Later the table showed the detritus of the meal, dishes and plates at angles from each other and little bird-baths of olive oil where salad had been. Maria smoked; the rings trailed around her face while the averted eyes of Baummüller looked down to his cup of espresso, his coat still on. So sated was the mood, so deep the absorption of each in their own personal world — or as Maria would no doubt call have called it, given the chance, their struggle — that Sebastian stood, unnoticed, and began shaking out his legs before the scullery. He looked over the faces in the lamplight, crockery and smoke.

Unstoppable, unturnoffable, here is a device if not as powerful at least more relentless than the human mind — lulling us all into a techno-stupor that reality can never hope to match and — you can forget literature, too.

“Mark my words though Kinder,” he said to his guests, “what’s really done it is the Internet. That’s doing more damage to human prospects than any invention since the gun. All information available, all entertainment — how do you say? — downloadable, the ability to find out anything at a click. Unstoppable, unturnoffable, here is a device if not as powerful at least more relentless than the human mind — lulling us all into a techno-stupor that reality can never hope to match and — you can forget literature, too. No more Heine, no more Goethe, no more von Kleist.” He addressed the last statement to Baummüller, whose eyes raised up slightly, then fell down again. “And who could ever turn it off? I can’t even live without it for a day! All the simple pleasures pale next to it; even sexuality is now eine erledigte Sache, a finished thing. When I played at school a scrap of pornography was passed around the playground as if it were ancient papyrus. Nowadays an eight year old can download a clip of group sex — and that’s it’s first experience of human sexuality! Mijn God! Where’s the growth, the progress, the Bildung — the Internet accomplishes everything too fast.”

“The Internet is a great source for learning languages,” said Richard. “With the Internet I can listen to German cultural podcasts.”

“And do you?” responded Sebastian. “Even if so, surely not exclusively! For most of the time it’s — it’s — “

“Porn and ringtones,” Rich went on.

“Genau!”

“But what about the possibilities of it all? The Internet can expose abuses of power before the big old press can put their spin on it. What about the ability for musicians of avoiding selling out to big corporate labels? My band — we’re not together anymore, but when we were, we could put up all our music on MySpace.” Realising he had strayed a little too far into articulacy, Richard capped his sentence with a perfunctory mumble.

“But where’s the struggle then?”

“There’s no money…”

“Ah yes,” said Sebastian. “That’s always a struggle.”

Maria carried on smoking; she was down to the filter now.

“I could build you a website. I did it for the library, and they get loads of hits,” said Richard.

“My days of having hits are over,” smiled Sebastian, but no one laughed.

Baummüller looked up again to Maria, as if about to address her; she remained, aloof, cold-eyed, sad. His hand made a quiet gesture toward her.

“Seriously mate, you should blog.”

“Blog?” Baummüller’s hand had connected and Maria, not looking up, rose. “That’s what we used to call a — ”

“We’re going,” said Baummüller. He had stood up, arms spread in midair. “Thank you for the lovely meal.”

“Der Vergnügen war ganz meinerseits,”^[12] said Sebastian, stepping to Baummüller and regarding him analytically for the first time in the evening. “Wir sehen uns Montag?!”

“Monday, yes.” Karl gave then a look of total bewilderment, Richard’s face pulsing with resentment of him. A tiny noise emitted from Baummüller — sort of an onomatopoeic sound of both understanding and pride, not quite a word or even a particle in either of the languages he spoke — whereupon he turned out of the kitchen. Maria went one step behind, not having looked at the remaining men.