Dear Marion,

We're back. The potholes weren't too bad. I stayed on the lookout;
the jarring of the car reminded me of your thoughtful cautions.
It was a hit-and-run trip. We arrived at Margrit's apartment
house at 11:30 a.m. on Thursday, and by 5 p.m. we were on
our way home, the minivan packed with boxes to within 12
inches of the ceiling, leaving just enough space for a
look into the rear-view mirror to see what monster truck
was preparing to push us off the road. We drove into the
night, finally stopping at 11 p.m. in Clarion PA, at a
"Quality Inn" close to the Interstate. Finding the driveway
was somewhat of a puzzle, since the access road was under
construction, with poorly marked lane closings and impromptu
barriers, no illumination, no signs, as if only the convenience
of the natives who were familiar with the construction mattered.

The Quality Inn turned out to be a truck stop. The parking lot
jammed with long trailers, and on the ground floor, abutting
the lobby an impressive fitness emporium with three very large
exercise machines, intended I suppose to satisfy the needs
of truckers who spent their days encapsulated in the enormous
rigs that they pilot across the landscape. Bare concrete and
metal inside-stairs led to a long dimly lit second floor hallway,
such as always reminds me of the access corridor to rows of
prison cells. Our room for the night was comfortable enough,
styled with the cheap elegance of newly built motels.
After five hours of setting boxes of books onto a dolly,
rolling them through the parking lot, then stacking them into
the van, it didn't take long for me to capitulate to the nightly
dress rehearsal of dying.

In the morning there was a sumptuous, free "Continental breakfast"
to satisfy the appetites of truckers. Margaret and I garnered our
share. When I approached the car with the overnight luggage, I saw
that the right rear tire was almost flat. No, the very obese
dark-haired woman who womanned the front desk could think of no
local establishment from which one might summon a mechanic to
change and repair or possibly replace the tire. Ordinarily I would
have taken pride in a Do-It-Yourself tire change, but to get access
to the jack, and especially to the spare tire, I would have had
to unpack at least part of the load, not once, but twice, first for
the initial tire change, then for extracting the damaged tire for
repair. A performance for which I had no stomach. There was however
a maintenance man with a portable compressor who would inflate the
tire, and if we were lucky we could make it the quarter mile
across town to the Walmart tire center. And we did.

At Walmart we were greeted by a sprightly uniformed automobile
receptionist, a young woman with a sense of humor, who seemed
to enjoy her work. You'd be surprised, she said, how many flat
tires I get from that motel. What was the matter? Did you tell
them the bed wasn't clean or the coffee didn't taste right?
I watched the repairmen in the garage. Everything was planned,
everything programmed for optimum efficiency, including, of
course, the employees. They were only automobile doctors, but
I saw them as prototypes of physicians of all kinds, implementers
of computer programs that controlled their diagnostic thoughts
and prescribed their therapeutic efforts. I wondered, how I
would protect myself, if I had it to do over again.  Relieved
that I had had my turn, I arrived at no conclusions. 

The repair didn't take long. It was only a thin nail that had
punctured the tire; the wound was easily plugged. The fee,
a mere $10 plus 50 cents tax. In Cambridge MA, one couldn't
even shake hands with a mechanic for that kind of money.
Thanks to Walmart, we were soon on our way, through mountainous
landscapes covered with gleaming expanses of snow of varying
depths. The highway itself, however was completely clear. We
crossed the Hudson at Newburgh as night began to fall; then drove
north on the unlit Taconic State Parkway, constantly passed
by impatient wealthy denizens of New York City, eager to
get to their country houses for the weekend, and contemptuous
of speed limits that are essentially unenforceable in the dark.

We ourselves arrived in Belmont at 11 p.m. There I was confronted
with a letter from Concentra Financial Services of Saskatoon,
Sasketchewan, who informed me that Margrit's Registered Retirement
Income Fund had a value at the date of death of $9606.84.
She had named Harold Atkinson, who died on December 23, 2004,
as beneficiary. Concentra also reported that distributions of $1080
were processed subsequent to Margrit's death. Their letter of
condolence concluded: "Please forward a cheque in the amount of $1080
to the Estate Payout Unit at your earliest convenience."

In addition to Concentra Financial's condolences, there was a
grumpy letter from Kimberly Saillant, to which I started last evening
to draft a reply which I intended to be self-explanatory. I finished
this morning. If interested, you can read it at:
http://home.earthlink.net/~jochenmeyer/litigation/20100306_letter.pr

I was touched by your concern that Micha should be interested in
reading various chapters of Die Andere. The novel has been around
now for 17 years, and I'm startled by the thought that anyone should
want to read it. My immediate reaction is to spend more time reading
what Micha has written; and I will. As for Die Andere, as I've said
before, I consider the best chapters 1, 3, 7, 28, 34, 41, and 43,
but maybe I'm wrong. I want badly to continue working on Die Freunde,
uncertain how much I should permit myself to be distracted by
the biographical efforts precipitated by Renate Haertle's inquiries
and so strongly endorsed by my friend Helmut. It's obvious to me
that however much I want to do everything, I can't.

Jochen