Lanceheim by Tim Davys

can’t give up.”
    He nodded. His wise fox. His strong fox. She released her hold, and they continued in silence back to Mooshütter Weg. The night would soon be over, dawn was on its way, he could see it in the sky, a premonition of daylight along the horizon. He was more or less sober when they were again standing outside her entryway, across from Kleine Wallanlagen. Inside his soul it was black, empty and desolate. The panic from yesterday evening had turned into a sort of apathy.
    He would become deaf; he had three weeks’ dispensation from Margot Swan, but then it was over. Whether Drexler’s syndrome was fatal or not did not interest him; if he could not hear, he could not compose. And if he could not compose, the Chauffeurs might just as well fetch him.
    He tried to cheer himself up.
    â€œThanks for a wonderful night,” he said.
    â€œYes, I guess we’ve reached the age where we have to see this as one,” she replied with a smile.
    â€œIf I can’t take it, I’ll come back this evening,” he warned.
    â€œYou are welcome.”
    She hugged him. But when he turned around to go, she added, “Reuben, forgive me, but that door key you saved—don’t you think I should get it back?”
    He heard, but ignored her. He’d feel better if he kept it.

WOLF DIAZ 2
    O f Maximilian’s first seven years I have very little to relate, because I know little about them. My own life took me into puberty. When I turned fifteen, I was forced for the first time to become acquainted with Mollisan Town in general and Lanceheim in particular, because Weasel, Buzzard, and I started high school. The school in our extra room was transformed into a memory. The city did not allow higher education to be conducted at home.
    Leaving the forest was thus not our own decision. On the contrary we were upset, and devoted most of summer vacation to cursing the authorities’ lack of imagination. Without a doubt all three of us were terror-stricken. The contempt with which the grown-ups in Das Vorschutz talked about the city had rubbed off on us. Evil, sin, and destructiveness were the result of the artificial life that stuffed animals lived there, and now we too would be subjected to it. It was not strange that we took turns displaying inventiveness and a certain originality as we fantasized endless variations of blowing the Ministry of Education to smithereens.
    All three of us were accepted into Lanceheim’s NormalSchool, which was customary for us Forest Cubs. The school was in Kerkeling Parish, a less attractive area in northeast Lanceheim, not far from Eastern Avenue, which led past the Garbage Dump and King’s Cross out to Das Vorschutz. Lanceheim’s Normal School was not one of the more sought-after educational institutions, but considering that our grades had been set by our mothers, we could not demand anything better.
    On trembling legs we showed up for roll call. I cannot keep from thinking about it with a slight blush of shame. Weasel, Buzzard, and I roved about in the dark corridors of the massive school as if someone had sewn us together. We never left each other’s side; we were constantly whispering, using language from the wretched novels for young animals we were forced to read when little: “All these stuffed animals!” “All these classrooms!” “All these sounds, streets, and houses!” For several weeks we continued to talk like that, with exclamation points: “All this stress!” “All these lessons!” “This whole city!” “All this evil, anger, joy, and desire!”
    And personally, for me more than for Weasel and Buzzard, “All these beautiful, seductive females!”
    The presence of so many new stuffed animals of the opposite gender set my emotional life swinging so that for several years I would walk around in a constant fog, slightly seasick. The opportunities were too many, the longing