A brewery. We enter. The babble of voices hits us, ebbs briefly, strengthens to the hurricane. Empty looks graze us and turn back to each other. It foams from the tap behind the counter.
"Forty-seven," growls one. "Liver cirrhosis." The others nod. The Köbes presents us Kölsch and brings the guests a new round at the regulars' table. Automatically. Nobody misses. Then you should have put a beer mat on the glass in time. On the walls were slogans: "Promilleweg", "We have to stop drinking less" and
"No alcohol is not a solution either."
The eleven men are dressed dark, freshly shaved and combed with water. The empty chair has been placed on the wall. We put coasters on our half-filled glasses. A tin sign over the exit: "Great freedom".
Rhine terraces
against the current
two fish
