JAN-FEB 2002 | Fiction
Not even a Sunday, just a Sunday morning. Three scenes, a thousand words. And the necessary backdrop of the melancholy Central European provinces. The square by the Danube: the river has risen a bit in the last few days, and the long-hulled boats, either on their own or with the aid of tugboats, struggle against the current but they slide quickly and almost soundlessly in the other direction as the brown water foams.