throat or just below it, in his chest, was that thing. When he stretched, it was particularly unpleasant, then something told him he should immediately collapse limply again.
Iâm just going to get some clothes , Robert told himself.
And a moment later he wondered what the hell was the matter with him.
Iâm just going to get some clothes? Who was he talking to, damn it? Iâm losing my mind. Iâm a burnt-out lightbulb, which has lost its corona, and, my God, now this too. He wiped his face with his hand and tried to focus on the feeling again. Want to go back. Not home. Have to stay there.
Stop, stop, stop! Iâm just going to get some clothes!
When the tram stopped at Merangasse, the sign for a pastry shop happened to catch his eye. And when the tram began to move again, he realized that it had caught his worry too, dragging it out of him and away.
The smell of the old travel bag in which he was about to pack the clothing for Cordula reminded him of the black coat of tar on the outside of the Lichtenberg huts at Helianau. Robert pulled various items from Cordulaâs wardrobe without thinking much about whether they would make sense or look good as outfits. He also searched for a shower cap (the shower rooms in the clinic were not to be trusted with regard to the risk of infection), but he found nothing, only a small nest of fashionable sunglasses wintering here.
The open wardrobe, now it had another job, it was a supply cabinet, no longer a vanity case . . . Open, yawning, it stood there, mirrored inside . . .
Whatâs the point of all this? thought Robert. Why panic attacks? He came across an old Star Trek shirt he had once bought for Cordula, a fruitless attempt to lure her into his universe. It showed the triumvirate Kirk, Spock, and McCoy against a red background. Hyperspace, he thought. Did the word even appear in the original series? Was it a Star Trek term? First episode, Cordula in Hyperspace.
I can understand your doubts, Robin, but sometimes you have to give a person space. â Holy electroconvulsive therapy, Batman, youâre right!
On the tram heading back to the hospital he felt nothing. He sat between blocks of people and was safe. The iBall over the driverâs cabin looked elsewhere. Robert caught himself giving a friendly nod to the sign for the pastry shop as he passed it. Maybe nothing but a memory was to blame for the irritation before. When he was taken out of Helianau to visit his uncle at the hospital. Okay, at the time they had, of course, shielded him well, in several respects. He could still remember that afternoon, when he had shouted to his friend Max (relocated in 2006, chimney sweeps bring good luck) in the yard at Helianau: My uncle is suffering from psychiatry! The usual Indigo educational impediments, particularly clear in linguistic expression, you septic pig . The famous delay. Dingo delay. And Felicitas Bärmann, the overachiever, had immediately corrected him. Half gesticulating, half yelling across the schoolyard. What had become of Felicitas? Did former Helianau students ever meet? Was there something like a reunion from which he was excluded? Maybe in an airplane hangar or on a soccer field, like back then for the class picture . . .
Robertâs uncle Johann had from his earliest youth been afflicted with a strange counting compulsion, which in later years decreased in range but increased in intensity. He stopped counting lamps, bathroom tiles, freckles on faces, or the windows of distant buildings, and was now obsessed exclusively with a single number, to which he had to add 1 every few hours. It had in the meantime become a six-digit number, and if you asked him what it was, he would fire it back at you, but then immediately add 1 and repeat, somewhat more softly, the new number. To have a rational conversation with him was impossible. He was interested solely in matters related to this number, such as the question of whether it might at
Iâm just going to get some clothes , Robert told himself.
And a moment later he wondered what the hell was the matter with him.
Iâm just going to get some clothes? Who was he talking to, damn it? Iâm losing my mind. Iâm a burnt-out lightbulb, which has lost its corona, and, my God, now this too. He wiped his face with his hand and tried to focus on the feeling again. Want to go back. Not home. Have to stay there.
Stop, stop, stop! Iâm just going to get some clothes!
When the tram stopped at Merangasse, the sign for a pastry shop happened to catch his eye. And when the tram began to move again, he realized that it had caught his worry too, dragging it out of him and away.
The smell of the old travel bag in which he was about to pack the clothing for Cordula reminded him of the black coat of tar on the outside of the Lichtenberg huts at Helianau. Robert pulled various items from Cordulaâs wardrobe without thinking much about whether they would make sense or look good as outfits. He also searched for a shower cap (the shower rooms in the clinic were not to be trusted with regard to the risk of infection), but he found nothing, only a small nest of fashionable sunglasses wintering here.
The open wardrobe, now it had another job, it was a supply cabinet, no longer a vanity case . . . Open, yawning, it stood there, mirrored inside . . .
Whatâs the point of all this? thought Robert. Why panic attacks? He came across an old Star Trek shirt he had once bought for Cordula, a fruitless attempt to lure her into his universe. It showed the triumvirate Kirk, Spock, and McCoy against a red background. Hyperspace, he thought. Did the word even appear in the original series? Was it a Star Trek term? First episode, Cordula in Hyperspace.
I can understand your doubts, Robin, but sometimes you have to give a person space. â Holy electroconvulsive therapy, Batman, youâre right!
On the tram heading back to the hospital he felt nothing. He sat between blocks of people and was safe. The iBall over the driverâs cabin looked elsewhere. Robert caught himself giving a friendly nod to the sign for the pastry shop as he passed it. Maybe nothing but a memory was to blame for the irritation before. When he was taken out of Helianau to visit his uncle at the hospital. Okay, at the time they had, of course, shielded him well, in several respects. He could still remember that afternoon, when he had shouted to his friend Max (relocated in 2006, chimney sweeps bring good luck) in the yard at Helianau: My uncle is suffering from psychiatry! The usual Indigo educational impediments, particularly clear in linguistic expression, you septic pig . The famous delay. Dingo delay. And Felicitas Bärmann, the overachiever, had immediately corrected him. Half gesticulating, half yelling across the schoolyard. What had become of Felicitas? Did former Helianau students ever meet? Was there something like a reunion from which he was excluded? Maybe in an airplane hangar or on a soccer field, like back then for the class picture . . .
Robertâs uncle Johann had from his earliest youth been afflicted with a strange counting compulsion, which in later years decreased in range but increased in intensity. He stopped counting lamps, bathroom tiles, freckles on faces, or the windows of distant buildings, and was now obsessed exclusively with a single number, to which he had to add 1 every few hours. It had in the meantime become a six-digit number, and if you asked him what it was, he would fire it back at you, but then immediately add 1 and repeat, somewhat more softly, the new number. To have a rational conversation with him was impossible. He was interested solely in matters related to this number, such as the question of whether it might at
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