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houses and fewer people than in the Mittelland in general. Off the beaten track, far from the railway line, far from the motorway. It was pleasant for me to ride out there on my moped; boring for Father who had to live out there all the time. He was a sociable person. He would have preferred an old people’s home near the town or in a larger village. The only thing there was the Löwen.
    â€œThe Löwen is the front parlour of the old people’s home,” he used to say. “You can see for yourself what it’s like. From time to time they wipe the tables with a damp cloth. If it weren’t for the home, the place would have gone bankrupt long ago. It’s where we spend whatever’s left over from our old-age pensions.”
    He’d had no choice. The old people’s home in Breitmoos was the cheapest in the region.
    Should we take him home, now that he was ill? The thought had occurred to me a couple of times that summer. And also the answer: Out of the question. The flat was too small. Sophie found Father charming – but she would hardly have found him charming as a permanent guest. Not to mention me. Let’s not kid ourselves, please.
    The greyish-yellow wheatfields. I saw the first combine harvesters move through the crops: the rotating reels in the front, the back part shaking out the straw, a dust trail floating overhead.
    A quiet July for me, a boring July for Father. Estermann had put all his people to work on a big drainage job and couldn’t spare a labourer for mason’s work. The new fountain couldn’t be started. Father sat in his room, or over in the Löwen. He smoked a lot.
    *
    Sophie sent postcards from Elba. Three in all.
    The smell of freshly mown lawns in the Allmend neighbourhood. Washing hung from rotary driers the same as ever. Joggers ran along the Aare. Men in plastic sandals dragged watering cans from the riverbank to the allotments. Clouds of midges hung over the riverside path.
    *
    The threat of a political crisis in Italy. They’d changed the prime minister in Tunisia. The Iraqis had bombed some oil tankers. The Iranians had fired on a border town. The Pope was in South America; he’d been greeted by hundreds of thousands of people and had given speeches. In Switzerland, parliament was already on holiday but a law had been submitted for public consultation. The Farmers’ Union had made demands. The people of Uri had expressed displeasure at the traffic jams their side of the St Gotthard tunnel.
    After the news, I listened to the commentaries. After the commentaries, I watched the news on television.
    Thanks to the community aerial you could watch an old film every evening. I drank one bottle of beer per film.
    Being alone is nice, it’s so peaceful.
    You’re free from supervision.
    I stuck the postcards Sophie sent me on the frosted glass door between the kitchen and the corridor.

6 – August: Bush hammer – Remission
    We could have felt reassured. For the time being. As long as they were doing something it meant that something could be done. No doubt the radiologist hadn’t discovered anything out of the ordinary when he did the X-rays in mid-June. On Father’s lungs, all those spots and streaks that had caught my eye on the screen in the glass cubicle can’t have meant anything. Or else just something normal: silicosis shadows, signs of old age.
    â€œYou’d better make sure you don’t burn my back this time,” he said. “I don’t want to be rubbing on ointment for weeks on end again.”
    The doctor reassured him. They were giving him a smaller dose. And after all, it hadn’t been that bad.
    â€œWhy don’t you just operate on it if it’s grown back? It’d be much simpler.”
    The doctor shook his head. “No, Mr Haller, I’m afraid that would not be the most sensible thing to do.”
    â€œI can cut it out myself if you don’t want to. A saw-toothed