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to Tägern and photographed the fountain. What did I care about fountains? Concrete fountains, limestone fountains, or that kitschy combination of both, the Estermann, Haller & Company invention. If Father hadn’t had cancer I wouldn’t have heard anything about that fountain business until Christmas – if at all. Before his illness I’d seldom visited him. We didn’t have much to say to each other and there was no reason for us to meet. If it hadn’t been for Sophie, in some years we wouldn’t even have met at Christmas. Not that I didn’t like him. It was just that I had somehow lost my sense of family somewhere along the line. Sophie still had a strong sense of family.
    Beating about the bush.
    Why did I go out to Estermann’s that afternoon? Because I was afraid that Father wouldn’t go back to the hospital of his own accord; that, angered by his burnt back, he’d refuse to see the tall doctor again. Perhaps he wouldn’t refuse, he’d just forget the date. And then I’d have all the organisational bother of getting him another appointment. That was the only reason I went out to the Brühl district: to make sure he wouldn’t forget.
    Was I worried about him?
    I wanted to avoid trouble.
    He seemed to take it for granted that I’d take charge of things. Just as he’d thought it perfectly normal that for so many years I’d hardly ever gone to see him except at Christmas and on similar occasions.
    Moreover I was unemployed. I had plenty of time. I couldn’t have used time as an excuse.
    *
    â€œTo begin with we’ll give him an X-ray. We want to make sure that none of the inner organs have been affected. If we don’t find anything we’ll give him a new course of radiotherapy in four or five weeks. That will be necessary, as I told you from the start. But if it’s already invaded his inner organs we won’t trouble him any more.”
    Very much the circumspect specialist. Father himself didn’t hear the remarks: escorted by the male nurse, he’d gone on ahead toward the X-ray room.
    I was allowed to be present during the X-ray examination. The female intern took me into a cubicle that was separated from the rest of the room by glass panels.
    He was standing bare-torsoed on the platform of the machine, surrounded by chrome steel, and white, and snaking cables. Dr Boren called out instructions: “Okay – and now turn right again – fine – raise your arms – a little higher – yes – and now breathe out.”
    On the monitor, grey on grey, his ribcage, his lungs, his heart, working quietly, neither a stakhanovite nor a lazybones.
    The woman doctor beside me asked if I was his son. She scrutinised the flickering picture attentively. She made no comments; her face betrayed nothing in particular.
    â€œA little bit to the left,” said the doctor. “Yes, turn, to the left – very good – fine – and bend your arms – breathe gently.” The small man did what he was told, slowly, awkwardly.
    â€œAll right, that’ll do. You can get dressed now, Mr Haller.”
    The male nurse went up to him, supported him by the elbow. Down he came from the platform.
    Dr Boren, hurriedly: “That’s it then, as agreed; we’ll resume the radiotherapy at the end of July. Just register with the nurse over there.”
    He shook hands with us.
    I helped Father into his vest.
    *
    As we walked along the Ulmenweg, he said: “Well at least I’ll have peace for a while now.” It was hot, he was sweating.
    There was no one else on the road. Semi-detached houses with lawns, bushes all around. The sound of shunting trains from the station.
    A refuse collection vehicle overtook us. Two orange-trousered men tossed the black plastic sacks into the back.
    Clocks struck eleven. We’d had to wait a long time that morning and he’d missed his bus.
    â€œWhat about coming