He hates the smell. He strokes his chin. The skin is smooth. That must be his aftershave. His gaze slides down the button placket. White shirt, tie and blazer in muted blue, with jeans.

Why is he sitting on this park bench?

He gets up and takes a few steps. The area seems strange to him. How did he get here? Had he dozed off? This aftershave irritates him. White plastic chairs, a cafe. He sits down.

“What can I get you?”

How should he answer the waitress now? He turns his head towards the next table and says: “That one.”

He tries to inhale some of the smoke wafting from the young couple at the next table. The waitress serves him hot milk. “Your cappuccino!”

He tries. The foam tastes like coffee.

“Can I bring anything else?”

The cigarette smoke draws his attention back to the young couple. He nods in that direction. “That!” And gets apple pie.

He puts a banknote on the table. But the waitress doesn’t accept Swiss francs. There’s another brown note in the jacket pocket. They are not German marks. He wants to withdraw the note, the waitress smiles. “Fifty euros? No problem, I can put that out there.”

He waves away. “That’s right.” He wants to ask: This is Germany, right? He stops himself.

He would later describe this period of time in which he did not know what a cappuccino was, but could point exactly to the blue packet with his “Schwarzer Krauser” tobacco brand at the kiosk, as the “That-da” phase. He feels that it is spring, but doesn’t know what year it is. He knows what the license plate “HH” stands for, but cannot remember how he got to Hamburg or whether he lives here. He has forgotten himself like someone else has a PIN. He still has no idea that there might be good reasons for it.

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