When Richard comes home, she’s already in bed, though still awake. It’s been the same for days, she’s dog-tired but can’t fall asleep, and now she’s beginning to get angry. Which doesn’t make things better. She keeps telling herself that her private life is in perfect order, and that professionally there are at most a couple of small discrepancies. With a job like hers, she can’t expect a lifetime of smooth sailing. Britta knows that. But her body doesn’t. Instead of letting her sink down in exhaustion, it’s sending electric shocks through her system. You can force yourself to do many things, but not to fall asleep.
She’s relieved to register the beeps of the combination lock on the front door, pricks up her ears, and follows Richard’s progress through the house, down the entrance hall to the kitchen, the refrigerator door opening, the hiss of a beer can, and then more footsteps, straight to the bedroom. The half-closed door is carefully pushed open; he peers inside, sees her sitting in bed, awake, and comes in. Big smile.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
“How was it?”
“Sensational!”
He throws himself onto the bed and kisses her, spills a little beer on the blanket, laughs, and rolls around until he’s lying stretched out next to her. When Britta came home with Vera, Richard’s note was on the kitchen table, informing her that the new investor had, on the spur of the moment, invited the partners to a meeting, and so Richard and Emil and Jonas had gone to Berlin; they would take the last train back, the note said.
“Imagine a film from the last century. Black limousine at the train station; the driver probably has a PhD. We’ve hardly sat down in the car before the drive is over. We get out at an address on Unter den Linden. An elevator brings us to the roof—penthouse with terrace and view of the Reichstag.”
“Private residence or office?”
“A combination, I think. Guido’s a funny guy. I wouldn’t be surprised if he lives mostly in hotels.”
“You’re already saying Du to each other?”
“Almost before we’re over the threshold, the champagne is open, formal language has been banished, and a bit of paperwork taken care of. After that, he drags us out to the terrace, pours more champagne, and explains the view.”
“He talked about Berlin? How old-fashioned.”
“In his way. Guido Hatz’s primary occupation is geomancy.”
“He’s a dowser? Divining rod and all?”
“More like a kind of geo-healer. He talks about how building projects harm the earth and how Berlin is basically a giant wound. We’re faced with such vigorous catastrophes everywhere, he says, and they represent our next great task, namely reconciling mankind and the earth again. And he showed us where the city angel prefers to sit.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“On the Quadriga above the Brandenburg Gate.”
“Of course. I’d like to sit there too. If I were an angel, I mean.”
“The whole time, Emil and Jonas are asking him eager questions, like the class geeks on Open Doors day. Arm in arm, best of friends, red cheeks.”
“From the champagne?”
“From the money.”
“And you?”
“No idea. The man is a lunatic, but also interesting somehow.”
“He’s a Hatz-shot.”
“Exactly.”
Britta picks up his can of beer, takes a few swallows—even though she’s already brushed her teeth—and snuggles down into the pillows again. It’s nice to listen to Richard and nice to look at him, positively glowing as he is with success and happiness and hope.
“And here comes the best part. While he’s talking and explaining, he suddenly pushes a chair against the balustrade that goes around the roof terrace. Then he clambers up on the chair, talking the whole time about radionics and ley lines and earth chakras and so forth, puts his glass down, climbs onto the railing, and says look, this is where a something-or-other line runs, right here, I had this terrace specially built, I can shut my eyes, because I can feel it. He closes his eyes, spreads his arms wide, and walks along on the balustrade. On the other side, there’s about a sixty- or seventy-foot drop to the ground, with tourists and cars and traffic lights and bicycles.”
“Intense.”
“I filmed it.”
Richard takes his smartphone out of his pocket, fingers the screen until he finds the right video, leans over to Britta; they put their heads together; this is all a lot of fun, they’ll probably have sex later, as soon as the clip is over. Then the video begins. Sky over Berlin, rooftops, a balustrade, Emil and Jonas in semi-profile, appalled, giggling, with champagne glasses in their hands, effusive exclamations on the sound track, Man, this is wild, what are you doing, this is insanity, lunacy, just look at this. Completely unfazed by his companions, a man is on the balustrade, eyes shut, arms stretched out, obviously relaxed, smiling, confidently setting down one foot in front of the other, moving pretty briskly but without haste, a man who knows where to go. In the middle of his face, a conspicuous mustache, chestnut brown like his hair.