Peter and Claus spend the night at a hotel in a big city. In the morning they take a train to a smaller city situated between a forest and a lake. The youth house is on a steep street in the middle of a garden near the center of town.
A couple, the director of the house and his wife, meet them. They bring Claus to his room. The window looks out onto the park.
Claus asks, "Who takes care of the garden?"
The director's wife says, "I do, but the children help out a great deal."
Claus says, "I'll help you too. Your flowers are very pretty."
The director's wife says, "Thank you, Claus. You'll be completely free here, but you have to be back in at eleven every night at the latest. You'll clean your own room. You can borrow a vacuum cleaner from the super."
The director says, "If you have any problems, talk to me."
Peter says, "You'll be comfortable here, won't you, Claus?"
Claus is also shown the dining room, the showers, and the common room. He is introduced to the boys and girls there.
Later Peter shows Claus the town, then brings him to his house.
"You can find me here if you need me. This is my wife, Clara."
The three of them have lunch together, then spend the afternoon shopping for clothes and shoes.
Claus says, 'I've never had this many clothes in my life."
Peter smiles. "You can throw away your old coat and boots. You'll be getting some money each month for school expenses and pocket money. If you need anything more, tell me. Your board and tuition are paid for, of course."
Claus asks, "Who's giving me all this money? You?"
"No, I'm just your tutor. The money comes from the state. Since you have no parents, the state is obligated to take care of you until you're in a position to make a living on your own."
Claus says, "I hope that will happen as soon as possible."
"In a year you'll decide if you want to go to school or take an apprenticeship."
"I don't want to go to school."
"We'll see, we'll see. Have you no ambition at all, Claus?"
"Ambition? I don't know. All I want is peace to write."
"To write? What? You want to be a writer?"
"Yes. You don't have to go to school to be a writer. You just have to know how to write without too many mistakes. I want to learn how to write in your language properly, but that's all I need."
Peter says, "Writing is no way to earn a living."
Claus says, "No, I know. But I can work during the day and quietly write at night. That's what I did at Grandmother's."
"What? You've already written something?"
"Yes. I've filled a couple of notebooks. They're wrapped up in my old coat. When I've learned to write your language, I'll translate them and show them to you."
They are in his room at the youth house. Claus unties the string around his old coat. He sets five school notebooks on the table. Peter opens them one after the other.
'I'm very curious to know what's in these notebooks. Is it a journal of some kind?"
Claus says, "No, it's all lies." "Lies?"
"Yes. Made-up things. Stories that aren't true but might be." Peter says, "Hurry up and learn to write our language, Claus."
We arrive at the capital around seven in the evening. The weather has grown worse; it's cold and the raindrops have turned into ice crystals.
The embassy building is in the middle of a large garden. I am brought to a well-heated room with a double bed and a bathroom. It's like a suite in a luxury hotel.
A waiter brings me a meal. I eat very little of it. The meal is not like the kind to which I grew reaccustomed in the little town. I set the tray down outside my door. A man is seated in the corridor a few yards away.
I shower and brush my teeth with a brand-new toothbrush I found in the bathroom. I also find a comb and, on my bed, a pair of pajamas. I go to bed.
My pains come back. I wait for a while but they become unbearable. I get up, look through my suitcase, find my medications, take two pills, and return to bed. Instead of going away the pains intensify. I drag myself to the door and open it; the man is still sitting there. I say to him, "A doctor, please. I'm ill. My heart."
He picks up a telephone hung on the wall next to him. I don't remember what happens next; I faint. I wake up in a hospital bed.
I stay in the hospital for three days. I undergo all sorts of examinations. At last the cardiologist comes to see me.
"You can get up and dress. You're going back to the embassy."
I ask, "You're not going to operate on me?"
"No operation is necessary. Your heart is perfectly sound. Your pains are the result of anxiety and nervousness and a profound depression. Don't take any more trinitrine, just the sedatives I've prescribed for you."
He extends his hand to me. "Don't be afraid. You still have a very long time to live."
"I don't want to live much longer."
"As soon as you're out of your depression you'll change your mind."
A car returns me to the embassy. I am brought into an office. A smiling young man with curly hair motions me toward a leather armchair.
"Have a seat. I'm happy that everything went well at the hospital. But that's not why I called you here. You're looking for your family, and for your brother in particular, are you not?"
"Yes, my twin brother. But not very hopefully. Have you found something? I was told that the archives were destroyed."
"I didn't need the archives. I simply looked in the phone book. There's a man in this city whose name is the same as yours. The same last name as well as first name."
"Claus?"
"Yes, Klaus T., with a 'K.' So it obviously can't be your brother. But he might be related to you and could give you some information. Here is his address and telephone number in case you'd like to contact him."
I take the address and say, "I don't know. I'd like to see the street he lives on and his house first."
"I understand. We can spin by around five-thirty. I'll come with you. Without valid papers you can't go out alone."
We cross the city. It is already almost night. In the car the curly-haired man says to me, "I did some research on your homonym. He's one of this country's most important poets."
I say, "The bookseller who rented me her apartment never mentioned it. And yet she must have known his name."
"Not necessarily. Klaus T. writes under a pen name, Klaus Lucas. He's said to be a misanthrope. He's never seen in public and nothing is known about his private life."
The car stops in a narrow street between two rows of single- storied houses surrounded by gardens.
The curly-haired man says, 'There-number eighteen. This is it. It's one of the prettiest parts of the city. Also the quietest and most expensive."
I say nothing. I look at the house. It is somewhat set back from the street. A few steps lead from the garden to the front door. The green shutters are open on the four windows that look out onto the street. A light is on in the kitchen, and a blue light soon appears in the two living room windows. For the moment the study remains dark. The other part of the house, the part that looks out over the courtyard in the back, is invisible from here. There are three more rooms there: the parents' bedroom, the children's room, and a guest bedroom that Mother used mostly as a sewing room.
In the courtyard there was sort of a shed for firewood, bikes, and our larger toys. I remember two red tricycles and wooden scooters. I also recall hoops that we rolled down the street with sticks. A huge kite leaned against one of the walls. In the courtyard there was a swing with two seats hanging side by side. Our mother pushed us, and we tried to swing up into the branches of the walnut tree that may still be there behind the house.