HOLLY ANHOLT

Franz

HIS INDISPENSIBLE QUALITY was his grace. You never saw him in a rush. He never moved in a rush. His opinions were considered and he spoke with the sort of calm I associate with works of art – particularly Japanese works – that seem to view the world from some point beyond it, that seem capable of stepping outside and looking back. I suppose he was backward-looking. Things didn’t surprise him. In this, he was a good match for Nils.

Then there was that topcoat of his, or overcoat, whatever is called that long dark coat in wool or gabardine. Or there must have been more than one of them. Like an undertaker, he would wear it even in mild weather. He must have felt ill-at-ease without that protection.

He had a large head and I would say that he had happy eyes, they could seem to swim in that large head like tiny, sparkling fish.

I suppose he had a gay man’s little belly, and rosy cheeks, so that he could seem elfin, even if he was over six feet tall. His hands were enormous and a little bit thick, like the paws of a puppy you could expect to grow huge.

What else? Anything else? I loved his voice, which was unusually steady, through thick and thin, and which I think you would call a baritone. It was a voice that made me want to listen and fall sweetly asleep at the same time. Or maybe it was the voice that made me sleepy and the words that kept me awake. The uncle I never had.