not believed a second time, even when he's telling the truth, I say to this slimming drink, which, yes, that one, too!, didn't keep its word to me and my girlfriend, and now it's my turn to get a word in, I hold it fast like a dear close family member, which I don't have. So it's my turn to speak, but I didn't notice in time and now I'm talking nonsense. I beg your pardon. But for you too there is bound to be a program on which you can present your concerns. If companies and politicians lie in public, then you don't have to stick to the truth in this talk show either. What? You have your own truth? But you are certainly not the only one, that is also something you'll come to understand in the course of this program, which we can now finally dispatch. You should take that in. We shall also need a new dress and so we'll buy it at Furnkranz on Karntnerstrasse, that's a very exclusive shop. The woman wouldn't normally shop here anymore, it's not worth it for the country. The dress is of brightly colored flowered silk and rather expensive, but it was worth it to me. It is the crowning, but not of Jacob's Monarch coffee, it is the crowning of a woman, who for once in her life would like to be queen or at least a Snow White, who doesn't care whether she sleeps or wakes, because Snow White wouldn't know which was which. So sleep my child, but first we have to drive back home, where the bed is, the midday traffic isn't so bad, and once we're on the highway, then we'll get ahead somehow, the crash barriers will tell us how.
No one cares for the woman, so she must somehow care for herself, she must take something, with plenty of alcohol, a wonderful red wine, vino classico something, that's healthy. Even a glass a day increases life expectancy. But no, that would really not have been necessary! First the woman dresses nicely and does her hair once more in the proper sequence, so, now lipstick, eye shadow, mascara. Go to the toilet, only then the silk panties, matching the chemise, which we're already wearing and which we bought at the same time. Before we admit defeat, we spend a lot of money on pretty underwear. Even women who resemble a sheer rock face, because one can't land on them, are turned soft as laundry in the hands of the mighty fabric softener which pours a small capful into the final wash (the only one to be really gentle to us!). If we cap it all and put on this little hat, then we really do look silly, then the stuff runs down over our ears. Aha: Now for once you look at yourself with your empty eyes, and you don't like what you see? Why don't you like it? Well I think, I think the decision of this woman, who is merely groping for life, yes, this woman here, she's just got her fingers burnt again!, the decision was the right one. Where is the note, on which we wrote down everything ourselves, where is the little tube, which we stole from our best friend who had an epileptic dog, which is dead now too, from the cabinet in the bathroom? We don't need to ask, because we've already known it all the time. The drug is phenobarbitone and in pure form, whereby the veterinary drug supplier, R. amp; Go. in V, smoothly circumvents the law on addictive substances, quite legally incidentally, well, not quite, in the hands of an experienced vet this drug can blossom and do an animal good, in our hands it can only turn to ashes, which isn't hard, every cigarette can do the same; the theft was not legal, no, it was permissible theft for immediate consumption, we're not going to make ourselves punishable after death, since it will have become completely unnecessary! A little tube of tablets is raised to the mouth and the contents are swallowed one after the other, the alcohol runs cheerfully and comfortingly, nono, it doesn't hurt, no need to worry, alongside and snaps at the funny round things, sliding down the throat there, hurrah. Why is life suddenly so cheerful? We always have to stop when it's nicest, says a child, who appears in the doorway and goes to the piano, also feeling her way, but she will surely hit the right keys, otherwise there'll be trouble. Otherwise there'll be trouble. Yes, indeed, you heard: Trouble! Unsatisfactory. Favorite music is heard. If one really wants to go, one can make everything nice and comfortable for oneself, can't one? The shoes should fit, because it's a long way. Such a bonne vivante, we wouldn't have thought it of her, suddenly she's like a rubber stamp, which would like to press itself down somewhere, we've chosen this point in time, of all times, when we can't stand up anymore, in order to look at our own impressions from a distance. So something is left of us after all, how nice. Well, then we'll just have to make an impression here, where we're lying down, it doesn't matter: That was not only THE man, that is THE man, he will be the man for the rest of my life, the only man I really love, I would always be comparing all other men to him. He shall also get the whole of my earthly possessions, in particular this house and everything in it, no, not me, he can have me accompanied out first, the funeral is already paid for, the grave is ready. He gets what remains, at least I have got this beautiful new silk dress, this shining red tint in my hair and in this glass, both of which cost me a bit, perhaps he will resent these expenses, everything already belongs to him; my best black pumps, although I have already worn them a couple of times, and which are perhaps familiar to the audience at concerts or the opera, to one or two among you, ladies and gentlemen, if you, like me, who is quickly embarrassed by something, have looked disconcertedly at the floor, because the horn-player has fluffed his entrance. That's how I would like to fall to the floor, like a wrongly played note, but I'm already lying in bed and cannot get up. I won't get out of it again. I have locked up my telephone, who knows what I would have got up to otherwise. I would perhaps, with a foolish smile and apologetic words, have called emergency, but the emergency will soon be over anyway. I would injure myself, if I lost the beat and went my own way, in order, just look at me, here I am, shall I swallow a switched-on light bulb, so that you see me at last? Then I would rather swallow this all-purpose adhesive, which would still be detected in my bone marrow in thirty years' time, if someone went to the bother of taking a closer look there, of all places. But no one ever wanted to get to the bottom of me anyway, which, besides, is no deeper than a footbath. No one there, who would open my mouth and remove the poisonous little pieces, an unusual procedure, but one sometimes used for resuscitation. The woman. She doesn't look like a corpse, only like someone sleeping, I would say, if something like that existed, like a sleeping corpse, rather attractive in fact after death, which smooths the features, only a holy bleeding to death would get as many points. But then one would have a blue pallor or something. Soon there won't be another wake-up phase, since there will be no more waking up. So, now this is it. The eyes cannot be opened anymore, so that someone who is not particularly interested can try to read something in them. Now you know why, in the world of fairy tales and legends, the long-time sleep of characters so often turns out to be a tricky, secretive kind of staying alive, it's down to appearance. We have the choice: fall down dead, fall down in a faint, pretend to be dead, or be dead. No need to worry, she's only sleeping, the old maid, without a kiss of assent, but with the attested assent in the envelope on the pillow beside her. She proudly pinned her hopes on her property, the mother's child, and she was right, the property may leave now. No one will be waiting at the door, watch in hand, for it to come home. It can also, as far as I'm concerned, come into other hands, because even property sometimes needs a bit of variety. A shudder passes through the woman, I call her by her name one last time, oh, it's slipped my mind, perhaps I never knew it, it's not written down here, is it?, I was merely notified by her, to write this down. Careful, sleep will come now, be quiet, I'm still speaking, sleep is knocking at this door, immediately goes purposefully up to the brain stem, scrambles further, in order first of all to create favorable physiological conditions for itself. Come sweet sleep, walk on in. When all is silent and only one speaks, it's called a teaching period, any volunteers? No one? Well, then chemistry will speak in my place, I don't mind, and it says breathing flat to arrested, circulation weak to collapsed (temperature below normal and deterioration of kidney activity to the point of anuria, hence the name Barbara anuria). Let's leave it at that. Where she's lying we no longer have to concern ourselves with the Holzer blisters, an all too late and somewhat unsuccessful wedding dress, also the signs of the "dying heart" will have been superseded in the ECG by the dead heart. There was no dependency on the drug, would also be very unusual today, these drugs have gone right out of fashion. There can be no reason whatsoever which would be compelling enough to prescribe such drugs to pregnant women, please don't do it, if you are a doctor. Who's compelling whom. One can't even compel someone to wear a skirt instead of trousers. A woman sinks to her own feet, but is prevented from doing so by her bed, the dress too is not permitted to fall in a forward way. This person will be forwarded, the address is already written out, one can still put one's finger on the best of her, it is brick, is glass, concrete, steel, and plaster. No more than that. Ridiculous, that the birds should chirp or that one person should lead another to his mouth and then the latter still doesn't find the entrance.
It was an accident.