We have gone on the trip, Agnieszka and I, have taken the ferry.
The spume. The birds.
Over the sea.
It’s colder over here.

The ball rolls along the way. The crooked street leads uphill between the two gardens.
Freisler is weeding weed. The grass grows high.
He didn’t expect us; he didn’t know we would come. He has no idea what to do with us.

„Is this your ball?

The sun sits in the middle of the sky, it’s hot. There are also many mosquitoes this year.

„Czy to pańska kulka, panie Freisler?”

Freisler looks at us across the fence. I pass him the ball. He doesn’t take it. We say:

“We will settle here next door, we will buy this piece of land over there.“
“Osiądziemy tu niedaleko, kupimy tamten kawełek ziemi.”

We buy the land; we set up a contract of purchase. We buy it and sow nothing but nonsense on it, plants which cannot prosper in this climate, and water them from a clay hand. We have brought the water along, it was taken from a concealed fire hydrant in Alexanderplatz.

We put up beehives whose people cling to Freisler’s windowpanes, collect honey from his flowers.

We put the ball into a pot made out of fragrant Moroccan root wood and place it in front of his garden door as a gift. After three days it is gone. Freisler doesn’t show up again.

We sow metal seeds that develop into small machines. The seeds search for trace elements in the soil. They search by themselves for iron, nickel, copper, silicates; they appear on the surface and gain energy by photosynthesis modules. Then they dive in again and dig tunnels through the earth. One of these little machines transforms itself into a metal detector, which digs underneath Freisler’s fence. When it turns up to the surface, the soil it raises looks like a molehill.

Sooner or later it will find Freisler’s precision egg, no matter where he has hidden it in the earth.
It will hand it over to another machine. On small caterpillar’s feet it glides to the coast, crosses the sea and retrieves the egg.

We put it in our pocket and take it up with us into the restaurant in the television tower. We hide it under one of the tables, stick it on with package adhesive tape from below, while we pretend to eat a pork loin. The people who eat at this table will feel strangely pleasant, they don’t know why.

We never turn back to our piece of land; we don’t care about it at all. That’s just the way we are.

Freisler’s tomatoes grow better now, since our machines have loosened the soil. He takes our ball out of the pot made out of fragrant wood and puts it into the beehive. Whoever wants it will get stung. The bees swarm out and collect honey from far away.

He also rescues our plants. For the pineapple he builds a greenhouse. Instead of one garden he now owns two.