Matthias Altenburg

I go to the Romer. I have trouble breathing, and swallow a tablet. I go into the old Nikolaikirche, because it’s the most beautiful church the city has to offer. We take Communion, and sing hymn 331. I’ve never heard a more beautiful hymn. When the priest asks us to pray, and everyone closes their eyes, I slip the hymnbook into my pocket. A sexton opens the door for me. His stare drills holes in my back. For a moment I stay in front of the church, then I look for a pay telephone, and call Kruger. His wife picks up. She says he’s already on his way to Florence. His plane is taking off in half an hour. I have to hurry. On my way to the airport, I keep reading the hymn over and over again. The line, ‘painted with the blood of Christ’ does something to me. I worry away at it. I picture the crown of thorns soaked with blood, and blood pictures daubed on the walls. I run up the escalator. The flight to Florence has already been announced. I run to the gate, but it’s too late. Now I don’t know what to do. Kruger’s gone. My money’s gone. I go back to the main concourse, and go down to level B. There’s a couple of uniformed security guards behind me on the escalator. When I turn round, they look away. I go into a supermarket. Supermarket’s full of tourists with tourist faces and tourist kids. The two officials are still following me, and I imagine making an end, here and now, making an end of this wretched person with this wretched life and whatever wretchedness he had left to look forward to. I’d go and stand behind a shelf, and pull out my gun.