On the island there’s no mobile signal. Nothing but birds and rabbits. But the sea is overflowing with life. An abundance of fish, plankton, sea urchins, starfish. Whole forests of seaweed waving underwater. Individual fronds wash up on the beach. The island lies in the outlet from the bay. It resembles a large grey ramp. At the highest point, a granite cliff drops steeply into the sea. The slope on the other side, covered by thin grass, tapers to a sandy spit of land. I found accommodation for Judith, the girls, and myself in a former goat shed at the foot of the flat-topped hill. We’re safe here. The island is privately owned. I know the owner from a job. He won the island in a game of skat years ago. This year a prince is living in the villa with the high walls. We don’t see him. We only meet the two bodyguards with their machine guns who are housed in the other half of the goat shed. They greet us in friendly fashion. We nod in return. Judith’s face is still furious. She’s probably sulking about the water. It hasn’t rained for weeks. What little water there is on the island is earmarked for the prince. We have to haul our drinking water in huge gallons from the mainland. Our inflatable dinghy sinks noticeably lower under the weight. With the help of the outboard motor it rattles over the water, it cuts through the waves in the steel-grey sea. The bow hops up and down. Judith and the girls hold on to the ropes. Judith’s chest heaves under her bikini straps.

I rinse my coffee cup with the water left over from cleaning my teeth. In the former goat shed even the toilet doesn’t flush. When we can’t get the stench out of our noses any more — sometimes we leave it a whole day — I tip a bucket of water that’s been re-used multiple times down the pan. We don’t shower at all. Salt crystals form on my skin, dull and rough; the skin on my lips bursts open. When I’m alone, I suck on my arm, like deer suck on salt blocks in the snow. A gull shrieks. Elly scurries over to me in the kitchen. I don’t look up. I offer her something to drink. She shakes her head. We settle down in the shade on the veranda. She fans herself with a rolled-up newspaper. We try to move as little as possible. My white shirt is freshly ironed. It is tight across my chest. Every morning I pump up my pecs with purposeful, vigorous press-ups. Then I shave my cheeks and while I do, I contemplate my tanned brown, clear-cut face. My face is the reason that if I’m standing at a junction with a hundred other people, the eyes of the disoriented tourists are guaranteed to turn in my direction, just as surely as the needle on a compass points north. Deferentially, they hold their open guide books out to me and ask the way. As if I ever know. I’m forever getting lost because my thoughts stray from the path, because the infinite flux of possibilities doesn’t allow me to concentrate on zebra crossings, street names and alleyways, traffic lights, anything that could tell me the direction. I’m a simpleton who looks like a good shepherd. The strangers on the street see my clear face, my ironed shirt, my taut muscles, and in their eyes that makes me the hero who will lead them out of the labyrinth. I know that my eyes give me away. That’s why I wear the darkest sunglasses you can buy. My mop of hair is combed smooth, rigid with gel. The hair on my chest is short and neat. I stride over the jagged stones towards the jetty. Once I’m there I position myself next to Judith’s head and start talking into thin air. I don’t wait for a response. I talk to kill time, otherwise questions will start flying. I spot Elly, who has followed me. Now she groans loudly. She says she can’t bear the heat any more. Before, Elly use to complain about feeling cold, even while she was getting sunburnt. I put my hand on hers. Her skin is dripping wet.

Ines plunges head-first off the end of the jetty into the water. She dives deep. Under water everything is easy and dangerous at the same time. There are sharks lurking everywhere. The diving mask restricts your field of vision. Every stone morphs into the grey head of a moray eel. I’ve seen it. The surface of the water breaks. My daughter’s wet scalp emerges. She removes the mask from her face. Panda eyes from the mascara that has run, a red mark where the rubber seal of the mask was attached. I ask Judith whether we should hire a diving suit with a weight belt for the girls? She doesn’t react. Before, Judith still believed in the fairytale of the Arab lady-charmer, of the hawkers in the bazaar who can’t help running a hand over every curve of a woman’s body. I wish our roles were still so clear-cut.

My wife lies on her towel, stiff as a corpse. The skin on her stomach is turning red. I stand next to her laid-out head and look at her. Ines is clinging to the end of the jetty. She thinks I can’t see her fingertips. But I see everything and take it in, just as I have learnt to take in life. I cling to Judith like an idiot. I think she despises me for it. For the strength of the despair with which I love her, with which I try to tether something that has been dangling free for a long time. Splinters from the damp wooden planks on the jetty work their way into my soles. I can’t get them out. They are too fine, practically invisible. I could cry, if it wouldn’t make my eyes burn with the dryness. I think about the mindlessness of our movements, Judith’s puffy eyes afterwards. I make love like waging a war. I try to make my wife believe in the one true passion. That everything is under control, that everything has its place. Nothing is crazy. Elly is our daughter. We need to stand our ground. Otherwise we’ll have nothing left. Even when I’m bored to death by our fumblings, I must admit that afterwards the sand suddenly seems to run through the egg-timer more slowly. It relaxes me, even if only for a short while. But now my expression is stony. I nod to Judith one last time. Ines is still hanging under the jetty. Her eyes peek over the edge.

My whole being trembles and shakes as I tramp up the slope to the granite plateau in my trainers. Fast, faster, fastest. I need to be better. Stronger, smarter, richer. Then finally we’ll have security. No more questions, no more uncertainty. I don’t talk to my wife. Judith is nervous enough as it is because of the whole business with Elly. The only thing that helps stem the maelstrom of thoughts is underwater hunting. I have to be completely present to kill another living being. It requires utter concentration. I thrust into the depths. I kick the fins on my feet to counteract the current. All I can hear is the rushing in my ears. My lungs are contracting, they are gasping for air, but I force myself to stay under, just a moment longer. Such amazing calm. I’m already seeing stars, I fire my harpoon, almost blind. The fish gets away at the last second. I surface. Even the air is salty here. The waves lap against the boat. I prepare my harpoon for the next dive. I slide into the water. The lead weights around my hips pull me to the seafloor. I lie in wait behind a rock for a shoal of bream. They turn and twist in the water, glittering silver, as if they were a single being. I wait until they have swum right up close to me, then I fire the spear. It impales a bream. Its blood mingles with the sea water then dissolves. The fish is still alive. I pull it behind me on the harpoon line.

Judith and I sit in front of the fish’s backbone, gnawed clean; its sea smell fills the room. The girls are outside in the dark. They are on the rocks on the beach, watching for meteor showers. The damp towels are hanging over the backs of the chairs, the women’s bikinis are dripping in the bathroom. Judith’s hair must be hard and tangled with the salt drying on it. The speakers on Judith’s computer aren’t ideal for Chopin. The laptop casing vibrates on the stone kitchen island. I slide a napkin under the computer. The fan hisses, the plastic cover glows. The music patters up the scale. I sidle over to Judith, lay my fingers on her shoulder. She tilts her head back slightly, leans against my stomach. I tense my abdominal muscles, the oblique muscles, the side muscles, my core muscles, as if I were putting on a tight pair of trousers. Judith has closed her eyes. That’s the signal. My hands touch, knead, rub. I try to work myself up to lust. Judith undoes my flies and I can’t stop her feeling for the snail inside. She tickles it, but the snail stays in its shell. Judith sighs. She tries to wave her disappointment away, but eventually she grabs my arse. I feel dizzy. I’ve probably not drunk enough during the day. I take a swig of red wine in my mouth, suck it through the gaps between my teeth, then I press my lips to Judith’s. As she opens her mouth, the red wine flows in. But she doesn’t swallow. She coughs. Red droplets spray across the floor. I give up. Then she shuts the door, jams the back of a chair under the handle, and turns up the volume on the computer. By the time the Queen of the Night hits top F, Judith is lying on the tiles underneath me. My knees are sore, rubbed raw. Judith digs her fingers into my back. The sweat runs down my nose, drips onto her face. The very instant everything is over, we are already rolling in opposite directions. Judith feels for the kitchen roll. She wipes herself. My kneecaps and the weals on my back are burning. But then Judith rests her head on my chest and I hold her in my arms. The handle is pushed down from outside. No one says anything. For a while we just listen to ourselves breathing, staring at the smudges of squashed mosquitoes on the white plastered wall. The flytrap on the ceiling is a long spiral-shaped sticky strip.

Do you want a glass of water? Judith stands up and pours one for me, then another for herself. I ask whether we should perhaps think about opening the door again? Our daughters are still locked out after all. Judith shrugs her shoulders. The water from the canister tastes chalky. It makes my teeth go rough. Maybe I’m just imagining it. Judith seems to like the taste. She empties her glass in one go. I’m still lying on the tiles which are pressing against my backbone, making it stiff. Tomorrow I’ll do some bends in my exercises. I wish I were in bed already. My stomach separates and spreads softly. I want to detach myself from the stone, but I’m too heavy. The shutter on the window rattles as it swings open. Elly clambers into the room through it. Her eyes flit over my naked body. With my back to her I swiftly pull my trousers up. The zip catches a few pubic hairs. As I sit down I pluck them out. It stings. Judith is wearing a long t-shirt again. She smiles at our daughter. But Elly juts her jaw forward, narrows her eyes. She stomps from one side of the room to the other and slams the bedroom door behind her. The frying pan which was leaning against the tap clatters into the wash basin. Judith’s pupils are large and black. I press a finger to my cheek. It’s throbbing and pounding inside. I’ll have to get the tooth pulled when we get back home. Ines has now opened the door from outside. We sit down at the table again. Judith, Ines, and I chat and butter our bread; Elly joins us. Her knife slips off the table. It falls to the floor, jangling. Judith and I almost bump heads as we bend down to pick it up at the same time. Elly doesn’t laugh. She is sitting straight upright. I look her right in the face as I ask: What now?