The woman is now moving forward more quickly, she knows the exit, not many people do, to the right off Hadikgasse, follow the Meinl Blackamoor sign, the supermarket that goes along with it is at the back of the brand new apartment block, which the woman hasn't seen before. She still knew the old block, built for employees of the Austrian Fed. Railways, this street is called Kathe Dorsch Gasse, exactly. If she doesn't take the turning in time, then she can drive all the way to Lower Austria on the motorway and drive back from the Maschik side, as people say here, that is, from a long way out of town, by way of the villages before and around Vienna, via Hadersdorf, Mauerbach, Unterpurkersdorf and Oberpurkersdorf (do you know it? A man wants to buy a railway ticket to Peking. He goes to the ticket office window in Purkersdorf and asks for a single to Peking. The man behind the window says, You're putting me on, the best I can do is sell you a ticket to the Polish border, after that you have to see yourself how you go on, with the Trans-Siberian, the Trans-Mongolian, or by dog sled, I don't care. To cut a long story short, the rail customer gets to Peking, enjoys himself like the half-wit he is, because he's got as far as Peking, but then he wants to come back. He goes to the ticket office at the main railway station in Peking and asks for: A single to Purkersdorf, please. Asks the man behind the window: Ober or Unterpurkersdorf? Boomboom. What? What did you say? Please yourself.). Here's Huttelsdorf Station and we cross out the complicated street plans leading past it and make our own, which will likewise turn against us sooner or later. Then follow Linzer Strasse away from the city for a bit, up a steep road, on which the residents politely get down on their knees and beg in vain for the 30 limit to be adhered to, here our children play in front of their own houses and our retirees go out of their apartments and into them again, and others also cross the road, who don't want to die yet either, and don't have any eyes in their head, but the road belongs to them, they know that at least; it doesn't matter, all the people here, as far as the eye can see, belong to us, that is, to themselves, decent, eager to get on and hard working as they are, as a reward for which they are allowed to live here, in the healthy western suburb, and naturally we don't want them to be encroached on or even harmed by outsiders. Who abides by that. No one. We are all precious, and when we possess something and lose it, we have to replace it. Time is passing now, too, yet again, well what do you know, we nearly didn't recognize it this time either. The way it's looking today. We must go to the hairdresser right away and get a manicure, so that we're perceived as well-groomed women, untouched by time. Yes, we have to subject ourselves to this torture, otherwise there'll soon be too much earth under our fingernails bitten down to the quick from working in the garden. There's nothing illegal about the black under our nails, we got the dirt under our nails from gardening, and we're going to go on with it now, this healthy activity, before we ourselves end up under the earth. Before that we should still be looked at nicely a couple of times, and be acknowledged as women. Today once again we clearly rise above the men. Do you see us? Today it can be taken for granted that we have a profession and are independent. The amount that I've written about that, and it was all completely unnecessary.
Well I never, it's you. The woman has stopped the car on a very steep narrow road where she once lived. Here, this little house, inherited from her parents, in order to keep it, now keeps others better than she could have done. A roofer's van is parked outside, evidently the roof is to be renovated at last. The woman sold the house two years earlier to settle in the country, an old dream that is now over. The seduction of dreams lasts for years, the seduction of people happens more quickly. Now, while I wasn't watching, the woman has been recognized by a former neighbor who's taking her dog for a walk. The dog is brand new and bored. Have you dropped by for a visit? I haven't seen you for at least a year. You're looking well. Oh, thank you. But this short dialogue, almost all of which I have left out, ensures that the woman doesn't dare to stop and look at her former house for a little longer. Nice people bought it from her, look, they've got children who are intended to grow up in the healthier air of the suburb, which supposedly comes straight from Schneeberg Mountain, but has for some time been living in sin with the Flotzersteig refuse incinerator (the partner is usually the last to know!), and in their own house. Look, there's a tricycle in the front garden, mommy didn't insist on the child bringing it into the house, although the garden gate is less than three feet high and anyone could climb over. Nice, harmless people, have they ever suffered because of something? Nearby four frog sculptures and two crow sculptures, in amusing poses, they're talking to each other, just look how nice they've made their stay here, because they don't need to go anywhere. The house disappears beside the woman, who reluctantly, she would rather be alone now, allows herself to be pulled along by the neighbor on the short lead of a rather one-sided conversation. No surprises emerge from this mouth still familiar from earlier days. It is as if time, which before could still walk, has now stood still and only the people had gone on, well, perhaps they've gone further than was good for them. The people haven't noticed that time has stood still, they were so deep in conversation like these two women. Who hears a weak cry, which has no need to emphasize itself and so remains almost inaudible? No one. The women walk on, the dog is supposed to be taken up to the camping meadow of the Municipality of Vienna and run, play, or scrap a little with colleagues. It is to enjoy itself in the good air like a song suddenly loudly sung across the meadow. Without any echo. The dog is allowed to repeat the exercise every day. The lucky thing. The trails disappear before they were drawn, people come closer to themselves, because no one else does it, no, they run after each other and never catch anyone. No, that's wrong, too, they would gladly come closer to one another, but it's usually not wanted. Everyone wants to look for something of their own, a house of their own, a child of their own, a partner of their own, entirely for themselves alone. No one is satisfied with a room of their own anymore. Everyone would even prefer to have their own TV channel, because they never like what's on offer. The dead are particularly inconsiderate, because they evade us and the media, which report on dead things (or have you ever seen a more live person than the folk song sprayer Karl Moik, the last thing you saw before you fainted? Well, and even he's dead, as soon as he ended up on the TV screen, although his face is still thrashing around as if he had to escape a shark), so have you ever seen anything alive outside of the nature programs, which had to be specially dedicated to life, otherwise we wouldn't know that this landscape lies here and nevertheless lives? We wouldn't have seen it, unless, thanks to the considerable magnification which the camera granted them, ants, beetles and larvae would fill the screen, blown up to giant size.