Ole Bienkopp [antikvár]

part one I The earth journeys through the cosmos. Man sends out metal doves and impatiently awaits their return, waiting for an olive-branch from brothers on other stars. What is a village on this earth of ours? It can be a spore on the skin of a rotten potato —or a spot of red on the sunny side of a ripening apple. Ole Bienkopp, the peasant, the great child, feels cold from time to time. He seeks warmth beside his wife. "What must I do for you to take me into your bed and warm me?" Anngret is in the lush years; not exactly red-hot, but she knows what she wants. "Could you grow a beard?" A beard? What's a beard? An ornamentation? A hideout? The last of the monkey-hair? Thickets on the facial topography to cover up the weak bits, the shallows? "A beard?" asks Ole. "Well, more of a toothbrush moustache," says Anngret. "Like the one Ramsch, the sawmijler, wears? Never!" "I wasn't thinking about him," Anngret says. Ole can't ignore the wishes of his wife. He wants to be warmed. He starts growing what's called a sailor's fringe. The beard gets tough. Anngret wrinkles up her nose whenever Ole gets too near her with it. "Cut that furze off your chin!" Ole does so. He wants to be warmed. The Bienkopps live like the doves, if one keeps in mind that even these birds of peace quarrel now and then with a wild cooing and beating of wings. Anngret looks after her own interests and has fits of 7