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the physics of sorrow
a bit from the others’. Against
the backdrop of the sober
brown of their trench coats
and suits, their macramé
sweater-vests, and the older
women’s headscarves, he
looked as if coming from
another, hostile—or so he
thought—world. His short
red jacket stood out like a
sore thumb, while his jeans
and sneakers, in all their
casualness, looked strange
amid the sharp creases all
around him. He ducked off
to the right, wanting to
stroll for a bit through the
deserted side streets. The
warm September sun was
shining. The faint scent of
roasted peppers waf ted
from somewhere. Flags were
hanging from some of the
windows. On one corner,
a swarthy grubby man of
indeterminate agewas selling
funnels of sunflower seeds,
just like back in the day.
The funnel is an ingenious
invention, his father had
loved to say, the cone gives a
sense of height and volume,
yet the inside holds a much
smaller amount, the ideal
shape for commerce. He
bought himself a funnel. It
was made of a piece of old
newspaper. Just like in the old
days, he thought yet again on
that day. Once upon a time,
everything could be made
from old newspaper—from a
painter’s cap to a lampshade.
As a rule, everything could
be made from everything
you had at hand. He could
read parts of words, numbers
and percentage signs on the
scrap of newspaper, which
was cer tainly from back
then, with that unmistakable
ink and font. If this is a
movie shoot, they really
have thought of everything