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cases, unable to believe that my chance had really gone, that Fate could be that much of a tease.
    Then I was outside. Snow was falling, the drifting flakes caught in the cone of a solitary street light. This was the back of the building, a small yard in which a van and three cars stood parked, their windscreens and windows frosted up. A single pair of footprints – too small for a man’s – led across the yard and turned right along the pavement in the direction of the river. My overcoat still over my arm, I set off after them, my feet slipping and sliding.
    Theresa was standing in the darkness a few yards further down the street, silhouetted against the dim façade of the building opposite, her viola case in her hand. I was about to call out to her when she turned and walked back a few paces the way she had come. There, under the street light, a man had appeared, a man I recognised with a heavy, sickening feeling as Wolfgang Richter. She had been waiting for him.
    I was sure neither of them had seen me. I stepped carefully into the shadows beside the van. They exchanged a few words; I couldn’t make them out. Then Richter reached into his coat for what looked like a book and handed it over. Theresa looked at it for a moment, then slid it into the pocket of her coat. They said a few more words and, for a moment, I thought they were going to say goodbye. But then Richter threw his arms round her and buried his face in her neck.
    I would have stayed to see what happened next, but I was afraid the loving couple would turn back towards the concert hall and discover me hiding in the shadows. I didn’t want to imagine Richter’s triumph at that moment, or my own humiliation. So, shoulders hunched, head bowed, I left, my heart as cold and heavy as a fist of stone.

9
    In my regular circle of acquaintance there were only two people who expressed unqualified admiration for the Factory Gate Fables , and who counted them among their favourite books. Herr Andrich and Herr Zoch described themselves as employees of the city council. Their precise function was never clear to me, but every time we met, which was roughly five times a year, my less-well-known titles would come up in conversation. Herr Zoch, in particular, was always anxious to know how the latest novel in the series was coming along, what new characters would be in it, and upon whom these characters were based. He even took notes. My inspiration and research methods were a subject of constant fascination for him; so much so that, in any other circumstances, one would have thought he harboured literary ambitions himself.
    I should explain that the Factory Gate Fables – a series of interconnected novellas, in which certain characters, like actors in a theatrical company, pop up again and again, sometimes in minor roles, sometimes in major ones – drew its inspiration from the lives of people I knew. At least, that was the widely held belief. My characters were not created to suit the story. Instead I created stories with the aim of portraying real individuals as fully as possible; their dreams, foibles, struggles and triumphs.
    Like many widely held beliefs, this one was nonsense. My characters were fabrications. So was everything else in the Factory Gate Fables . I had not, in reality, been anywhere near a factory gate, let alone a factory, for many years. My starting point, it is true, was very often people I encountered in daily life. I drew on their mannerisms, habits and appearance (and not infrequently their smell); but as far as their inner selves were concerned, I relied entirely on my powers of invention. I had no way of portraying their inner lives and no desire to do so. In the East, this lack of factuality, this reliance on pure imagination, was a small but guilty secret. But then, I was only dimly aware of the ready excuses available to authors in the West, where individual self-expression is all that counts, no matter how disconnected from reality. A