Tiny Acts of Vandalism

Treading softly into the morning, trying not to wake anyone – a bowl of cherry yoghurt and far too many red currants is breakfast. Each astringent mouthful is like tasting them for the first time – the glowing fruits sourness belongs to itself alone. Red currants remind me of many places – berry picking in Tasmania, lying in my great aunt’s garden and eating them, sun warmed in bunches, watching Uncle Franz carefully layering them with caster sugar. But they belong to themselves – they whisper to me about forest clearings and allotment gardens, markets where they are piled like rubies, their presence atop delicate little cakes and other dainties. They belong to all these places, and not to me.

There is a hospital chapel in the buckled hills of Hochegg that is just a large room in the modern building. The chairs are padded plastic, the floor linoleum tiles…