Eine Obsession, die in London und Luzern spielt - ein eher zweitklassiger Journalist und Schriftsteller, fixiert sich in seinen Phantasien auf eine amerikanische Schriftstellerin - ein verhängnisvolles Netz von (Selbst-) Täuschungen.

Rüdiger Görner, Prof. Dr. phil., geb. 1957 in Rottweil am Neckar. Lebt seit 1981 in London. Schriftsteller und Kritiker. Hochschullehrer seit 1984, als Dozent an der University of Surrey (1984-1991), als Reader und nach 1997 als Professor an der Aston University in Birmingham (1991-2004) sowie als Direktor des Institute of Germanic Studies an der School of Advanced Study, University of London (1999-2004). Dort auch Gründungsdirektor des Ingeborg Bachmann Centre for Austrian Literature. Seit 2004 an der Queen Mary University of London als Professor of German Literature with Comparative Literature (seit 2019 als Centenary Professor of German) und Gründungsdirektor des Centre for Anglo-German Cultural Relations. Mitglied der Deutschen Akademie für Sprache und Dichtung. Deutscher Sprachpreis der Henning Kaufmann-Stiftung (2012) Reimar Lüst-Preisträger der Alexander von Humboldt-Stiftung für das Lebenswerk (2016); Verdienstorden der Bundesrepublik Deutschland (2017)

Seven hours to play - before Siri. Seven towers around Babylon; seven trumpets to shatter seven walls - Lionel was ecstatic and felt paralysed at the same time. Now that he was in possession of an Internet surf stick, he was able to access the world from wherever he was. Shame though, he now disliked his laptop. Claudia emailed him incessantly and almost every message covered a different topic. Singing birds was her favourite one. She knew, for example, that different groups of nightingales, blackbirds and canaries sing different songs; these songs depended on the birds' urban or natural habitat, and birds respond to the noises they hear. Some imitate them, others sing against them. Claudia used an image with which Lionel was strangely familiar. She wrote: All these birdsong lines formed an invisible pattern in the air, like the lines in a huge slab of marble. Lionel was about to go back home. He passed an unfamiliar museum that was clearly preparing for a special event. A poster announced The Gates of Sleep. Aren't you interested? You should be, cried a harsh male voice. Lionel looked into the face belonging to this extraordinary voice. It was grim, determined, randomly shaven, framed by long brown hair. He offered Lionel two cups. One could have been made of brown horn, the other of ivory. Your choice, he said; but the way he said it suggested to Lionel that he had no choice at all but to drink from both of these ancient looking cups. He tried to get past the man, but once again the man cried: Your choice. If you don't drink, you will never know what life is like. If you don't drink now, shame will be upon you. Every twirl of the man's Celtic stretched vowels made Lionel fear something very bad was about to happen here on the pavement, in broad daylight amidst all these passers-by, who took no notice of the scene with its primeval undertones. This man sought to establish, somewhat feverishly, eye contact with Lionel, whilst being seemingly fixated on an ancient skull studded with diamonds, or at least semi-precious stones. He then recited at the top of his croaky voice: There are twin Gates of Sleep; one is said to be of horn (lifting the brown cup), allowing an easy exit for shadows that are true. The other is shiny white ivory, perfectly made (lifting the other cup); but the Spirits send visions that are false in the light of day. Lionel felt irresistibly drawn to this museum. When he came closer to the entrance, he saw that it was closed, and this special exhibition would open in two hours, which no one in town-so the poster said-could afford to miss. When he turned around, the Celtic man with his two cups had vanished. Not far from the museum, Lionel came across a group of South American dancers and musicians. We are Argentines of Spanish origin, they announced, criollos, and we will perform a milonga for you all. But it was only Lionel who stopped, and soon they were calling him a gaucho. Stay with us friend, they sang and started to dance around him, getting closer and closer. Was this Covent Garden or Buenos Aires? Definitely not Belfast; Lucerne was also unlikely. His laptop felt heavier than ever. Lionel thought it would drag him down, right in front of the criollos' feet. One of them explained to Lionel that the milonga followed invisible patterns on the floor, meaning that wherever they performed their dance, it took on a different shape. I know, replied Lionel, the pattern resembles one you might find in marble flooring.