murky.
After Iâd walked around 300 feet, I came to a pipe poking out of the bank. The white liquid was spewing here; the liquid running from the pipe resembled undiluted paint. I managed to squat down and put a finger in the water. I held it up to my nose, and because I couldnât smell anything, I tasted it cautiously. It was milk. I bent forward and put my hand under the pipe, pulled it out, and drank. I donât usually drink milk, not since I was a child have I done soânot even in my coffeeâbut it tasted fresh and good. I stood and continued walking. My knees ached, but I ignored the pain. I didnât feel like going home.
The noise grew progressively louder the farther up I went. I climbed the broad steps one at a time, making short pauses along the way. The railing was slick with rain, but it was better than no support. I reached the top and moved out along the narrow bridge. There was no one here, no one except me. From here, I had a complete view of the freeway. A number of emergency vehicles were parked there: two rescue vehicles, three ambulances, and a police car. Lying across both lanes was a sixty-foot tanker truck. Its oval, steel tank was leaking in several places, and milk was gushing out. A smaller car had driven into the overturned tanker, and two rescue workers were cutting passengers out of the car. A passenger of a third vehicle was quickly covered with a blanket and rushed to an ambulance.
I had only stood there a few minutes when I heard footsteps from the other end of the bridge. My mood grew no less hostile when I saw who it was. It was my brother Albert. I cursed at myself: I should know better, I thought, Albert has always had a nose for accidents. I looked away, stiffly ignoring him when he came over and stood right beside me.
Down on the freeway, the rescue team had taken a few steps back with their cutting torches, and the ambulance crew began lifting the driver from the vehicle. I saw a woman lifted out and put on a stretcher. There was not a drop of blood anywhere; her clothes were coated with a dull, wet film. Her face and hair were white as a sheet or a statue. I started whistling. It soothed me. I could tell that it made Albert uncomfortable, but that didnât stop me from doing it. I whistled the same theme as before, a splendid piece, it gave me air, gave me an unaccustomed strength, an unaccustomed feeling of freedom. Meanwhile, I stared at the milk gushing out onto the road, and at the rescue workers who now stood smoking, their welderâs goggles pushed up on their foreheads, wet, completely soaked with milk and rain.
âI know that piece, Albert said suddenly. Itâs Mozart.
I immediately stopped whistling.
âNo, I said.
Albert waited for me to be more specific, but I had nothing more to say. It was apparently impossible to keep anything for yourself in this world.
Then he changed the subject:
âIt doesnât look good, eh.
The last of the ambulances drove off under a sky of gloomy, blue-black clouds.
âBut theyâre in Godâs hands, he continued. Thatâs a consolation.
âDo you still believe in that crap?
The words rushed from me.
âYes, Olaf, I do. Even you are in Godâs hands, whether you want to be or not.
I stared out over at the freeway and tried to control myself.
âTell me, he went on calmly. Donât you hope for a life after this?
The water dripped from my nose like a tap. My coat was heavy with rain, but I barely felt it.
âNo, I said. Iâm hoping for a place to be alone. A grave, for example.
Albert put a hand on my shoulder.
âYouâre all too proud, Olaf, thatâs no good.
I removed his hand from my shoulder.
âYou donât know me, I said.
Then I walked away.
Â
Â
Fling
Â
T hey drove in silence. Martin glanced at Anne, who looked out the window at the countryside. Her hair was a little blonder at the tips, she was suntanned, and he
After Iâd walked around 300 feet, I came to a pipe poking out of the bank. The white liquid was spewing here; the liquid running from the pipe resembled undiluted paint. I managed to squat down and put a finger in the water. I held it up to my nose, and because I couldnât smell anything, I tasted it cautiously. It was milk. I bent forward and put my hand under the pipe, pulled it out, and drank. I donât usually drink milk, not since I was a child have I done soânot even in my coffeeâbut it tasted fresh and good. I stood and continued walking. My knees ached, but I ignored the pain. I didnât feel like going home.
The noise grew progressively louder the farther up I went. I climbed the broad steps one at a time, making short pauses along the way. The railing was slick with rain, but it was better than no support. I reached the top and moved out along the narrow bridge. There was no one here, no one except me. From here, I had a complete view of the freeway. A number of emergency vehicles were parked there: two rescue vehicles, three ambulances, and a police car. Lying across both lanes was a sixty-foot tanker truck. Its oval, steel tank was leaking in several places, and milk was gushing out. A smaller car had driven into the overturned tanker, and two rescue workers were cutting passengers out of the car. A passenger of a third vehicle was quickly covered with a blanket and rushed to an ambulance.
I had only stood there a few minutes when I heard footsteps from the other end of the bridge. My mood grew no less hostile when I saw who it was. It was my brother Albert. I cursed at myself: I should know better, I thought, Albert has always had a nose for accidents. I looked away, stiffly ignoring him when he came over and stood right beside me.
Down on the freeway, the rescue team had taken a few steps back with their cutting torches, and the ambulance crew began lifting the driver from the vehicle. I saw a woman lifted out and put on a stretcher. There was not a drop of blood anywhere; her clothes were coated with a dull, wet film. Her face and hair were white as a sheet or a statue. I started whistling. It soothed me. I could tell that it made Albert uncomfortable, but that didnât stop me from doing it. I whistled the same theme as before, a splendid piece, it gave me air, gave me an unaccustomed strength, an unaccustomed feeling of freedom. Meanwhile, I stared at the milk gushing out onto the road, and at the rescue workers who now stood smoking, their welderâs goggles pushed up on their foreheads, wet, completely soaked with milk and rain.
âI know that piece, Albert said suddenly. Itâs Mozart.
I immediately stopped whistling.
âNo, I said.
Albert waited for me to be more specific, but I had nothing more to say. It was apparently impossible to keep anything for yourself in this world.
Then he changed the subject:
âIt doesnât look good, eh.
The last of the ambulances drove off under a sky of gloomy, blue-black clouds.
âBut theyâre in Godâs hands, he continued. Thatâs a consolation.
âDo you still believe in that crap?
The words rushed from me.
âYes, Olaf, I do. Even you are in Godâs hands, whether you want to be or not.
I stared out over at the freeway and tried to control myself.
âTell me, he went on calmly. Donât you hope for a life after this?
The water dripped from my nose like a tap. My coat was heavy with rain, but I barely felt it.
âNo, I said. Iâm hoping for a place to be alone. A grave, for example.
Albert put a hand on my shoulder.
âYouâre all too proud, Olaf, thatâs no good.
I removed his hand from my shoulder.
âYou donât know me, I said.
Then I walked away.
Â
Â
Fling
Â
T hey drove in silence. Martin glanced at Anne, who looked out the window at the countryside. Her hair was a little blonder at the tips, she was suntanned, and he
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