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Shortly after Fred’s eleventh birthday the gas stove in the old bee-keeper's cottage out in the woods had exploded, and the collapsing timberwork had struck his father dead. Since Fred’s mother had left and Fred had gone to live with his Grandma, he had lived there alone, looking after his bees and playing piano. Fred thought about him only rarely. Even when his father was still alive, he had got used to the fact that he didn’t really exist, apart from the weekly walk and meal of spare ribs. Grandma Ranunkel did exist. Or used to exist. Occasionally Fred imagined actually sitting with his father in his garden, drinking schnapps. Time for vitamins, he always used to say: cherry, pear, plum. And it had been time for vitamins frequently. An empty bottle of Slivovitz hurled at the roof of the townbound Porsche, in which Fred’s mother sat blubbering with her Swiss civil engineer, had made Fred’s father legendary well beyond the boundaries of Dieburg.
    The cassette had finished and Fred turned it over. When the music had started again, he searched for some prayer to offer up to Grandma Ranunkel on parting. ‘I’ll never forget you,’ he murmured by way of experiment and shook his head, ‘I’ll try to get in control of my life.’ No good either. ‘Hope they’re good to you up there and give you lots of little boys, so you can ban them from going to the swimming pool, cancel their pocket money and give them thousands of cherries to stone at the week-end.’
    As he was lost in these thoughts, the gardener for the cemetery approached him from behind. He was in his early twenties, a tall, thin youth with sad eyes. He trailed his rake behind him like some foolish toy. When he reached Fred, he tapped him timidly on the shoulder. Fred turned around. He had to look twice before he recognised Ka-K. Astonished, he removed the headphones.
    â€˜Karl!’
    â€˜F-F-Fred. Is it y-you?’
    â€˜Yes, I’m out.’
    â€˜Since wh-wh-when?’
    â€˜Yesterday.’
    â€˜T-t-terrific.’ enthused Karl, who had already forgotten that he had actually come over because several visitors to the cemetery had complained about the noise from the Walkman. They had been in the same class and he had always liked Fred. Since the bank robbery he thought Fred was without question the most exciting guy between Aschaffenburg and Darmstadt.
    â€˜How’s th-th-things?’
    â€˜Good. I’m going to Berlin.’
    â€˜B-B-Berlin. T-terrific.’
    Karl looked on in admiration. Big, bad, thrilling Berlin. Once he almost went himself, but after someone had told him that people there spoke fearfully fast and were always in a rush, he decided to hand back the ticket. For Karl this journey meant that they hadn’t succeeded in breaking Fred’s spirit in prison.
    â€˜A-a-and Annette?’
    Fred looked in to Karl’s gleaming, expectant eyes. ‘She’s waiting for me there. There’s going to be a big party.’
    â€˜T-t-terrific.’ Karl was beaming. Someone like Fred should have it all: money, friends, fun. Then his gaze fell on the gravestone, and his broad smile vanished. ‘M-m-man, I’m so s-s-sorry about your Gr-gr-grandma.’
    â€˜That’s OK,’ said Fred, refusing the sympathy. And glancing at his watch, he asked: ‘And how are you?’
    â€˜Quite w-well. I’ve had the j-j-job here for a y-y-year. But the thing with the N-nazis is s-stupid.’
    Karl was playing with the handle of the rake. Normally he didn’t talk about the gang of skinheads that had been roaming around Dieburg, making him one of the regular victims of their assaults. He was ashamed of it. But he had no fear of Fred. And he was slightly hoping that Fred could give him some advice.
    â€˜Nazis?’ Fred looked absent-mindedly across the graves to the town. It was ten minutes to the station on foot.
    â€˜They c-c-come mostly at the