As he did every evening, he had turned off on the way home and driven up the little hill to his old ash tree. He had often sat here as a child in the shadow of the branches, carving figures out of wood and playing hooky. He lowered the window; the days were already getting shorter again and the air was cooler. It was quiet. For the only moment in the day. His cell phone was switched off. From here he could see his house, the house where he had grown up, built by his grandfather. It shone brightly, the trees in the garden lit by the sun; he could see the cars parked by the road. He would be there in a few minutes, his guests would already be waiting, and he would have to talk about all the idiocies that go to make up social life. Paulsberg was forty-eight now. He owned seventeen major retail businesses in Germany and Austria that sold expensive men’s clothing. His great-grandfather had established the knitwear factory back there in the valley; Paulsberg had already learned everything about fabric and cut when he was a child.
