I walk through the streets of an unknown city. It’s snowing, getting darker and darker. The streets I take are increasingly less lit. Our old home is on the last street. Beyond that is already countryside. A night without the slightest light. Opposite the house there is an inn. I go in, order a bottle of wine. I am the only customer.
The windows of the house all light up at once. I see shadows moving behind the curtains. I finish the bottle, leave the inn, cross the street, ring the garden gate. No one answers, the bell doesn’t work. I open the wrought iron gate, it’s not locked. I climb the five steps leading to the porch door. I ring again. Twice, three times. A male voice asks from behind the door:
- What is it? What do you want? Who are you?
I say:
- It’s me, Claus.
- Claus, which Claus?
- Don’t you have a son named Claus?
- Our son is here, in the house. With us. Go away.
The man moves away from the door. I start ringing again, knocking, shouting:
- Father, father, let me in. I was wrong. My name is Lucas. I am your son, Lucas.
A female voice says:
- Let him in.
The door opens. An old man says to me:
- Come in, then.
He precedes me into the living room, sits on an armchair. In another sits a very old woman, who says to me:
- So, you claim to be our son Lucas? And where have you been until now?
- Abroad.
My father says:
- Exactly, abroad. And why do you return now?
- To see you, Dad. Both of you, and also Klaus.
My mother says:
- Klaus hasn’t left, him.
Dad says:
- We looked for you for years.
Mom continues:
- Then we forgot you. You shouldn’t have come back. You disturb everyone. We have a quiet life, we don’t want to be disturbed.
I ask:
- Where is Klaus? I want to see him.
Mom says:
- He’s in his room. As usual. Sleeping. You mustn’t wake him. He’s only four years old, he needs to sleep.
Dad says:
- There’s no proof that you are Lucas. Go away.
I don’t listen to them anymore. I leave the living room, open the children’s room door, switch on the light. Sitting on his bed, a boy looks at me and starts crying. My parents rush over. Mom picks up the boy, rocks him.
- You don’t have to be afraid, my little one.
Dad grabs me by the arm, drags me across the living room and porch, opens the door and pushes me down the stairs.
- You woke him, you idiot. Get lost!
I fall, hit my head against a step, bleed, lie down in the snow.
[...]
Greet with joy!
