Her life. Even when she’s not to pick up the telephone when she’s alone in the apartment, in case it’s Ingrid on the other end. Last Monday, for instance, when Hans was at the ophthalmologist’s, it kept ringing and ringing. And she sat there, pretending not to exist. And for all that: her life. Is she happy at Ingrid’s expense? Or just happy? Is it always in relation to someone else, is it a zero-sum game? Or is it random and disassociated, one here, one there? Then in the evening, when Hans was back, he picked up and he spoke to Ingrid. Katharina took herself out to the balcony, but she could still hear every word. He spoke to his own wife as to a stranger. Katharina should have been pleased, but in fact it depressed her. Is that all that’s left of a thirty-year marriage? When she’s old, will she too have a husband who speaks to her on the phone, while his lover is on the balcony, waiting to be waved back in? If one knew the whole truth about everything, could hear what was unsaid, and see what was parked in the shadows — then would there be any sense in wanting anything at all?