The man standing in front of Patrik looks very Trans-Tibetan. This is the first time Patrik has ever used this Celan word, which he’s been warming beneath his feathers for a long time now, without knowing what group of people or languages would hatch from it. The man really does look Trans-Tibetan; this is a subjective impression, and the purpose of adjectives is to support subjectivity.

The man asks permission to join Patrik at his table. The language he speaks is no rara avis requiring a recherché description like Trans-Himalayan or Sino-Tibetan. He speaks a straightforward German with a faint accent. Other tables are occupied, and it’s only logical, it seems to Patrik, for two men to share a table in solidarity.

‘My name is Leo-Eric Fu,’ the man says, elegantly extending his hand and then quickly withdrawing it before Patrik can respond. Patrik understands that a greeting need not be physically consummated. There’s a question buzzing circles in his head. Should a person reveal their full name right at the outset when making a fleeting cafe acquaintance, or are all three components – Leo, Eric and Fu – his first names? Patrik is cautious and offers only the first of his given names.

‘My name is Patrik.’

‘I know,’ Leo-Eric answers with an understanding nod. Patrik is unnerved, uncertain how to interpret this reply. Leo-Eric then says he’s often observed Patrik sitting in this cafe – the last time, in fact, reading the book of poems Fadensonnen (Threadsuns). Patrik has no memory of this, but it’s certainly possible he was reading poetry at the cafe, especially since he was planning to give a paper at a Paul Celan conference in Paris. At the moment, he isn’t sure if he’ll be cleared to participate or if he’ll be struck from the list of speakers as an oversensitive crackpot.

‘You intend to give a talk on the book Threadsuns?’

‘It’s possible I intended to a few weeks ago. But now, no.’

‘Why not?’

Patrik can’t find an answer to this question, so he quickly invents a reason, looking down.

‘I don’t like conferences.’

‘Why not?’

‘I find it a stressful situation, being observed from all sides. Everyone suddenly wearing devils’ masks.’

‘What do you mean? I don’t follow.’

‘First the talk, then questions, answers, discussion: it’s like a play at the theater.’

‘Society is a theater, it seems to me. Democracy requires a backstory, a narrative structure and well-rehearsed variations. You can’t build a democracy on authentic feelings alone.’

Patrik looks up again, wondering if this Leo-Eric isn’t a freedom fighter from Hong Kong. A moment later he erases this spontaneous conjecture from his brain-page. Someone from Beijing could be a freedom fighter too. Patrik himself is the one least likely to be democracy-minded.

‘I don’t like questions, criticism or discussion,’ Patrik responds. ‘But you can’t say that out loud, and when it comes right down to it, I don’t think it’s all right that I am the way I am.’

‘What displeases you about discussion culture? Do explain, I’m genuinely curious.’

A storm of chaos swirls up inside Patrik’s head; it’s a torment to be unable to sort out the multitude of multicolored thought-scraps. He invents a new theory, which at least gives him something to hold on to: Leo-Eric is collecting clips of people making anti-democratic statements. He’s using a hidden microphone, recording the authentic voices of EU citizens and selling them to countries where they’ll be used as teaching material in language classes. Patrik taps three fingertips against the forehead behind which this absurd theory is taking shape. He’s like a woodpecker hunting nice fat thought-worms in the bark to gobble up.