Sleeping Beauty in the Refrigerator:
A Winter’s Tale

Characters

LOTTE THÖRL

PETER THÖRL

MARIA LUTZER

ROBERT LUTZER

ILSE

BALDUR

PATRICIA

MARGARETA

Berlin, in the year 2115.

LOTTE THÖRL, alone.

LOTTE: . . . And so another year has passed, once again it’s December 19, and we’re waiting for our guests to arrive for the same old party. (Sounds of dishes and of furniture being moved) I don’t particularly love guests, myself. My husband even used to call me the Great Bear. Not anymore; he has changed quite a bit over the past few years and has become serious and boring. The Little Bear would be our daughter, Margareta: poor thing! She’s only four years old. (Footsteps; noises as above) It’s not that I’m shy and unsociable: it’s just that it annoys me to find myself at a reception with more than five or six people. The situation inevitably deteriorates into pandemonium, with pointless arguments, and I’m left with the pathetic impression that no one has even noticed I’m there, except when I pass around trays of food.

On the other hand, we Thörls don’t have people over very often: two or three times a year, and we rarely accept invitations. It’s natural; no one can offer their guests what we can offer ours. Some have beautiful old paintings, Renoir, Picasso, Caravaggio; others have a trained orangutan, or a live dog or cat; some have a bar with all the latest intoxicants, but we have Patricia. . . . (Sigh) Patricia!

(Doorbell) The first guests have arrived. (Knocking on a door) Come, Peter, they’re here.

Enter PETER THÖRL; MARIA and ROBERT LUTZER

They all exchange greetings and pleasantries.

ROBERT: Good evening, Lotte; good evening, Peter. Terrible weather, isn’t it? How many months has it been since we’ve seen the sun?

PETER: And how many months has it been since we’ve seen you?

LOTTE: Oh, Maria! You look younger than ever. And what a beautiful fur coat. A gift from the husband?

ROBERT: They’re not such a rarity anymore. It’s silver marten: apparently the Russians imported great quantities; they can be found in the eastern sector at very reasonable prices. On the black market, of course; it’s rationed merchandise.

PETER: I admire and envy you, Robert. I know very few Berliners who don’t complain of the situation, but I don’t know anyone who breezes through it with your confidence. I’m increasingly convinced that true, passionate love of money is a virtue that isn’t learned but inherited by blood.

MARIA: So many flowers! Lotte, what a marvelous birthday perfume I smell. Happy birthday, Lotte!

LOTTE (to both husbands): Maria is incorrigible. But you may rest assured, Robert, that marriage is not what has made her so delightfully empty-headed. She was already like this at school: we called her “the forgetful girl of the Colony,” and invited friends of both sexes from other classes to watch her take her oral exams. (With mock severity) Mrs. Lutzer, attention, please. Is this any way to prepare your history lesson? Today is not my birthday: today is December 19. It’s Patricia’s birthday.

MARIA: Oh, forgive me, dear. I really do have the memory of a chicken. So tonight will be the defrosting? How wonderful!

PETER: Of course, as it is every year. We’re still waiting for Ilse and Baldur to arrive. (Doorbell) Here they are, late as usual.

LOTTE: Show a little understanding, Peter! Have you ever seen an engaged couple arrive on time?

ILSE and BALDUR enter. Greetings and pleasantries as above.

PETER: Good evening, Ilse; good evening, Baldur. Blessed are those who catch a glimpse of you two; you’re so lost in each other that your old friends no longer exist.

BALDUR: You’ll have to forgive us. We’re drowning in bureaucracy: my doctorate, the papers for city hall, the permit for Ilse, and the Party approval. The stamp from the mayor has already arrived, but we’re still waiting for the one from Washington, the one from Moscow, and mainly the one from Peking, which is the most difficult to obtain. It’s enough to drive one mad. It’s been centuries since we’ve seen a living soul: we’ve become savages, ashamed to show ourselves in public.

ILSE: We’re late, aren’t we? We really are rude. But why didn’t you begin without us?

PETER: We would never do such a thing. The moment of reawakening is the most interesting. She’s so charming when she opens her eyes!

ROBERT: Come on, Peter, we’d better begin, otherwise it will be very late by the time we finish. Go get the manual so that what happened before, the first time, I believe, doesn’t happen again (how many years ago?), when you made a wrong maneuver and nearly caused a disaster.

PETER (hurt): I have the manual here in my pocket, but by now I know what to do by heart. Shall we move? (Sounds of chairs moving and footsteps; comments; impatient whispers) . . . One: disconnect the nitrogen circuit and the inert-gas circuit. (Carries out instructions: squeak, muffled whisper, twice) Two: turn on the pump, the Wroblewski sterilizer, and the micro filter. (Sound of the pump, like a distant motorcycle; a few seconds pass.) Three: open the oxygen circuit (a whistling sound begins, becoming increasingly piercing) and slowly unscrew the valve until the gauge reaches 21 percent . . .

ROBERT (interrupting): No, Peter, not 21, 24 percent; in the manual it says 24 percent. If I were you I’d wear glasses. Don’t be offended, after all we’re the same age, but I would wear glasses, at least on certain occasions.

PETER (moodily): Yes, you’re right, 24 percent. But it’s the same, 21 or 24: I’ve seen it before. Four: gradually move the thermostat, raising the temperature approximately two degrees per minute (the sound of a metronome ticking). Silence now, please. Or at least don’t speak too loudly.

ILSE (whispering): Does she suffer during the defrosting?

PETER (as above): No, not usually. But one has to do things carefully and follow the instructions to the letter. Also, during her stay in the refrigerator, it’s essential that the temperature be maintained at a constant and within very strict parameters.

ROBERT: Of course. All it takes is a few degrees lower and goodbye, because I read that if something or other coagulates in their central nervous system, then they don’t ever revive, or they revive as idiots and with no memory; a few degrees too high, and they will regain consciousness and suffer hideously. Think what a horror that would be, young lady: to feel yourself entirely frozen, hands, feet, blood, heart, brain, and not be able to move a finger, or bat an eyelid, or make a sound to ask for help!

ILSE: Terrible. It takes a lot of courage and great faith. Faith in the thermostat, I mean. As for myself, I’m crazy for winter sports, but I’ll tell you the truth, I wouldn’t change places with Patricia for all the gold in the world. They told me that in her time, when the whole thing started, she would have been dead already if they hadn’t given her those injections of . . . what? . . . antifreeze. Yes, yes, that’s it, the stuff you put into your car radiator in the winter. I suppose it’s logical; otherwise, the blood would freeze. Isn’t that right, Mr. Thörl?

PETER (evasively): Many say so . . .

ILSE (pensively): It doesn’t surprise me that so few have done it. I must say, it doesn’t surprise me at all. They tell me she’s beautiful: is it true?

ROBERT: Magnificent. I saw her last year right up close: a complexion you just don’t see anymore today. You can tell that, in spite of everything, the diet of the twentieth century was for the most part still natural, and must have contained some vital element that escapes us, not that I distrust chemists; I actually respect and esteem them. But look, I think they’re a little . . . I’d say . . . presumptuous, yes, presumptuous. In my opinion, there must be something we have yet to discover, perhaps something secondary.

LOTTE (reluctantly): Yes, she certainly is lovely. Of course, it’s also the beauty of her youth. She has the skin of a newborn. I, however, think it must be an effect of the super-freezing. The color isn’t natural, it’s too pink and too white, it’s like . . . yes, it’s like ice cream, if you’ll excuse the comparison. Even her hair is too blond. To tell the truth, she actually gives me the impression of being a little drained, faisandée. . . . Anyway she is beautiful, no one can deny it. She’s also very sophisticated, educated, intelligent, bold, superlative in every way, and she scares me, makes me uncomfortable, and gives me a complex (she has let herself run on; she stops talking, embarrassed, then, with an effort) . . . but I love her very much all the same. Especially when she’s frozen.

Silence. The metronome continues to tick.

ILSE (whispering): Can we look through the fridge peephole?

PETER (as above): Certainly, but don’t make any noise. We’re already at ten below and a sudden emotion could be damaging to her.

ILSE (as above): Ah! She’s enchanting! She seems fake . . . And she is . . . I mean, is she really from that era?

BALDUR (as above, aside): Don’t ask such stupid questions!

ILSE (as above, aside): It’s not a stupid question. I wanted to know how old she is. She seems so young and yet they say she’s . . . ancient.

PETER (who has heard the exchange): I will explain, young lady. Patricia is a hundred and sixty-three years old, twenty-three of which were spent normally, and a hundred and forty in hibernation. But I’m sorry, Ilse and Baldur, I thought you already knew the story. And you must pardon me as well, Maria and Robert, if I’m repeating things you already know. I will briefly try to bring these dear young people up to date. So, you need to know that the hibernation technology was put into use toward the middle of the twentieth century, primarily for clinical and surgical purposes. It wasn’t until 1970 that a freezing procedure was invented that was truly innocuous and painless, and therefore suitable for the long-term preservation of superior organisms. A dream thus became reality: it seemed possible to “ship” a man into the future. But how far into the future? Were there limits? And at what cost?

In order to institute some rules regarding its use by those in the future, meaning us, a public announcement was made in 1975, here in Berlin, of a competition for volunteers.

BALDUR: And Patricia was one of these?

PETER: Precisely. From what we can tell from her personal record book, which stays in the fridge with her, she was in fact the first to be chosen. She had all the requirements: heart, lungs, kidneys, etc., in perfect condition; the nervous system of an astronaut; an imperturbable and determined character, a limited emotionality, and, finally, a high level of culture and intelligence. Not that culture and intelligence were indispensable in order to withstand hibernation, but, all things being equal, subjects with a high level of intelligence were preferable for obvious reasons of prestige, with regard to both our own population and the population in the future.

BALDUR: So Patricia has been sleeping from 1975 until today?

PETER: Yes, with brief interruptions. The program was agreed upon by her and the commission, whose president was Hugo Thörl, my renowned ancestor . . .

ILSE: He’s the famous one, right, the one we study in school?

PETER: That’s the one, young lady, the discoverer of the fourth law of thermodynamics. The program included a provision for a revival of a few hours every year on December 19, her birthday . . .

ILSE: What a nice thought!

PETER: . . . There have been other occasional revivals, owing to special circumstances, such as important planetary expeditions, famous crimes and trials, marriages of royals or screen idols, international baseball games, earthquakes, and the like: everything, that is, which should be seen and reported to the distant future. In addition, of course, every time there is a power outage . . . and twice a year for medical checkups. From what her record book shows, the total number of awake days she’s had since 1975 until today has been approximately three hundred.

BALDUR: . . . And, if you’ll pardon the question, why is Patricia a guest in your house? Has she been for a long time?

PETER (embarrassed): Patricia is . . . Patricia was, so to speak, part of our family’s estate. It’s a long story and somewhat complicated. These things, you know, belong to the past, a century and a half has gone by . . . it could be considered a miracle, with all the uprisings, blockades, occupations, repressions, and sacks that have taken place in Berlin, that Patricia could have been handed down from father to son, undisturbed, without ever leaving our house. She represents, in a way, family continuity. She is . . . she’s a symbol, that’s it.

BALDUR: . . . But how did . . .

PETER: . . . How did Patricia come to be part of our family? Well, strange as it may seem, on this point nothing official has been found and nothing survives except a verbal account that has been passed down but which Patricia refuses to confirm or deny. It seems that at the beginning of the experiment Patricia was housed at the University, more specifically in the refrigeration cell of the Institute of Anatomy, and around the year 2000 there was a violent dispute with the academic faculty. It was said that she did not like the situation, because she had no privacy, and because she didn’t want to be rubbing elbows with cadavers heading for dissection. It seems that during one of her revivals she formally declared that either they find her a situation in which she could have a private fridge or she would take legal action. And this is when my ancestor, the one I mentioned earlier, who was dean of the faculty at the time, generously offered to be her host, in order to resolve the problem.

ILSE: What a strange woman! Pardon me, but hasn’t she had enough? Who’s making her do this? It can’t be much fun to be in hibernation for the entire year, waking up for only one or two days, and not at your choosing but when someone else wants you to. I would die of boredom.

PETER: You’re wrong, Ilse. Actually, there’s never been an existence more intense than Patricia’s. Her life is condensed: it contains only the essential, it contains nothing that isn’t worth being lived. As for the time spent in the fridge, it passes for us, but not for her. You see no signs of it in her, not in her memory or in her tissue. She doesn’t grow old. She ages only during the hours she is awake. In one hundred and forty years, from her first birthday in the fridge, which was her twenty-fourth, to today, she has hardly aged a year. For her, from last year to this, only thirty hours have passed.

BALDUR: Three or four on her birthday, and then?

PETER: And then, let’s see . . . (mentally calculating) another six or seven at the dentist, going out with Lotte to buy a pair of shoes, trying on a dress . . .

ILSE: Quite so. She must also keep up with the fashions.

PETER: . . . and that makes ten. Six hours for the opening night of Tristan at the Opera, and we’re at sixteen. Another six for the two health checkups.

ILSE: Why, was she ill? It’s understandable. Such fluctuations in temperature aren’t good for anyone. And they say we can get used to anything!

PETER: No, no, her health is very good. It’s the physiologists from the Research Center: regular as the tax man, they show up twice a year with all their equipment, defrost her, and examine her thoroughly, X rays, psychological tests, electrocardiograms, blood tests. . . . Then they leave, and what’s been seen has been seen. Professional secret: not a word escapes them.

BALDUR: So then it’s not out of scientific interest that you keep her in your house?

PETER (embarrassed): No . . . not entirely. You know, I’m in a totally different line of work. . . . I take no part in the academic world; the fact is that we’ve become very attached to Patricia. And she has become attached to us: like a daughter. She wouldn’t leave us for anything.

BALDUR: But then why are her waking periods so rare and so brief?

PETER: This is straightforward. Patricia is supposed to make it as far into future centuries as possible in the fullness of her youth, so she has to be economical. But you will be able to hear these things from her and more besides. In fact, we’re at 35 degrees and she’s opening her eyes. Now, dear, open the door and cut off her casing. She’s beginning to breathe.

Click and squeak of the door; the sound of scissors
or a paper cutter.

BALDUR: What casing?

PETER: A hermetically sealed, very close-fitting polyethylene casing. It reduces evaporation losses.

The metronome, which has been heard as a background noise
during all the pauses, ticks ever more loudly, then suddenly stops.
A buzzer goes off three times, very distinctly.
Complete silence for a few seconds.

MARGARETA (from the other room): Mom! Is Aunt Patricia already awake? What did she bring me this year?

LOTTE: What do you think she brought you? The same piece of ice! Anyhow it’s her birthday, not yours. Now be quiet. Go to sleep, it’s late.

Silence once again. A sigh is heard, a rather loud yawn, a sneeze. Then, without any transition, PATRICIA begins to speak.

PATRICIA (in an affected, drawling, nasal voice): Good evening. Good day. What time is it? How many people there are! What day is today? What year?

PETER: It’s December 19, 2115. Don’t you remember? It’s your birthday! Happy birthday, Patricia!

EVERYONE: Happy birthday, Patricia!

Many voices at once. Sentence fragments are heard:

—How pretty she is!

—Miss, pardon me, I would like to ask you a few questions . . .

—Later, later! She must be so tired!

—Do you dream while you’re in the fridge? What do you dream of?

—I would like to ask your opinion about . . .

ILSE: I wonder if she met Napoleon or Hitler?

BALDUR: Come on, what are you saying, they were two centuries earlier!

LOTTE (interrupting decisively): Pardon me, please. Let me through. Someone needs to think of the practical things. Patricia might need something, (to PATRICIA) a cup of hot tea? Or maybe you’d like something more nutritious? A small steak? Would you like to change, freshen up a bit?

PATRICIA: Tea, thanks. How sweet you are, Lotte! No, I don’t need anything else, for now. As you know, the defrosting always leaves my stomach a little upset; as for the steak, let’s see about that later. But small, you know. . . . Oh, Peter! How are you? How is your sciatica? What’s new? Has the summit conference finished? Has the weather started to get cold? Oh, I hate winter. I’m so susceptible to colds. . . . And you, Lotte? I see you’re in the best of health, maybe you’ve even gained a little weight . . .

MARIA: . . . Ah, yes, the years pass for everyone . . .

BALDUR: They pass for almost everyone. Excuse me, Peter, I’ve heard so much about Patricia, I’ve waited so long for this meeting, that now I’d like . . . (To PATRICIA) Miss, pardon me for being so bold, but I know your time is limited, I would like you to describe our world as seen from your eyes, I’d like you to tell me about your past, about your century, to which we owe so much, about your intentions for the future, how . . .

PATRICIA (having had enough): It’s nothing extraordinary, you know, one gets used to it right away. Take, for example, Mr. Thörl here, fiftyish (maliciously), his hairline receding, the start of a potbelly, a few aches and pains now and again? And yet two months ago for me, he was twenty years old, he wrote poetry, and was about to go off as a volunteer to join the Uhlans. Three months ago he was ten years old, called me Aunt Patricia, cried when they froze me, and wanted to come into the fridge with me. Isn’t it true, darling? Oh, a thousand pardons.

And five months ago he was not only not born yet but not even a distant thought; there was his father, the colonel, but I’m talking about when he was only a lieutenant, in the Fourth Mercenary Legion, and at every defrosting he had one more stripe and a bit less hair. He flirted with me, in the funny way he used to then: for eight defrostings he flirted with me . . . you might say it’s in the blood of those Thörls because, as far as that characteristic goes, they’re all alike. They don’t . . . how should I put it? They don’t have a very serious concept of guardianship . . . (PATRICIA’s voice begins to fade) to think that even the Progenitor, the Patriarch . . .

LOTTE’s voice, sharp and nearby, takes over,
addressing the audience.

LOTTE: Did you hear? That’s what she’s like, that girl. She doesn’t have . . . she has no restraint. It’s true that I’ve gained weight: I don’t live in a refrigerator. She, no, she doesn’t gain weight, she’s eternal, incorruptible, like asbestos, like a diamond, like gold. But she likes men, and especially other women’s husbands. She’s an eternal flirt, an incorrigible coquette. I ask you, ladies and gentlemen: is it wrong that I can’t stand her? (Sigh) . . . And worst of all, even at her venerable age, men like her. You know, of course, what men are like, whether it’s Thörl or anyone else, and intellectuals are even more susceptible than the rest: a couple of sighs, a couple of glances in that certain way, a couple of childhood memories, and the trap is sprung. Then, in the long run, it’s she who’s in trouble, you understand, after a month or two she finds herself saddled with those aging lovesick types. . . . No, don’t think I’m that blind or stupid: I, too, noticed that this time she’s changed her tone with my husband, she’s become caustic and biting. You understand: there’s another man on the horizon. But you weren’t around for the other revivals. It was enough to make you want to skin her alive! And then, and then . . . I’ve never been able to come up with proof, to catch her in the act, but are you absolutely certain, all of you, that between the “guardian” and the girl everything has always taken place in the clear light of day? In other words (emphatically), have all the defrostings been properly registered in her personal record book? I’m not sure. I’m not at all sure. (Pause. Sounds of disjointed conversations mixed with background noise) But this time you, too, will have noticed that there’s someone new. It’s simple: there’s another man on the horizon, a younger man. The young thing likes fresh meat. Listen to her; isn’t she someone who knows what she wants? (Voices) Oh, I didn’t think it had already gone this far.

From the background of voices, those of
BALDUR and PATRICIA emerge.

BALDUR: . . . a sensation I’ve never had before. I would never have believed it possible to find joined in a single person the enchantment of both eternity and youth. In your presence I feel just as I would in the presence of the Pyramids, and yet you’re so young and so beautiful.

PATRICIA: Yes, Mr. . . . Baldur, that’s your name, isn’t it? Yes, Baldur. But I have three gifts, not two. Eternity, youth, and solitude. And this last is the price I pay for risking as much as I have risked.

BALDUR: But what an admirable experience! To fly where others crawl, to be able to compare in person the customs, events, heroes from decade to decade, century to century! What historian wouldn’t feel envious? And I who consider myself a connoisseur of the subject! (On a sudden impulse) You must let me read your diary.

PATRICIA: How did you know . . . I mean, what makes you think I keep a diary?

BALDUR: Then you do keep one! I guessed it!

PATRICIA: Yes, I keep one. It’s part of the project, but no one knows about it, not even Thörl. And no one can read it: it’s in code, which is also part of the project.

BALDUR: If no one can read it, what’s it for?

PATRICIA: For me. It will be useful to me after.

BALDUR: After what?

PATRICIA: After. When I have arrived. Then I plan to publish it. I don’t think I’ll have any difficulty finding a publisher, since it’s an intimate diary, a genre that always appeals. (In a dreamy voice) I plan on becoming a journalist, did you know? And publishing the intimate diaries of all the powerful people on earth from my era, Churchill, Stalin, et cetera. I could make quite a lot of money.

BALDUR: But how did you come into possession of these diaries?

PATRICIA: I don’t have them. I’ll write them myself. Based on true events, naturally.

Pause.

BALDUR: Patricia! (Another pause) Take me with you.

PATRICIA (she thinks about it; then very coldly): It’s not a bad idea, in the abstract. But you mustn’t think that all it takes is for you to get into the fridge: one has to have injections, take a training course. . . . It’s not that easy. And then not everyone has the appropriate body. . . . Of course, it would be nice to have a travel companion like you, so alive, so passionate, so rich in spirit . . . but aren’t you engaged?

BALDUR: Engaged? I was.

PATRICIA: Until when?

BALDUR: Until half an hour ago, but now that I’ve met you everything has changed.

PATRICIA: You are a flatterer, a dangerous man. (PATRICIA’s voice changes abruptly and she is no longer complaining and languid, but clear, energetic, sharp) In any case, if things really are as you say, something interesting could come of it.

BALDUR: Patricia! Why delay! Let’s leave: run away with me. But not in the future—right now.

PATRICIA (coolly): Exactly what I was thinking. But when?

BALDUR: Now, right away. Let’s walk across the room and out the door.

PATRICIA. Nonsense. We would have everyone at our heels, with him in the lead. Look at him: he’s already suspicious.

BALDUR: When, then?

PATRICIA: Tonight. Listen carefully. At midnight everyone will go, they will refreeze me and put me in naphthalene. It’s much faster than the revival, a bit like the deep-sea divers, you know, coming up you have to go slowly but immersion can be fast. They stick me in the fridge and attach the compressor without much ceremony, but for the first few hours I remain pretty flexible and can easily return to active life.

BALDUR: And so?

PATRICIA: And so it’s simple. You go out with the others, take home your . . . well, that girl, then come back here, sneak into the garden, and come in through the kitchen window.

BALDUR: Done! Two more hours, two hours and the world is ours! But tell me something, Patricia, won’t you feel remorse? Won’t you regret interrupting your journey into future centuries for me?

PATRICIA: Listen, my boy, if we pull this off we’ll have loads of time to talk about all these wonderful things. But first we have to succeed. Look, they’re going; go back to where you were, take your leave in a civil manner, and try not to do anything stupid. I would really hate to lose this opportunity.

The voices of the guests fade, sounds of chairs moving.
Sentence fragments:

—See you next year!

—Good night, if that’s the appropriate thing to say . . .

—Let’s go, Robert, I didn’t realize it was so late.

—Baldur, let’s go, you have the honor of taking me home.

Silence. Then LOTTE’s voice, directed to the audience.

LOTTE: . . . And so everyone leaves. Peter and I remain alone, with Patricia, something which is never pleasant for the three of us. And I’m not saying this because of the antipathy that I described to you a little earlier, perhaps a bit impulsively. No, it’s a situation that’s objectively disagreeable, cold, false, extremely awkward for everyone. We talk a little of this and that and then we say our goodbyes, and Peter puts Patricia back in the fridge.

The same sounds as the defrosting, but in reverse and
accelerated. Sigh, yawn. Lightning-fast closing up of the casing.
The metronome is started, then the pump, hissing, etc. The
metronome keeps going, the rhythm gradually melds with the
slower ticking of a pendulum clock. It strikes one, half past one,
two. The sound of an approaching car is heard, it stops, a door
slams. Far away, a dog barks. Footsteps on gravel. A window
opens. Footsteps on the wooden floor creaking ever nearer. The
fridge door is opened.

BALDUR (whispering): Patricia, I’m here!

PATRICIA (confused and muffled voice): Cnnoputtp ht ncosssngn!

BALDUR: Whaaaat?

PATRICIA (a bit more distinctly): Cut the casing!

Sound of cutting.

BALDUR: There, all done. And now what? What should I do? You must forgive me, but I’m not very practical, you know, it’s the first time such a thing has happened to me . . .

PATRICIA: Oh, the hardest part is over, now I’ll take care of myself. Just give me a hand, so I can get out of here.

Footsteps. “Careful” “Sh-sh-sh” “This way” . . . Window.
Footsteps on the gravel. The car door. BALDUR
turns on the car engine.

BALDUR: We’re out, Patricia. Out of the ice, out of the nightmare. I feel like I’m dreaming: for two hours I’ve been living in a dream. I’m afraid I’ll wake up.

PATRICIA (coolly): Did you take your girlfriend home?

BALDUR: Who, Ilse? Yes, I took her home. I broke up with her.

PATRICIA: You broke up with her? Definitively?

BALDUR: It wasn’t as hard as I was afraid it would be, just a little scene. She didn’t even cry.

Pause. The engine is running.

PATRICIA: Young man, don’t judge me too harshly. I suppose the moment has arrived for an explanation. You must try to understand: I had to find a way to get out of there.

BALDUR: . . . so that’s all this is? A way of getting out?

PATRICIA: That’s all it is. A way of getting out of the fridge and out of the Thörls’ house. Baldur, I owe you a confession.

BALDUR: A confession is the least of it.

PATRICIA: I can’t give you anything else, and it’s not even a very nice confession. I am truly tired, frozen and unfrozen, frozen and unfrozen, over a long period of time—it’s really exhausting. And then there’s something else.

BALDUR: Something else?

PATRICIA: Yes, something else. His nighttime visits. At 33 degrees, barely tepid, and I couldn’t defend myself in any way. And I had to stay quiet, I couldn’t speak! And perhaps he thought . . .

BALDUR: My poor dear thing, how much you must have suffered!

PATRICIA: A real bother, you have no idea. An indescribable bore.

The sound of a car moving farther and farther away.

LOTTE: . . . And this is how the story ends. I had suspected something might happen, and that night I heard strange noises. But I stayed quiet: why should I have raised the alarm?

It seems to me that it’s better this way for everyone. Baldur, poor guy, told me the whole thing. It seems that Patricia, on top of everything else, also asked him for money, to go who knows where, to find a friend who lives in America, naturally he, too, in a fridge. As for Baldur, whether or not he got back together with Ilse, no one cared very much one way or the other, not even Ilse herself. We sold the fridge. As for Peter, we’ll see.