He penetrates further into the crowd, his coldness makes him calculating. Still, he is nothing but a man who was supposed to come to a reception and didn’t show.
This is what death looks like when it arrives late, this is what Warnke looks like: a diplomat in casual wear. The belt with explosives is bound tightly around him, his left hand is in the pocket of his windbreaker. In his thoughts, he starts counting to ten.
“All things are a cry for love,” Warnke had written in one of his poems to Malena.
He hears travelers talking to each other, a child bawls, a little further along two policemen are sauntering around, paying more attention to their conversation than to their surroundings.
The child sitting on the woman’s shoulders is eating cookies from a clear plastic bag. Chocolate cookies. There is a price to be paid for butting into everything, for making the best of everything, for making new contacts everywhere, for tearing around the face of the earth.
The child eats greedily. Warnke is at seven.
When he said goodbye, a few hours ago, they had kissed him. The kiss of comrades. The kiss of Malena.
Now he can no longer remember ever having taken part in life. Just before he pushes the button he mumbles: “This is for my chunquituy.”