Wolfgang Popp: Die Verschwundenen (The Disappeared)

Heise, or the Language Beneath the Asphalt

Do you still remember Heise? Schaller's voice sounded excited. He's back again, he said.
The start of the semester, 2 March 1992, fell on a Monday. It was one of those undecided days, shortly before the change of the seasons. Pleasantly warm when the sun came out, but still distinctly cold as soon as the first clouds gathered. Schaller and I had met at the university, when registering for a seminar in journalism. Afterwards we went for a bite to eat. That is, we only wanted a bite to eat, but each of us drank three large beers with his small goulash, and when we left the pub again it was the middle of the afternoon, the sun was warm, and we grinned the world straight in the face. We were 21 years old at the time.
We watched ourselves stagger across to the small café at the back entrance to the university, and were convinced that the world would not let us out of its sight. We had grand thoughts, illuminated by spotlights that rendered them radiant, and the future was waiting impatiently to become reality. No mania, no megalomania, only this time, aged about twenty, and three beers.
In the cafe we ordered two large mochas. The cups had chipped rims, yet the coffee was strong. Something must have been wrong with the espresso machine, because coarse grounds remained behind at the bottom of the cup every time, but then the coffee did cost only half as much as anywhere else. I sat on the wooden bench, with my back to the window, and the spider plant on the window-sill behind pricked me in the back of the neck, regardless of the direction in which I turned the flower-pot.
A wall newspaper, said Schaller out of the blue. We'll make a wall newspaper about the cinema. And he took his pad from his pocket and began to make notes. We loved our ideas, as long as they still had body temperature and had not yet gone cold from enforced implementation. Schaller and I, we revered the directors of the Nouvelle Vague, had our hair cut like Truffaut and smoked like Godard, wanted to make films, but until we could get that far, tried to gain experience as film critics. Every week we would send our film reviews to the big newspapers, waiting two or three days in vain for a reply before sending them on to a regional paper, which shortened them by half and printed them without paying us anything, yet for all that they had our initials set in italics at the end of the text. In order to get by, we also worked as waiters.
We had been sitting in the café for half an hour when a group of four students entered. I drew Schaller's attention to one of them. He was our age and wearing a white linen suit with black shoes and a gold signet ring. I found him ridiculous, the parody of a dandy, and put on a cynical grin. The group sat down at the next table, and then the smirk gradually disappeared from my face. This was because an enviable calmness emanated from the man in white, and he seemed to me to be completely invulnerable. Other people's initially withering glances – of course, we were not the only ones who had become aware of him – bounced off him like drops of water on impregnated leather.
That was more than ten years ago, almost eleven, to be exact.
Where did you see Heise? I asked Schaller.
I didn't. Somebody rang me up...
Who?
A doctor.
Well?
Heise's in Baumgartner Höhe.
In the psychiatric clinic?
Yes.

>>Incentives