He woke with the vivid sense that he had just spoken to her in French – and not informally, but using vous. The surprise struck a little later, as he gradually came to, realising that French wasn’t a language he could actually speak – not when awake, at any rate. He tried to recall what they had spoken about, but only a tattered scrap remained: Je vous remercie, Madame, je vous remercie de votre confidence. After a brief and not entirely pleasant effort, he gave up. In his mouth lingered a murky taste – a memory of the improvised lunch he had thrown together for himself and the boy, relying mostly on hunger to muffle the child’s half-hearted protests. The boy still wasn’t used to sitting at the table without his mother. He shook his head like a dog emerging from a pool. Only then did he notice his son, staring at him from across the room, wide-eyed with a mix of fear and concern.

“Did you dream of the eyes again, Dad? Was it very scary?”

“No, it was something else this time. Why, did I shout?”

“Not exactly, but you were talking and tossing, like someone was choking you. I got really scared.”

He lifted the edge of the blanket and pulled the boy closer.

“Come here, under the covers. There’s nothing to be afraid of – see? Everything’s fine.”

The little one eagerly curled into a ball next to him, pulled his arm over, and placed it on his belly.

“Dad, tell me the story about the eyes again, please. I want to listen to you.”

“Oh, I’ve told you so many times. You know they’re made up – they don’t really exist, those eyes.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, just tell me again. I won’t tremble, I promise.”

“And tonight, when you’re alone in bed? You won’t tremble then either?”

“I don’t know… maybe. Come on, please tell me again.”

“Well, you actually know everything. They’re two big eyes. Yellow. And they glow in the dark, like headlights. I’m terrified of them. I try to run, to hide somewhere, but they’re always close. No matter where I crawl, they find me.”

“And what do they do then?”

“I don’t know. I always wake up at that point. I’ve never seen what they want. I just know they’re evil. Really evil. And very scary. Very dangerous.”

“And how many times have you dreamed them already?”

“Many. I’m not sure. Probably a few dozen times.”

“What’s ‘dozen,’ Dad?”

“A dozen is twelve of something. ‘A few dozen’ means a lot of times.”

“And what does Mum dream of, Dad? What is she afraid of?”

The pain slashed through him with such suddenness that his vision blackened, and for a moment-eternity, his heart faltered, sending spirals of fire behind his eyes. He coughed to cover his reaction, waited until he was sure his voice would sound normal again, then said something – meaningless, he didn’t even know what exactly – just trying to sound reassuring. The boy quieted down, apparently content with the answer, and soon his breathing slowed into sleep. He carefully lifted the blanket, was about to get up, but the boy caught his hand and murmured drowsily:

“And will Mum be back soon, Dad?”

“Soon. Soon. Now sleep. I have to work a little.”

His legs, as always after sleep, were swollen and heavy, like stumps with roots that had to be torn from the ground at every step. He hobbled into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, glanced at the wall clock – before remembering that this was forbidden – and was immediately punished. It was only five in the afternoon. Too early. She wouldn’t be back until eight or nine, if not late into the night.

Before his eyes involuntarily appeared the two camels he had photographed years ago at the zoo, mounted one on top of the other for hours, captivated, foaming, indifferent to the two-legged creatures hopping around them, literally sunk into each other. One in another, he corrected himself automatically, then thought: I’m becoming more German than the Germans. He waved the thought away irritably and dragged himself off toward the study.

The computer screen blinked at him like a will-o’-the-wisp. Tempting bastard. You broke my family. God, how far will this self-pity drag me? At least others can drink rakia. I can’t even manage that. He pulled the tattered chair closer – what a dump, total dump – sat down and buried his head in his hands. If I had hair, maybe I could imagine I looked like Sam Shepard. But even that’s out of reach now. Besides, he’s six-foot-three. Who am I kidding?

His eyes suddenly filled and began to spill over. His mouth twisted, and a vein in his neck stretched tight, straining to snap. He jerked his head sideways like a stubborn beast, stood like that until the vein settled back in place, pulled the keyboard toward himself – then pushed it away again.

“Come to the bedroom for a bit. I want to talk to you.”

She had said it in a tone clearly meant to jab him in the ribs, but that sort of thing had long since stopped bothering him. He no longer even knew exactly when. So he snorted – softly – and went. But not without delaying himself just long enough. Let her not think she could make him jump with that crackling-dry Prussian tone. We are Prussians too – the Prussians of the Balkans. That wasn’t my phrase, by the way.

She had squeezed herself into jeans tight as plumbing pipes – how on earth could she bend her knees in those shackles? Still, she looked like a model, even at that age. How many people must think I’m a lucky man?

He sat down, watched her expectantly – calm, businesslike. Now she’ll start chewing me out over a missing comma in the latest manuscript. Mm-hmm. Everything has its price in this world – even having your own translator.

“I want to tell you something. I’ve been meaning to for quite some time.”

That sounded somehow final. Unusual. For a moment, he was startled, but he hurried to shove the cold sensation aside. All right then, go ahead – let’s get this scene over with.

“You… are no longer… the only man in my life.”

He stood up again. He could never stay seated when this scene began to thrash around in front of his eyes. It wasn’t quite like before – the burning inside had lessened, and with it the energy. Thank God. There is no perpetual motion machine in this world. But still, the jab was sharp enough. Sitting was out of the question. Which meant: right – time to wander from room to room.

“You’re not the only one. You’re not the only one. You’re not the only one.”

A few hours later, he found himself in the park, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, running laps around the jogging track – with no memory of how he’d even gotten there. He only became aware when some little girls on the grass burst into laughter each time he passed. That’s when he realised he was flailing his arms like one of Don Quixote’s windmills, shouting incoherently – now in German, now in Bulgarian – swinging punches at nothing.

He didn’t even feel ashamed. Just a surge of fury at the little ones. How could they be so dumb, Lord. Were we like that once too?

He trudged home in a daze – she had already put the boy to bed. Unusually early. But perhaps the kid had sensed something wasn’t right, because he’d obediently tucked himself into his little bed. Two frightened mouse-eyes peeking out from under the blanket.

“I’m going out. I have work. Don’t wait for me – I’ll probably be late.”

The world was collapsing faster than you could say “flood.”

He obediently closed the door behind her, tried to work, tried to watch TV, tried to lie down, tried to sleep. Too many tries.

In the morning, when she finally came home, he made an effort to breathe deeply – even though he was sure she could see right through him. For some reason, he had the feeling she was grateful to him for it.

“I’ve always told you that size doesn’t matter. Now that the end is near, I want to confess the truth: size does matter.”

That one I really ought to frame one day. The most remarkable thing I’ve ever heard her say.

And then: “Is it really so important to know everything? I always suspected there was something masochistic in you. Really. Well, fine – if you insist. ”

He took in the information – that bland, impersonal word somehow helping him stay detached from what she was telling him – with the thirst of an anaemic cactus, all dried up and twisted, covered all over with invisible, or perhaps even visible (who cared), thorns. He even stripped to the waist so she could show him exactly where the other guy’s tattoos were. Actually, he had them in other places too, but she didn’t really want to talk about that. “He’s insanely strong. Sometimes I feel like he could lift me with one hand. But he’s so sweet. So affectionate. Do you really want me to tell you all this? Yes, he really does carry a knife – all the time, day or night. Nonsense, what would I be afraid of? Didn’t I just tell you how affectionate he is?”

She said the word with the buzzing of an overstuffed bee, loaded with nectar and honey. Affffectionate, afffffffectionate, affffffffectionate. “And if only you knew how well he cooks! You can’t imagine what a pleasure it is to let someone take care of you in the kitchen. Though actually, you can, of course.

What does it matter where I found him? Oh fine – since you’re so eager to hurt yourself: I met him through an ad. Yes. One of those ads. So what? Are you going to tell me I’m depraved now? Thanks, I’ve had enough of your precious civility. Now I finally want to experience something real. Something strong. Do you understand? Something strong. I’m sick to death of your civilisation – I want savagery. I want power. I want life. Enough with the fake, cellophaned emotions. I want to live. Here and now. And I don’t give a damn about your eternity. Not a damn. Do you hear me?”

Once he’d looked at the clock, of course, he couldn’t stop anymore. There – again. Barely half an hour had passed. The relativity of time – so blindingly obvious, really. Strange how people needed a whole Einstein to figure it out. Half past five. Lord.

Why did he still feel so unsettled, on a day like this – so bright, so radiant? Because he was holed up like a badger, of course, instead of going out, taking a walk, buying himself one of those magazines. Ageing Balkan male, five-foot-three, minimum ten kilos overweight, seeks virgin for mutual pleasure. Satisfaction guaranteed. Discretion too. Pure as morning dew in a non-industrialised zone. Now it’s my turn to buzz like a bee – just look at the clever little phrases I can come up with.

The bang of the front door made him jump. He hadn’t expected her this early, and he was a little annoyed at the involuntary wave of joy that washed through him – warm, like fresh piss. He hunched in his chair and waited for her to go into the bedroom. He had no desire to see her self-satisfied face just yet. Let her first breathe in the lemony breath of their hateful apartment, let her sour a little.

Something fell heavily in the hallway. He jumped again, hesitated, then cautiously stuck his head out the door – and saw the body on the floor. He froze. Then lunged forward, dropped to his knees beside her, pulled her into his arms. Her head was bleeding like – yes, exactly like – a slaughtered pig. He had never seen so much blood. Feverishly, he stripped off his shirt, wrapped it around her head like a rag. He still couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from, but it couldn’t be the throat – otherwise she wouldn’t still be here. God, what a machine I am – will I ever stop recording, or not? How had she even dragged herself home? At any cost, he had to clean up before Pavel woke. Otherwise, no doubt about it – the boy would be scarred for life. Quick – think, think, think!

She groaned heavily, clearly starting to come round. He began kissing her – wildly, foolishly, with terror. He got himself smeared with blood almost as much as she was, felt ashamed, and dragged her toward the study, leaving behind a trail of blood that was far from narrow. He laid her on the floor, ran to the living room, grabbed a pillow, flew back, placed it under her head. She stared at him with stunned, frozen eyes – a little frog-like. Almost comical.

He grabbed the phone and frantically started dialling, but she suddenly came to and rasped: “No police. No police.”

“What police? I’m calling an ambulance!” he snapped. “What happened? Where does it hurt?”

In response, she opened her clenched fist.

And now it was his turn to freeze on the brink of fainting.

Because in her hand – shrivelled like a dried mushroom – lay a severed human ear.

Left.

Still, he managed to stammer out the address to the people on the other end of the line, forced down the rising remnants of his meagre lunch, and began wiping the floor in the hallway – furious, horrified, and filled with a venomous, vengeful satisfaction, all at once. She lay in the other room, quiet as a little bee with clipped wings, groaning only occasionally – not theatrically, but as if trying to suppress the horror. In the end, that was what made him burst into tears. He sobbed like a child, the tears blurred his vision and made it impossible to clean properly. Faster, faster – just before Pavel wakes up. For God’s sake, if he sees all this at five years old, consider him damaged for life.

They came surprisingly fast – German mechanics at its most precise. No stupid questions, no fuss. She was injected on the spot and immediately relaxed, calmed down. One of them dropped the ear into a plastic bag filled with some sort of liquid – like a little fish from a pet shop. One-two-three, and they were gone. He barely managed to ask the neighbours to look after Pavel – those guys would have driven off without him in a second. She was still desperately whispering nur keine Polizei, nur keine Polizei. They said nothing, but their eyes flickered with a dozen unspoken questions. Gas, gas, gas – and a blue siren on the roof.

***

The image of her kept circling before his eyes with suffocating persistence – just as he’d left her at home, looking off to the side, expressionless. Maybe pretending not to hear him. Or maybe her hearing really was damaged. Or maybe it was the bandages. Serves her right – let her lie like that now, wrapped like a mummy. Still, the doctors had pulled off a miracle: the ear was back in place, sewn on like new. Of course, if you looked closely, you could tell – but under the hair, nothing showed. He barely resisted telling her she was lucky – it could have been the nose.

To Pavel, they said only that Mummy had a headache, and that if he wanted her to get better quickly, he had to be very obedient and not try to climb into her lap all the time. And as for her, she was conducting herself – hmm – with astonishing dignity. Go on then, say suffering doesn’t ennoble people.

Alcohol doesn’t help, of course. He hadn’t drunk alone in years, much less in some dingy bar at the far end of Berlin, just two streets from there. But he had no other option. His body was still seized by spasms, his hands shook, and he could still feel the chill of the metal pipe in his palms – wrapped in newspaper. God, the things you learn from crime novels. He’d swung it in front of himself like a madman, once or twice even with his eyes shut, until the man dropped to the ground and stopped moving. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Then he had kicked the motionless body – yes, yes, yes, with enormous pleasure. Kicked. Kicked. Kicked. Take that. And that. And that. Until his own body wouldn’t let him do more. He’d barely managed to drag himself to the nearest bar, ordered in the most Humphrey Bogart voice he could muster: Korn. Doppelt. And then started pressing the burning liquid down into himself – go on, go on, go on – otherwise you’ll never erase that body from your memory. Yes, probably good enough for Abu Ghraib now. Lord, look what I’ve become.

And she had refused to speak. He couldn’t get a single word out of her – kneeling at her bedside, gripping the limp hand she’d let fall into his sweaty palms. Please, please, please. Tell me what happened. What exactly happened. God, I want to kill someone. No, don’t smile like that. Everyone is capable of murder. In that, we are all equal – like wheat stalks in a field. Yes, I know I can’t stop with this wordy tongue of mine – and what do you even know about tongues, besides the kind stewed with onions? But yes, yes, yes – today I want to kill someone.

Well – now he had.

No satisfaction. No pleasure. No arousal in any of it. Just Polaroid snapshots skipping through his head like colourful paper streamers on the tail of a kite. Hop-hop. Hop-hop.

And schnapps doesn’t help. Fact. Everyone knows it, and still, everyone tries. Just like with love. Or hope.

God, help me. I really am starting to lose it. Lord.

Or maybe he should just go to the police. Now. Right now, before the headlines start blaring from every corner. By tomorrow the tabloids would be full of grim photographs and headlines printed in three-hundred-point Walbaum, in red – as if the retouched blood in the images wasn’t already enough.

“He didn’t make it home – death got in the way.”

Or: “Who says death is a master from Germany? This time it came from Bulgaria.”

Or maybe just: “Innocent victim of predatory instincts.”

Nonsense. Unfathomable are the ways of newspaper eloquence – here just as everywhere else. Bild-Zeitung only needs to stay true to its name and stop babbling. The pictures are more than enough. Who even wants to read, in this era of universal visual oversaturation? The Gutenberg revolution – cancelled. A general surrender of literacy. Who needs reading, when tidal waves of servile, smiling, ever-helpful images are chasing you from every direction?

And that one must still be lying there. In any case, there are no sirens. Everything is quiet and calm.

God, how I love Berlin in June!

He had learned to repeat the name of God with or without a reason – you become like the people you surround yourself with. Gottchen. Yes, that’s how his mother-in-law says it. His own mother never used to say Bozhichko. No, we’re different. We don’t like to whimper. It’s a shame, really – how far I’ve drifted from my roots over the years.

But what does it matter now?

Gottchen. Gottchen. Gottchen.

He stood up with effort, tipped the waitress a full five euros – and she looked at him not so much with gratitude as with pity. He found the bathroom by instinct, then the door.

The June night received him like a cradle. Like a perfect lover. He staggered off in the first direction that presented itself.

Does the U-Bahn still run at this hour? No way he had enough for a taxi.

Anyway, who cared, hey...

“Hey,” growled someone behind him – the exact echo of his inner voice.

He turned. Tried to focus, but it wasn’t easy in the dark. Then his pupils widened suddenly – and sealed, forever, the dim glint of the knife’s blade.

Opposite him, watching with a strange coldness – almost indifference – were the yellow eyes from his dream.