The man with the panda head takes his time. He looks to the stone, to the camera, to the place where the stone was, then, with some deliberation he looks at a third spot. Having identified this new place the man returns to the stone, picks it up and moves the stone to the new, third place. The stone, not small by any means, is white and doesn’t come from the castle, but looks to have been brought from a beach, being smooth and almost perfectly round. And the way he holds it, with both hands, she can see it isn’t light. When he returns to the centre of the path he looks with great care at four places. The place where he has now set the stone, the place where the stone was last, at the place where the stone was originally set, and finally, the camera.
She doesn’t know why this is funny. His gesture? The minimal movement of his head, or perhaps the anticipation? That you know exactly what he will do? Is this what delights her, what she finds so pleasing?
The video continues.
The man, after looking, regards the two places where the stone has been set and where it now lies, then identifies a fourth spot — and so he moves the stone to this place, a little further from view, almost out of frame. Once again he returns to the centre of the path, and again he regards the place where the stone now lies, and the three places where the stone has previously been set.
On the fourth move the man sets the stone out of the range of view. He does this seven times, always returning to the path to stand dead centre and look to each of the places he has set the stone. The castle behind him, a square stone block, the sky behind that a simple blue, in the distance the handsome spindles of a row of cypress trees, a slight wind bothering them, but nothing else within the frame: the man, the path, the castle, the trees and the sky. The man is now sweating, and she can see why he isn’t wearing a shirt.
She insists that Henning and Isa watch the video, plays it for them on Isa’s laptop, and at first, like her, they find it hard to be interested, but after the second move, once there’s a pattern established, they both look puzzled, and remain curious and quiet while they watch the entire clip.
Isa takes the laptop to watch the video again.
‘I never get this stuff,’ she said, ‘I don’t understand why it’s so compelling. What is this?’ Light from the screen illuminates her face. There is a memory here that Rike can’t place.
‘Does anybody know who they are? Why the head?’ Henning chews as he speaks.
Rike doesn’t know. They have a Facebook page, they call themselves Mannfunktionprojekt or MFP for short, and this, she guesses, maybe means that they’re German. There’s a date on the website to show when another piece will go online.
The video is puzzling: the man picking up stones and placing them elsewhere achieves nothing, however deliberate the action. On TV the characters speak to you, the radio plays songs overstuffed with meaning. This, similarly, feels directed. It’s a pointless activity with no result. That’s what she sees, and what troubles her is that by looking directly into the camera the panda-headed man appears to know it too. And he knows that you know. That, day to day, most of what you do is pointless. Aren’t you ever going to figure that out?
* * *
The rain stops abruptly at eight o’clock. Rike walks without purpose and finds herself on Tomas’s street, outside his apartment. She’s much more interested in the hospital and the idea that Sutler Number Three lies inside in some private room with security guards. A lot of people are working hard to keep him safe and alive. She hurries across the street to the café conscious that if Tomas sees her she’ll have to explain herself — although, would that really be so bad? An hour’s longer meandering through the shuttered streets of the main town than she’d intended means that she’s missed the preparations for the day — and isn’t Saturday always a day in which a routine is followed: families go shopping, provisions are bought, obligations are fulfilled. Time is spent with the people you live with, the people you love. Isn’t this what Saturday means?
As she steps into the café Rike is treated to a quick view of Tomas on his balcony. Tomas, four flights up, comes out, the morning’s first coffee in his hand, and gives the street a quick overview. Nothing in particular to be discovered, nothing to observe.
The day has long-started and Rike has missed the judge’s walk, missed seeing also how he dries the dog’s paws on his handkerchief before he returns to his apartment, how he pets and spoils the dog with treats from his jacket pocket. The street is wet and the air smells of rain, vehicles drum by occasionally, faster than they should. One ambulance, and two police cars. People walk with open umbrellas as balconies and awnings funnel down the last of the rain. To the east the sun strikes the glass front of the judge’s apartment to throw spars of light onto the opposite wall — and in these bright patches she can see where the plaster wasn’t always painted magenta, underneath appears a faint ghost of decoration. Inside the apartment, a man, the judge, sorts through sheaves of paper stacked along a table. He walks to the window to stand in the sunlight, the papers held high as he reads. A woman cleans in the kitchen behind him. Light bounces through to illuminate pans and book spines and bleach colour from the walls. Down in the darker street a waiter takes coffee to a car and squats beside the driver to talk. As she sips her coffee she imagines the driver peeling back the foil cap, sweetening, stirring, then looking out at the same street. He pauses for a moment, anticipating the taste. That, right there, is the story of the morning.
Behind her, on the radio, is news of a massacre in Syria. Thirty-four civilians killed, among the number are men queuing for temporary work, and thirteen children, all of them deliberately sought out and shot. Here, in Limassol, there are reports of a hotel fire, suspicions suggested, but not spoken outright. Bad things are happening everywhere and they must be announced.
The waiter brings a second coffee, and because it’s quiet she allows herself to be caught in a conversation.
The water speaks excellent English, some German. He asks where she’s from and when she says Hamburg, he’s suddenly enthusiastic. His favourite place is Berlin. The Funkturm. The Political Sector, not so new now. He wants to study architecture, and Berlin is his preferred choice if he can get a place and a scholarship.
Rike asks about the café, and he answers, less interested, that it’s been here forever, although they’ve only run it for, what was it, four years now? He can’t remember. And no, the owner is an English woman who used to be a nurse.
‘There are some characters here. On this street. The judge.’
The boy asks her to repeat what she’s just said.
Rike answers in German. ‘A judge. With the dog, a small dog. On the top floor?’
The waiter shakes his head. There’s no judge.
‘His driver?’
Again, the man doesn’t know what she’s talking about. ‘Does she like Berlin? All of the buildings? It’s a nice place.’
A nice place, she agrees, a little put out that he hasn’t understood.
* * *
Rike receives a call from Isa as she returns to the apartment. Isa asks where she is and Rike explains that she couldn’t sleep so took an early walk. Is everything all right?
‘I’ve just spoken with Mattaus.’ Isa sounds weary. ‘He’s coming for dinner tonight with his new friend?’ Isa’s voice is strained and it’s clear that this isn’t the reason for the call. Rike says she could be back in five minutes, is there anything she needs to pick up?
Isa takes in a long breath. ‘Mattaus was asking questions about the apartment in Hamburg.’
‘What did he want to know?’