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“Sleep?”
“Another prune?”
Thanks to all the prunes Max gave me in form of juice,
mousse and later in whole, pitted form, I had perfectly
functioning bowels and never complained of stomach ache.
I know how difficult it would have been to take me on as a
long-term project if I’d suffered from wind or earache, if I’d
been a crying baby or a grizzling toddler. But I was lucky –
we were all very lucky – so, since I was always calm and
happy and liked to play alone for hours, no one thought
about the fact that it might have been different. Which
means that I was really part of their lives. I was one of
them.
Where do I start? With whom? With Aza, who walked
away? With Fergus, who came? With Irene, who didn’t
make it, or with Max, who did? With my father and me,
who stayed until the end?
I’ll take things one at a time and promise to do my best.
Autumn begins in a sunny mood, and I’m three weeks old.
If you stay too long under the linden trees you get sticky
hair. Swans are paddling up and down Nymphenburg canal,
and Aza is in the middle of nowhere. We are in our Munich
apartment with the worn wooden floors and have an empty
room, which was Aza’s for eight months but is now being