Peter Kurzeck

At the end of the morning, or in the afternoon at two, at half-two, at three (sometimes the sun came out in the afternoon), or just before the shops close, going down Grüneburg Weg. At least once a day. And like someone else. Walking here like a stranger. Shopping, at least buying milk in HL, or just counting my money again after all? Fruit shop, fishmonger’s, baker’s and butcher’s. Time and troubles and my shoes, taking care with them. And telling myself and bread and time and apples and fish to wait for later, the future, tomorrow. If I can, down Grüneburg Weg just before the shops close. If possible twice a day. Ahead of my gaze, and following myself. The sun just gone. And I tired and a stranger heading towards the evening. Into the evening. Down to the Eschersheim road. Early March. Dusk arrived grey and empty. Many lights in the evening. In the dusk always meeting myself again and the many faces, and picking up my pictures. Otherwise the day wouldn’t have happened. Towards the evening and then back with the evening and sparing my shoes as I walk. The telephone box. And already starts to know me. Two pubs, the kiosk, posters and pictures of women. From far away, newspaper sellers. Been walking a long time. Less and less space between cars on the Reuter Weg at rush-hour, and the air blue from the evening and the exhaust fumes. The centre of town a distant blaze. Are you cold? Tired with evening, more and more tired and on every walk home stopping last in front of the Authors’ Bookshop, and piecing together in my head the alphabet and my own name. I myself see-through or nearly see-through here in the light in front of the shop. Spelling out, with difficulty, my own name to myself. Each evening, on the edge of the light. Standing and seeing how the shop window reflects the pavement, the street, the evening. And if I were standing inside, the shop with its shelves and book spines the reflection in front of the dark or still twilit street. (I had even in the worst times wished for and imagined and wished for a part-time job in a bookshop or library, would happily have been a general dogsbody and applied often enough in vain.) No money, no name, no income. See-through or unseen in the dusk and then tiredly home in the evening. As a visitor, don’t forget, a visitor! And not wearing out the shoes as I walked! I walked as if I were someone else. With myself. In the third person. And anyway, everything just borrowed. Learning to borrow’s a doddle! Still dusk or already dark? Not over to the telephone box again? Again counting the money I have left, words of encouragement to my shoes and then down Grüneburg Weg once more? And carrying on to Hauptwache and the Zeil. Hauptwache, Zeil, Konstablerwache, the main station, the goods yard, Gallus district, the road to Mainz. From there onwards then like a ghost. Not able to turn back and on like a ghost. Unknown cobbles. The stones don’t know me. Not even all the streets, the evening, the city? The city through me? The same as yesterday, tiredly home in the evening? Or has everything always been yesterday? Ways home. The Authors’ Bookshop. On the pavement in front of the window stopping and not knowing myself any more. See-through or almost see-through and there’s light in the window. Tiredly home in the evening. And whenever I come home, each time carrying on straight away with the manuscript. Reading at least the last page, at least the last three lines, and carrying on. Straight away. At least the start of the next sentence.