So why shouldn't the country policeman keep coming back? Why should he not start to worry when this time she doesn't open the door to him, who so often only wants to put her down? Unlike him, music only wants itself, and so we can imagine it was written for each of us alone, only we can understand it properly. It makes no difference to music, it's easily satisfied, and it likewise wants to be repeated exactly the same each time in our concert halls, so that it always sounds as on the CD, which we have at home, although many people swear each time it's quite different from the time before. So that really everyone, even someone without ears at all, remembers it and, so as to be able to remember it even better, buys the corresponding CDs as model for reality. An eternal cycle, in great as in little things. The country policeman doesn't want to come to himself anymore, he'd rather stay away, and one can say: He doesn't know himself, otherwise he would still want to get to know himself. There's a new young colleague, but he really wants to get to know him better, recently, as if by accident, he blew lightly on the back of his neck, he was close to laying his cheek for a moment on the soft spot above the collarbone, but he didn't dare. He then merely gave the young colleague a jab in the ribs and conducted a mock fight with him, with fists, and laughed, after that for half a day he didn't need to let his head droop. It should really be enough for the country policeman, that he has a little house, a family, a grandson and that the cars whizz past him and he has the power to stop them at any moment, with nothing but a small movement. But he absolutely must have another house as well and another and another, why, he can't live in them all at the same time, this house-moving maniac. To tear the see-through plastic wrapping from women he doesn't know, before too much has been seen of them, to scatter the contents around, and all that work just to move into the packaging, which is still full of the crumbs of another's life. He wants to get hold of the property of women, this man, at which he possesses great skill, which now, however, increasingly seems to be leaving him. Men don't give up what they've got. But recently the women, as already said, seem to suspect something, not what this man intends, they would never guess that; but whatever it is, inconsistent as this sex is according to legend, they for their part no longer want anything at all from the country policeman. They don't know that they don't want anything from him, so that they don't have to give him anything for it. Love's mercy, this whore, which just takes anyone, but wants to give as little as possible for it, turns up, hardly has the church been unlocked, what, no customer here yet to whom she could be of service? God should rather have been hung up by the feet, not only to accelerate his death, but also to still humankind's longing for love more quickly, in the nuclear age, since although war is in principle a thing of the past, everything can still at any time be smashed to pieces. When people see something as horrible as someone crucified upside down, they will realize how good things are for them and have no demands at all anymore, is what I think. They've evidently already got used to the one dying upright, loyally obedient to his father, the credulous of this church, who have always got unsecured credits and are only waiting to be able to jump in themselves as apocalyptic bill credit sharks and drive the whole world, which never gave them a present of anything, to bankruptcy. Whole poultry empires sank into the dust or into the dead leaves of the embezzler hedges of the Freedom Parry's economics spokesman, Rosenstingl, and even our Lord had to bite the dust, without finding a single grain, just like the poultry that nobody wanted, it's a very human religion, Christianity, isn't it? He died for absolutely nothing, nothing at all, God. It's got a lot to do with us, this religion, don't you think? Little bells ring, and women look at one very strangely, when the priest is attractive, yes, even the most good humored. Everything's going down the drain, anyway. Eye for an eye. People have already got used to every imaginable horror. Love is the only thing they want to experience again and again and then once again after that, this time, however, exclusively with the right partner. They want the beloved to look cheerful, otherwise it's no fun for them.
But today this country policeman does not look at all cheerful to me. No one will one day have him as a husband, because he's already married and asks his wife almost every third day how she is. Then he's away again, from place to place, where he stops cars, as if he could stop himself. To see in love of all things the fulfilment of his financial longings, in a caring hand, which hands him stocks and shares, anonymous saving bank books and golden watches, in a soft body, which offers him its fantastic, firm, magnificent covering, provided with a super veneer, so that he, the country policeman, at last has security, what do you say to that? You are bored by such tenderness? What can I say to that?
No further lights went out, Gabi's will be the only one, I hope, though one can never know what will occur to the unappreciated mixed-up minds of the desperate. Other women have disappeared here, at greater intervals, no, I'm not saying anything more about that now. Growling, the tires get stuck into the ground, don't want to let go, then hurry on nevertheless, where to, fortunately it's still the winter tires on this cold track, on which they rush away in two deep well-worn icy ruts. The air rises up against the vehicles, which are driving along poorly cleared detours, which force them to go up into the mountains by way of the forest tracks, where snow is still lying on hidden routes which outsiders don't know. It plays happily with them, the oncoming air with the few cars, caresses their shiny, colored bodies, one of them belongs to the country policeman, his face is quite expressionless, what does it matter, no one sees it. A woman is supposed (he called earlier) to be stretching out expectantly towards him in her house, and she is supposed to snuff it, but not too soon. That would perhaps be the best long-term solution, for the house as for the woman. But not too soon. He just came off duty, now we're driving straight to her. Can it be that she didn't open up yesterday, although she was definitely at home? No. That's impossible. That she was eating thoughtfully at home, piling salami and ham on bread to the accompaniment of her favorite music, by candlelight, which is romantic, but only a deux, since it's a pleasure to make a fuss. Except every flame is a potential fire hazard, let's be honest, and should be avoided, if Christmas is over and a person hasn't disposed of his Christmas tree in time. The country policeman will at all events try, after some walking up and down and scouting around, to get into this house, which today he wants to conquer in a surprise attack. It's all taking too long for him. His fingers are itching to angrily beat the woman if she doesn't want to give up her house voluntarily, he clenches his fist on the driving wheel, just not to feel once again the steely firmness of her nipples scratching around between his fingers, are such tiny taps, which have remained shut to every child for life, only later to fall into the hands of a freebooter for free, I too now almost feel their contentless pointed stoniness between my fingers, I have properly sealed and hung these two old sacks, these skin-colored airbags with the milky-blue veins, the producers made quite an effort there on their silken assembly line, which-there's not much to be done about that now-forthwith and to the end will no longer contain anything that could even remotely serve anyone as nourishment. They are to serve purely for pleasure, the two of them, but please not for the pleasure of the country policeman again, who's not interested, and it's not a pleasure either, he doesn't care if they make more agreeable acquaintanceships, how nice for them. But the house for him! I wish I could say the same about myself. They would jump into the country policeman's hands with joy at any time, the two dumplings, because he at least, one among millions of the like-minded, who from time to time get instructions to confess something which they haven't done, so that they can remain silent about what they have done, he at least knows exactly how to turn a woman's switch between thumb and index finger, look, it's quite easy to be a creator when the corresponding creature is already present but doesn't know it yet. The desert lives, and in order to live, it must already have contained all this energy, this momentum. No? This desert wants to be decently serviced, if you please, that's the least that can be expected, otherwise perhaps it will wait in vain. You won't believe it, but to make it bloom requires only a little skill and the affection of a talented handyman who knows the way things are and will perhaps be moved once again, just once more, pleaseplease, through kissing and pleading, at last to step a little closer, even if he's already standing on one's toes with all his weight. We wouldn't even have noticed that. Please, gentlemen, come and pinch my nipples, pinch them really firmly! And we'll manage to go a little further down as well, my dear fingers, that little race track, not worth mentioning, down to the fleece, this matted material at the end of the stomach, made of organic fibers, which would melt in the heat if anyone could ever warm to them. Well, we won't set the whole house alight to get a woman on heat and to guide the turbulent flow movements of a cock into her, until everything goes down the river bank and disappears in the water. The house is supposed to remain standing. Then we won't need much more to be happy.