Fortgereiset
'Fortgereiset,' said the sign. Its extra 'e' gave it away as an antiquity. 'Gonne Away', it might have said, in a mediaeval sort of way. 
Olesch had gone. There was no mistake. He'd left nothing behind but that sad, tattered sign. The rooms were completely bare, save for dust and flies on the windowsills. Oblongs of dirt marked the places where pictures hung. The walls were yellowed with rising intensity from the forgotten smoke of years. Spiders had hung in the cornices and chandeliers, covering them in filthy lace.
But there was still a smell. Part tobacco, part rosin. It hung there, impregnated. It was the nearest thing to a ghost. A fiddler ghost, his pipe clamped in his teeth, up and down the scales, biting in furious frustration.
And there was still a note in the room. It heard the door click and sang out. Sympathetic resonance. Straight and pure as an open string.
27/2/2008
Heinrich Heine
Atta Troll, 1846
p 143
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