But this man isn’t just tall, he’s huge, a colossus, an elephant. Great big limbs, quantities of flesh barely held together by his suit, a face with two chins, pendulous dewlaps, massy thick hands.

After his initial dismissive gesture, the mayor has not looked at the visitor again. He continues to talk calmly on the telephone, about the time of some meeting, not an interesting conversation.

Tredup begins to look around the room.

Suddenly he notices that the mayor is looking at him, and a painful feeling comes over him, that these clear, bright eyes—under the smooth black hair—can see everything: the unironed trousers, the dirty shoes, the poorly washed hands, the pasty complexion.

But now he can’t ignore it any more: across the telephone receiver, Mayor Gareis is smiling at him. And now he’s pointing him to a chair in front of the desk, he makes a hospitable gesture, and now, right in the middle of his conversation he says: ‘I’ll be with you in just a moment.’

Tredup sits down, the mayor puts the receiver down on its cradle, smiles once more, and asks quickly: ‘Where’s the fire?’

Suddenly Tredup has the sensation that he can tell this man everything, that he will understand anything that is put to him. He feels a rush of emotion, a hot, grateful enthusiasm spreads through his body. He says: ‘The fire? The fire’s in Gramzow, on the roads to Haselhorst and Lohstedt.’

The mayor is serious, he nods once or twice, looks pensively at a mammoth pencil his hands are toying with, and he says: ‘There was a fire there.’

‘And are the police interested in catching the arsonists?’

‘Might be. Do you know them?’

‘A friend of mine. Just might.’

‘“Friend” is too ambiguous. Let’s just say: an unknown party. X.’

‘All right then, my friend X.’

The mayor’s shoulders heave. ‘Are you from Gramzow?’

‘My friend? No. He’s from town.’

‘This town?’

‘Could be.’

The mayor gets up. Tredup is alarmed. It’s as though a mountain has started moving. He gets up and gets up and it still isn’t all of him. From somewhere near the top, a voice intones down to Tredup, curled up in his armchair: ‘I’ve got all the time in the world for sense, but no time to spare for nonsense. We’re not playing cops and robbers here. You want something from me, presumably money. Sell me some news. Well, I’m not interested.’

Tredup wants to raise an objection. The voice overrides it. ‘All right, I’m not interested. Gramzow isn’t part of my constituency. The country warden in Lohstedt might be. Or perhaps Stolpe.’

The mayor sits down again. Suddenly he breaks into a smile: ‘But perhaps I can help you anyway. Just stop talking nonsense. Spit it out. I’ve learned to be discreet over the course of my life.’

The somewhat crushed Tredup rallies. He says eagerly: ‘I was there, that afternoon.