Indigo by Clemens J. Setz Read Free Book Online Page A

. or wearing a funny hat. You see it often.
    â€“ All right, it’s not so much the costume I’m wondering about, but more the fact that so many students at the institute were transferred or . . .
    â€“ Relocated?
    â€“ Yes.
    â€“ I can’t tell you anything about that, Herr Setz. But I’ll write down for you someone you could visit. The woman was once in treatment with me. After the birth of her son. Single mother. Inding . . . Indigo kid. Depressive. The whole package. She lives in southern Styria.
    She reached for her electronic organizer and searched for the entry. Then she wrote all the information on a piece of paper. Gudrun Stennitzer. Son: Christoph. Glockenhofweg 1, 8910 Gillingen. Under that a cell phone number. Frau Häusler-Zinnbret continued to fan herself. Her face had begun to shine a little.
    â€“ I know, former patients’ information, usually . . . (She made a movement as if she were waving away several flies.) But it’s okay. She really likes to talk about the topic. She had her son home-schooled because of it. Because of the problem. Which is, of course, quite common in the di . . . in the community, as you can imagine.
    â€“ What problem? That of the relocations?
    Fan movements, bobbing strands of hair. Then she exhaled and said softly, with a slight shake of her head:
    â€“ Chimney sweep, ts . . . But who knows, well, Frau Stennitzer will probably be happy if you visit her and mention her in your article. She likes to interact, you know. With other people and such. Does her good too, internally and externally.
    â€“ Okay. Thank you very much.
    â€“ Would you like another glass of water, Herr Setz?
    â€“ No, thanks. Just one last question.
    She laughed.
    â€“ Sorry, she said. But you just grabbed your forehead like Columbo. When you said that. Hahaha.
    â€“ Have you ever heard of Ferenz?
    She stopped moving the fan and held it next to her face as if she needed a third ear to understand what I wanted from her.
    â€“ Excuse me?
    â€“ The name. Ferenz.
    â€“ That’s a game, she said. As far as I know.
    A short pause.
    â€“ Yes, Frau Häusler-Zinnbret said again. A game.
    â€“ A game?
    â€“ Yes.
    â€“ Like musical chairs?
    â€“ Something like that.
    The fan began to move slightly.
    â€“ Thank God I don’t work with I-families anymore, said Frau Häusler-Zinnbret. All that’s behind me.
    â€“ May I ask why you stopped?
    She folded the fan and put it on the table in front of her.
    â€“ The mothers, she said. The mothers more than anything else. There’s only so much of that you can take, you know. Those dark rings under the eyes, the crooked fingers, the matted and unwashed hair, those accusatory lips, which always tremble a little, burnt-out, burnt-out, and then the absurd notions they have . . . Well, all right, they can’t help it, of course, they want their kids to do as well as other, normal kids. But you can stand those mothers for only so long. The way they sit there and talk about nothing but their exhaustion . . . and that suffering tone they always adopt, probably only women can do that.
    She laughed.
    â€“ No, she added, I’ve also met enough young fathers who were a nervous wreck. But, of course, the kids themselves were too. That cold, distant . . . The way they endure everything, no matter what you do to them, that . . .
    She looked again at my empty glass and asked a second time:
    â€“ You really wouldn’t like another . . . ?
    â€“ No, thanks, I said. What else did you want to say about the I-kids?
    â€“ You’ve met them yourself.
    â€“ Well, only from a distance.
    She laughed.
    â€“ I-kids, she repeated, that sounds so harmless . . . They have no compassion. I mean, the burnt-out cases, they can occasionally regenerate a little over time, but the others . . . drift farther and farther out in their space capsule.
    She fell silent. I waited for her to go on.
    â€“ Well, it’s