Family wiped out, screamed one headline, under which I read: Three concertgoers mutilated beyond recognition. Full report and pictures on center pages. I at once searched for the center pages, shamelessly leafing through the paper to find the illustrated report promised on the front page and simultaneously keeping my eye on the kitchen door, fearful of being caught in the act. I mustn’t immerse myself entirely in these reports of the accident, I told myself, as I may not notice if someone comes into the kitchen and catches me at it. In this way, my hands trembling for the first time, I read virtually everything the newspapers had written about my family, and as I read I had the impression that while it was all written in the most mendacious manner, it was at the same time all true — unutterably vulgar yet at the same time strictly factual. Everything in these press reports was mutilated beyond recognition, as my mother’s body was said to have been, yet it was all absolutely authentic. However mendacious the press may be, I told myself, what it prints is nevertheless true. When the papers lie they’re in fact being truthful, and the more they lie, the more truthful they are. Reading the newspapers, I have always found them mendacious, yet what they print is nothing but the truth. I have never been able to escape this absurdity, and I could not escape it now as I read the reports of my parents’ accident, which must be one of the most dreadful on record in Upper Austria. One of the pictures showed my mother’s head, attached by a sliver of flesh to the torso, which was still in the seat. The caption read: The head almost severed from the body. The accident naturally gave the newspapers a chance to print something about Wolfsegg — unadulterated nonsense, as may be imagined. They described my parents as a happily married couple who had devoted their lives to work and the good of the community. My brother was one of the best sportsmen in the country. My father was described by one paper as a forester well known for his prudent management, by another as the respected economic councillor, and by a third as the respected huntsman, the selfless leader of the Upper Austrian Farmers Union. One paper reproduced the photograph of Johannes on his sailboat at Sankt Wolfgang, with the caption: A picture from happier days. I have no idea how this picture found its way to the editor’s desk. The Linzer Volkszeitung had a red banner headline reading: Two generations wiped out. None of the reports failed to mention that we were a Christian family, that my father was a benefactor of the Church and my mother a good wife and mother. The LinzerVolkszeitung noted: They are survived by one son, who works in Rome as an academic, and his two sisters. I read that the burial was to take place on Saturday morning and that Wolfsegg had lost its master. It could be clearly seen on the pictures that the metal rod had penetrated right through the vehicle, my mother’s head propelling against the rear window and almost severing it. All three passengers, including my mother, had been found in their seats. The car had plowed with full force into the truck, which was thought to have braked suddenly at the Gaspoltshofen turnoff. It was carrying a consignment of metal rods to a firm in Schwanenstadt. The newspapers concluded that the blame lay with the driver of the truck but that he could not be held legally responsible, as a driver who rams another vehicle is always to blame. The local population shares the family’sgrief, I read. I also read that the funeral would be conducted by the archbishop of Salzburg, a family friend. The archbishop of Salzburg and my father had been at school together as boarders at Lambach High School. A whole village mourns, I read. Hearing footsteps in the hall, I got up and put the newspapers back on the table as I had found them, with the cook’s spectacles on top. The kitchen is a big, vaulted room. When we were children it was our favorite place, especially in winter, as it was always warm, even in the coldest weather, when the rest of the house was poorly heated. The kitchen was always the most entertaining place until we were five or six, when I made friends with the gardeners and Johannes opted for the huntsmen. The cook has been with us for decades. She at once treated me as the master, assuming that this dignity had now passed from my father to me. It was intended to pass to my brother, but now the burden had fallen on me. I was not yet aware of its full implications. Would you like a cup of coffee, sir? she asked. I said I had already helped myself to coffee. Would you like to read the papers, sir? she asked, in the same tone of voice. No, I said, at once taking refuge in a lie, though it occurred to me that the cook was bound to know I had been reading her papers, that I had fallen upon them with avidity. No, thank you, I said, unconvincingly. So-called simple people have a fine ear for the wrong tone of voice and the dishonest use of language. She said she had no idea how many guests were expected, which made her calculations difficult. But you probably don’t know either, sir. I said I had no idea and had only just arrived home, from Rome. Yes, from Rome, she said. I’ve forgotten how to talk to simple people, how to conduct any kind of conversation with them, I thought. This depressed me. Since I’ve been in Rome I’ve forgotten how to communicate with simple people, I thought. At one time I would have found it easy to talk to the cook, to ask her a question, listen to her answer, follow it up with another question, and so forth, but I had lost the skill. With the gardeners I was lucky, having been able to hold a brief conversation with them, but with the cook I failed, probably because I was preoccupied all the time by the thought that she knew I had fallen avidly upon the newspapers and that she was bound to think this indecent, that she had caught me out in low conduct. On the other hand, it seemed to me quite natural to be distressed, in such a distressing situation, to be so agitated as to be unable to behave normally and have a simple conversation with the cook. I saw no reason to reproach myself. I did not think my conduct at all surprising, but it was nonetheless humiliating to have been caught out. I felt like a criminal as I stood facing this woman, who had meanwhile noticed that her spectacles were not exactly where she had left them. I may have imagined all this, but I had a strong suspicion that she knew I had been through her papers and lapped up everything about the accident with my usual avidity. But my avidity has abated and is no longer as gross as it was just now, I thought. The cook can see that I am base and contemptible, I thought. She can see it in my demeanor. Knowing this for sure, she is exploiting her knowledge by staring at me in this searching manner. For a so-called simple person, especially a female of the species, this is extraordinary behavior, I thought. She was hiding her hands behind her back, as if tying her apron, but this was only pretense, as she was embarrassed at being caught out in a show of disrespect, in what struck me as a quite unbecoming show of disrespect. By subjecting me to such scrutiny she’s betraying the fact that she herself is base and contemptible, I thought. This was no way to look at the master, I thought. Why should this happen to me? On the other hand, I realized that my own situation was even more embarrassing, for I was the first to be guilty of low conduct: hers was merely a reaction to mine. Her shamelessness was in no way comparable with mine. Her shamelessness is nugatory beside mine, I thought, which is far more basic. I should have forbidden myself to look at the newspapers, I should have ignored them, but then I would have been