The weather man was wrong again. He had forecast snow, but in Van In’s bedroom it was a tropical seventy degrees. Hannelore was lying on top of the duvet, sleeping like a newborn Venus. Van In switched on the bedside lamp and carefully got out of bed. Hannelore turned on her side and grabbed his pillow without interrupting her dream. He stood by the window and gazed at the dark waters of the Reie canal. Huge drops of rain trickled down the glass, and dozens of gurgling drainpipes joined forces with the clatter of the pouring rain. The water washed the thick layer of snow from the rooftops, its fluorescent white melting like fat in a fire. Darkness once again took possession of the row of houses on the other side of the canal. Van In glanced at his watch. It was five past six. He had only had four hours of sleep. Before turning the light back off, he took time to survey the pale-skinned beauty breathing silently on his bed, still fragrant from their moment of intimacy.
