The fine mist of the morning had turned to rain
and so I put on my hood and made to leave the little cemetery. Accustomed to my
stillness – I had been sitting on the only bench for nearly four hours – some
dark birds flew out of the Linden trees, taking puffs of orange leaves with
them. As I walked through the front gates I was surprised to see that there
were four statues of human beings on the roadside in front. I was sure that
they had not been there when I arrived. The statues were life-sized and Bronze,
of bald men with bodies that were very thin, and who had faces that looked to
be crying because of the rain.
Right away I thought them to be extremely fine
works of art. Even the pupils and the irises had been etched, even the
cuticles, even the fine brail on the foreskin and testicles – for all the men
were naked. My parents had given me a camera before I left; I took it out of my
backpack and first photographed each man on his own. I then photographed the ensemble from all angles, turning a front pocket of my jeans inside
out so as to wipe the lens free of raindrops. I took close-up shots of their
tears. Then when my cheap parka
had been soaked through, I started running towards the nearest U-Bahn. But the downpour and the statues had taken my bearings from me; it was not long before I realised that I
was lost.
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