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gaze were out of the question.
    Rosmarie used to wonder what happened to our aunt’s lovers. Did they die from heart failure just as they reached the most satisfying and blissful moment of their lives? What a glorious death, Rosmarie thought. Mira said that maybe Inga avoided all skin contact by doing everything in a wafer-thin rubber suit. “A black one, of course,” she added.
    I said that she probably did it like everyone else, only she might have to be earthed to a radiator or something similar beforehand.
    “Do you think it hurts her?” Mira wondered.
    “Shall we ask?”
    But not even Rosmarie dared do that.
    Inga photographed people, too, but only family members. More precisely, she only ever photographed her mother. The more Bertha’s personality faded, the more obsessively Inga took portraits of her. In the end she only took photographs with a flash, partly because my grandmother hardly ever left her room in the care home—by then she had forgotten how to walk—but also because, however irrational she knew it was, Inga hoped that the flash would help her cut through the fog that was settling ever more thickly on Bertha’s brain.
    After my visit to Bertha four years earlier, Aunt Inga had showed me a whole crate of black-and-white photos of her mother. In the last four films Bertha always wore the same expression of uncomprehending horror, her mouth slightly open and her eyes wide, pinpricked with tiny pupils that had contracted instinctively. But there was no sign of awareness or discomfort. Bertha no longer knew anything nor wanted anything. The photos were well thumbed. Some were out of focus or blurred; that wasn’t like Aunt Inga. The blaze of the camera flash had burned off the deep wrinkles on Bertha’s face so that it stood out smooth and white against the hazy gray background. As white as the plastic table she wiped with her hand, and just as empty.
    After I had given the photos back to Aunt Inga she gave her pictures another good look before putting them back in the crate. It was plain that Inga knew each individual picture in great detail and was able to distinguish them all from one another, because when she sorted them she seemed compelled to put them in a specific order. I wanted to put my arm around my aunt, but that was not so easily done, so I squeezed her hand tight in both of mine. She was totally absorbed with ordering her grotesque, identical portraits, and all the while her amber bracelet knocked against the crate with a clunk.
    The metallic creak of a kickstand in the yard below and then the snap of a pannier rack sounded through the open window. I leaned out, but the visitor had already gone around the corner to ring at the front door. I thought I recognized the bicycle. The doorbell chimed, a real bell with a clapper. I dashed down the stairs, ran along the corridor, and tried to spy who it was through the glass panes. It was an old man; he was standing by the window so I could see who he was.
    Surprised, I opened the door. “Herr Lexow!”
    The friendly smile he had intended to greet me with gave way to an expression of uncertainty when he saw me. I remembered what I was wearing and felt embarrassed. He must have thought I was some kind of morbid lunatic, rummaging naked through the wardrobes upstairs and dancing wildly in bizarre costumes across the landing or even on the roof; after all, some family members had been known to do this in the past.
    “Oh, please excuse my outfit, Herr Lexow.” I was stammering as I struggled to find an explanation. “I-I’m afraid my dress had a terrible stain on it and as I’ve hardly got any spare clothes—it’s so sticky in the house, you see . . .”
    His friendly smile had quickly returned. He raised his hand sympathetically. “That’s your aunt Inga’s dress, isn’t it? It looks fantastic on you. The thing is, I thought that someone might want to stay in the house. And as there’s practically nothing in the kitchen I thought—I