In the Shadow of Nemesis

By Ivar Rivenaes

An international novel based on the horrors of the war in Western Norway. The retired lawyer Gert Schroder has spent eight years writing a book as truthful as possible about Germany in the twentieth century. Alicia Koch is a librarian at the Bavarian State Library in Munich and a friend of the married couple Gert and Lena Schroder. One day a Norwegian-born author living in England comes to the library. His name is Haakon Lindar and he is looking for books on German history from the last two centuries. Through Alicia, Haakon Lindar gets in touch with Gert Schroder, and through several hour-long walks in the parks in Munich, they gain respect for each other. They both write books. Schroder reads Lindar's books, which are available digitally on Amazon, and he offers Lindar to read the manuscript of his new book. Little does Schroder know that Lindar has a special purpose in contacting him. And when he finds out what it's all about, his world comes crashing down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amolibros
• Release date: Aug 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781912335350

Book preview

In the Shadow of Nemesis

by Ivar Rivenaes

Published as an ebook by Amolibros at Smashwords 2022

Table of Contents

Notices

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

About the Author

Notices

Published by Amolibros 2022

Copyright © Ivar Rivenaes 2022

Published electronically by Amolibros 2014 | Amolibros, Loundshay Manor Cottage, Preston Bowyer, Milverton, Somerset, TA4 1QF | http://www.amolibros.com | [e-mail]

Cover image attribution: Bundesarchiv, Bild 192-269 / CC-BY-SA 3.0

‘Concentration camp Mauthausen, Prisoners in the quarry (Stairs of Death)’

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bundesarchiv_Bild_192-269,_KZ_Mauthausen,_H%C3%A4ftlinge_im_Steinbruch.jpg

The right of Ivar Rivenaes to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted herein in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

Except for certain historical figures, all the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely imaginary

This book production has been managed by Amolibros | http://www.amolibros.com

The mind is furnished with ideas by experience alone.

—John Locke

Justice consists not in being neutral between right and wrong, but in finding out the right and upholding it, wherever found against the wrong.

—Theodore Roosevelt

Chapter One

Munich, May 2015

Gerhart Schroeder wondered why the unease dominating his life would not let go.

It had been latent for eight years.

At first, it had been barely noticeable; a distant vibration existing on the periphery of his mind. Then, as time went by and his manuscript took shape and form and he knew that the conclusion of his work was within sight, he could no longer deny that he had gone from being restive to being fearful.

He tried to shrug it off; his present condition was just a reaction from eight years of hard labour. Soon, he would have the freedom to do other things in life.

It’s but a simple case of emotional metamorphosis – nothing else.

The probability of the conclusion consoled him for a while.

Still, as small but unrelenting carnivore gnawed at his heart strings, stubbornly refusing to depart.

Am I using one-way rhetoric; somehow imagining that reaching a goal equals losing a dream – one being a function of the other?

No, he thought, I am making complicated excuses dressed up as explanations – again. I know when my mind went into freefall. My now permanent state of anxiety could no longer be suppressed when I had finished the last sentence on the last page and the final full stop hit the page.

He could feel the skin around his eyes tighten.

Don’t succumb to apathy. Perseverance illuminates the tunnel between ambition and reality. A dream fulfilled does not die with its achievement.

The air was still. Grey clouds sprayed with a thin layer of orange hung over the city. Showers were predicted come evening. The smell of ozone reached his nostrils.

He folded his hands and squeezed.

So, he mused, let me try to get to the core of what is bothering me; what might be the real cause of my predicament. Is it in any way associated with misgivings – do I harbour lack of faith in the quality of my work?

No – I am confident about my abilities. My strong sense of objectivity never left me. Did I ever write anything that had not been thoroughly researched? I did not – my integrity was my guiding light. So was my respect for veracity; I wrote the truth as I knew it – not as I wanted it. The goddess of justice never left my study, reminding me every morning never to forget the difference between what is right and who is right.

Am I worried about being criticized or, worse, patronized because I am not a full-fledged historian? There are certain types of academics who do take pleasure in exhibiting their prowess for ridicule. It makes them feel better, I’ve heard; in particular if they never have accomplished much themselves.

No, I think I can tackle the odd barrage of sarcasms. The days of such sensitivities are gone.

Could it be the potential impact my book may have on my wife and my children and my grandchildren? After all, I do claim that the apocalypse that hit Germany twice in one century were partly our fault – yes, I do say partly because that is the truth – but even then it is inevitable that rumours about my patriotism will flourish.

The garden was quiet. He smiled at the sparrows flocking around his feet, waiting for more seeds to fall.

Impact?

Don’t overestimate yourself, he thought. All you’ve done is to write a piece of non-fiction – a history book. You don’t say anything that has not been commented on untold times before. You have just done it differently; more balanced, more factual and without prejudice, exactly what Germany needs after all these years of explaining away the past and excusing the present.

Old sins do not vanish by employing the old trick of resorting to taciturnity or ignorance whenever so desired. The human mind is capable of choosing what to remember and what to forget.

There are those who say: Don’t blame me – I was born after the war. Others claim: I was too young to understand what was going on – I still don’t. And the majority of those who did know: I am too old now – my memory is failing me.

And how many times have I heard the most common of all justifications for dropping the subject: Ripping open the past does no good.

Intellectual dishonesty – rife as ever – does not benefit the country. One should think that this is common knowledge but, as always, there is no shortage of hiding places in the human brain; we bring to the surface what we want to believe.

No – I can’t see that there will be much of an impact. Those who disagree with my conclusions – no, with my presentation – will simply drop the book and forget about it. I am just another amateur writer of no significance; a nonentity, a monochromatic songbird with a modest voice.

There are moments when I wonder why I invested eight years of my life to give an oversight over bygone times. The old saying that nobody learns from history is as prevalent as ever. Now, why would that be?

One of the reasons – maybe the main reason – is that nobody can learn from something they know nothing about.

Or couldn’t be bothered to take an interest in.

Do I believe that my book can change the world?

Fifty years ago, when I was young and immature and naïve, the answer would probably have been a self-conscious Yes. I have learned a bit about life since then.

On the other hand – where would we be if not a single attempt was being made to cast some light over our past?

This is the question that kept me going; a bit pretentious, maybe, but it did give me a sense of purpose. It still does, oddly enough, considering my present lack of mental balance.

He looked up towards the sky where silvery clouds lingered like translucent greyhounds frozen in time.

I am going in circles. A long rest on a remote island would have done me a lot of good.

He upended the plastic bag and emptied the rest of the seeds on the ground. More sparrows arrived. He looked around. An elderly woman two benches away smiled at him. He returned the smile and put the bag back in his pocket.

I have been talking to myself again. I hope she does not think that I am dangerous.

Reflections criss-crossed his mind.

Contradictions are playing havoc with my otherwise sound judgment – where there used to be ratiocination I only see chaos.

Doubt?

No, my problem is not doubt – it is the fact that I am unable to face the future of Gerhart Schroeder with my work gone. What is troubling me is a fear of emptiness; of rapidly growing old because I have left myself without anything to do. I know that I haven’t got another book in me – I am too old and too tired and too exhausted even to think about it. Atrophy is a process that cannot be reversed.

Worrying about the ominous prospect of futility – that is what has such a paralyzing effect on me and that is why I keep fiddling with a manuscript that was finished twelve months ago. I call it the final polishing but neither my agent nor my publisher believes me anymore.

And neither do I.

It is funny how our ability to knowingly deceive ourselves has such a prominent place in the human psyche. When will our brains ever learn to cultivate our minds?

The elderly lady passed him, nodded and wished him a good evening. She looked fragile and worried. Deep lines were etched on her face. Her back was bent and her steps were short. She relied heavily on her walking stick.

Once, she had been young and healthy and pretty. He could see that; beauty fades but it does not vanish.

His gaze followed her movements.

The dubious blessings of old age and loneliness – the great Creator must have had a bad day when He designed the cycle of life. Or maybe His outré sense of humour got the better of Him during the process.

He knew that the shadow of a sardonic smile had just crossed his face.

We arrive, we exist and we go.

Between the two extremes we keep wondering why peace of mind is in such a short supply.

Metal grey clouds came in from the east. A light wind rustled through the branches of the tree behind him. A single leaf slowly descended and landed on his folded hands.

Why is a leaf falling in May?

He straightened his back. The discomfort was bearable but he knew that within an hour he would once again praise the invention of painkillers.

Years hunched over a keyboard had taken its toll.

At times, he wondered if there was another dimension to his suffering than age and sitting for too long without a break. Was it really just a coincidence that his back and his legs became more painful when his mind was more than usually troubled?

He had once mentioned this to his doctor who added the word psychosomatic.

A possibility, the doctor said, looking as if he wanted to drop the subject.

Could it be that the Cartesian dualism had an element of truth to it? Schroeder had asked with a straight face.

No reply. The doctor got busy making notes.

You know, Schroeder went on, Descartes’ philosophy about mind and body as distinct substances?

Ah yes, well – one never knows, does one?

Evidently not, he wanted to say but didn’t.

Medically speaking, it would have been simpler that way, wouldn’t it? he added.

Quite so, the doctor confirmed, clinging to his pen.

Such moments of entertainment were rare in Schroeder’s life. He had a tendency to keep his thoughts to himself.

It was a fact, though, that the more worried he was, the worse he felt physically.

Descartes too had been fond of facts but his brainpower, substantial as it was, and his philosophies, ground-breaking as they were, had not helped him survive for more than fifty-four years. Maybe he’d been thinking too much.

Mind and body. We can make ice cream and cell phones and nuclear weapons but we cannot philosophize our way to a harmonious, healthy and balanced self. We are unable to will ourselves to a longer or shorter life without resorting to external assistance. We are, all things considered, just an ephemeral blip in the universe – a defect organism with an unjustified and unsustainable belief in our own value as beings.

Life is sacred, the Church tells us.

To whom?

The Hofgarten was now almost empty. A man and his dog headed towards the exit. Two joggers stopped to catch their breath. Dusk seeped in like mist over a lake at the end of a forest but the statue on top of the Temple of Diana was still visible.

Lights came on in buildings and on the streets. Church bells tolled through the stillness of the garden. Slowly, the din from the city grew louder.

He used both hands to push himself up from the bench.

I am only sixty-seven. Why do I feel like I am in my nineties; physically, mentally and emotionally?

A shiver went through his body.

And here is another question to myself: when did lachrymosity do any good?

On the other hand – had not a great mind like Aristotle indicated that melancholy is quite common among people capable of great achievements?

He stood still for a moment, staring into the darkening universe.

I wish there was a place called Nirvana – illusion made reality.

He smiled.

I would buy a one-way ticket tomorrow.

He put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and began walking.

*

Gerhart Schroeder was born in Munich on the 12th of November 1947.

Twenty-four years earlier – on the same date of the same year that his father Fritz first saw daylight, the 9th of November, 1923 – an ambitious young politician named Adolf Hitler aspired to get rid of the ineffectual and detested Weimar republic and arranged a coup d’état to this effect. Hardly anybody outside of Munich had ever heard of the National Socialist German Worker’s Party; they were few in numbers and the coup failed miserably. Its leader was arrested, sentenced to five years imprisonment for high treason but served only eight months in a commodious cell where he used the time well by putting pen to paper; composing his philosophies titled Mein Kampf.

Nine years later he was the supreme leader of the Germany.

The Third Reich was born.

One of his memorable comments before entering Reichstag as Chancellor on the 20th January 1933 was: Give me ten years and I shall change Germany forever.

And he observed: The broad masses of a nation will more easily fall victim to a big lie than to a small one.

Two months later the first concentration camp – Dachau – opened its doors. It was conveniently situated ten miles from Munich.

In 1938, the British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain came to the city and returned to London with a reassuring Peace in our time.

*

Gerhart Schroeder entered the world in a city that had been almost obliterated by the war. In contrast to most other German cities that were destroyed by Allied bombing, Munich was rebuilt to its former beauty. This was made possible because the Fuehrer and his ministers had ordered photos to be taken of the entire city, each individual building and street, when they realized that their beloved Hauptstadt der Bewegung would not escape destruction.

They had also been wise enough to remove most worthwhile objects of art.

*

As the city rose from the ashes, Fritz Schroeder did well for himself. He was a bricklayer by trade but quickly developed a nose for business, establishing his own firm and began to make more money in a week than he had done in a year in his bricklaying days.

In April of 1946 he met a fair maiden named Franziska Lange at a trade get-together in Hofbraukeller, one of the few surviving beer halls. Love blossomed and they got married in June.

Franziska joined the business with the aim of taking care of the finances. Regrettably – his opinion but not hers – she got pregnant and a boy arrived. They called him Gerhart.

As she was preparing to return to her mission as financial controller, she once again got pregnant. Oswald was born on the 8th of October 1949.

With two children and a demanding husband to take care of, Franziska opted for the role of fulltime housewife. Fritz reluctantly agreed and hired a middle-aged, male war veteran with a background in accountancy.

Gerhart and Oswald grew up in a spacious and elegant villa in Alt-Bogenhausen, an attractive neighbourhood that suited the refined taste of their parents.

*

Childhood memories were not dear to Gerhart Schroeder. Insecurity and fear dominated his fragile psyche from as far back as he could remember. He began to suffer from a stammer and even the slightest touch on his skin turned into a purple welt. His father saw his son’s sensitivity as weakness and no measure of brutality managed to transform the boy into the tough creature that he genetically and otherwise should have been.

Oswald was luckier. He had his mother’s affectionate protection from birth, a blessing that escaped Gerhart. Somehow, she sensed from the very beginning that the eldest boy would turn out to be a disappointment.

Gerhart never developed much of a physique; he was skinny and short for his age. With his pale skin, his dark hair parted in the middle, metal-grey eyes, a sharp-edged straight nose and a mouth that appeared oddly sensual, he knew all too well that he wasn’t much to look at. There were two reasons behind this knowledge; one was that there was a full-length mirror in the hallway and the other was that Fritz Schroeder seldom missed an opportunity to tell his eldest son that he would never have to dress up for a carnival.

Oswald became the pride of the family. He was blond with clear blue eyes, and at the age of twelve he was three centimetres taller than his two year older brother. Oswald was into sport and excelled at whatever he was doing. His body developed nicely; broad shoulders, strong arms and powerful legs. Inside this magnificent specimen a competitive and aggressive spirit ruled. He even did well at school – the ideal male Arian, as Gerhart occasionally mused but never said out loud when he witnessed the praise heaped upon his brother.

Fritz and Franziska were immensely proud of their golden boy; he was what Fritz described as the essence of Germany – indeed a godsend to any parent.

When the boys reached their teens, they had grown apart. Oswald had little time for his reticent and physically passive bookworm of a brother, and what sparse imitation of affection and periodic attention Gerhart had received from his parents in his early years had withered away to a level of barely acknowledging his presence. This wasn’t entirely without benefits; gone were the days of scorn, beatings, contempt and sarcasms. Gerhart often thanked the heavens above for having a perfect brother.

He had few friends, none of them close. He spent most of his free time reading and daydreaming. The Schroeders had built up an impressive library; bookshelves packed with volumes never failed to dazzle any and all visitors but they carefully avoided making observations of a literary nature apart from dropping the odd names of well-known writers they’d memorized in case the subject did come up; both stuck to newspapers, magazines and trade journals, and that was it.

Books became Gerhart’s escape from reality. Since his parents bought volumes by the metre they had little or no knowledge of what arrived; even works by the abominable Russians could be found on the shelves.

What Gerhart lacked in physical prowess he compensated for by filling his mind with the wisdom and knowledge of fiction and non-fiction writers alike. A soft spot for history emerged, ancient and modern, which again provided a fertile soil for a multitude of questions and four in particular: why was this creature that called itself Homo sapiens so aggressive and intolerant, why had his omniscient and merciful god equipped his creation with a brain that seemed unable to distinguish between development and progress, why had the same god such an obvious penchant for disparity and why was this most advanced of all animals incapable of learning from history?

Fritz and Franziska Schroeder were Catholics and went to Mass as often as time allowed. Confessions were not high on the agenda – neither could see that they had much to confess – but were performed with sufficient frequency to keep the local priest as well as their acquaintance the cardinal reasonably satisfied. Both were beneficiaries of the Schroeders’ generosity and the mutually adequate arrangement was thus never in danger of eroding. It was also no secret in town that the Schroeders supported a number of good causes, enhancing their status as valuable citizens.

Oh yes, Gerhart thought, what is the point of being generous if nobody knows about it? They really are true pillars of society; buying influence and respect. He sometimes wondered what would be left of either if the business went bust.

Luckily – as Gerhart saw it – his parents’ religious instincts flourished on the surface but that was as deep as they went. No ceremony involving divinity took place at home, but for the sake of appearance the boys were dragged along until in their mid-teens, and then their lack of enthusiasm was explained away by reference to hormones and a few psychological golden nuggets that their mother had come across in a medical journal.

The time came for the boys to consider their future.

Oswald was clear. He wanted to make buckets of money, as he expressed it, and this aspiration was met with acclamation by the parents. His father suggested business administration with a dash of a course in economics added to the education; then join the family firm and together they would make untold millions. The Ludwigs-Maximilians-University was among the best in the country and Oswald didn’t even have to leave home. Could it get any better?

Oswald thought so. He had long dreamed of his own little apartment, preferably in Glockenbach; ideal for a hardworking student and perfect for a taste of a social life that excluded piety, genuine or not, and included unlimited access to girls, alcohol and any other goodies provided by the free market forces.

This didn’t go down too well with either parent, but since university was still two years away for Oswald they consented, hoping to make him change his mind when the time came. He knew what they were thinking, but he also knew that – as always – he would get what he wanted.

Gerhart’s decision was imminent. He had just finished gymnasium with Abitur, which meant that he would have no problem getting into the LMU.

His wish was to read history, and one Saturday afternoon he expressed so.

The silence was as total as the one experienced seconds before an earthquake. Then his father turned purple and the eruption followed.

History? Was he out of his stupid little mind?

The séance lasted for several minutes.

Eventually, Fritz Schroeder calmed down, to some extent, and made it clear that no way was he going to assist financially, morally or in any other conceivable way someone who opted for an education as useless as that. Who ever read history? Historians maybe, but nobody else. Was there any money in it? Hah – impossible! They simply wrote for each other. And – here a fist circled above Fritz Schroeder’s head – whoever bothered learning anything from history? Not once – never in the long history of the world – had a single soul on this planet, past, present and future, ever picked up something worthwhile from history. Nobody was constructed that way. Men with an intellect above sea level made history – they didn’t waste their time reading or writing about it. Had Gerhart been brain-dead enough to mutter the word professorship? Was it really his aspiration to waste away his life in a stuffy little office at some university and give lowly paid nonsensical lectures to a bunch of dipsticks that were as disorientated as their professor? Unbelievable!

So – what alternatives had Gerhart got? Few, if any, to be frank. It was unlikely that he would progress sufficiently to join the family business – or even if he did he wouldn’t be welcome – so why not try to concentrate on something within his limitations, like law? A lot of dumb people became lawyers and there was evidently money in the profession for those who used their passable imitation of a brain and didn’t suffer from scruples such as inflated ideas about justice, impartiality, rectitude or any other associated misconceptions. What mattered in the legal universe was not what was right but who was right – it was all a question of picking well-off clients – and this ought to be common sense to anybody who didn’t need a lobotomy.

Become a lawyer, Fritz Schroeder commanded, and Gerhart could keep his room until he graduated.

And so Gerhart began reading law at the LMU.

*

His years at the university were unremarkable. He studied diligently, passed his exams effortlessly and took a certain liking to international law. His social life was limited; he went to the odd get-together and once in a while to the debate forums but he seldom participated. Exceptions were made when something touched historical aspects; brief inputs, mainly in the form of carefully phrased questions, and he enjoyed the silence indicating the appreciation of one who knew his subject.

Slowly, over time, his stammering improved but it was still present when his all too familiar shyness took over, like when talking to a girl or when he suspected that somebody made fun of him.

He wondered, from time to time, what it would be like to have an intimate relationship with a girl.

*

Time had come for Gerhart to go for his Second State Exam, without which he would not be allowed to practice.

He had done the grades; civil court, criminal court, administrative court and finally nine months with a law firm called Brehm & Hosser.

It was Gerhart’s professor in International Law, Dr Friedrich Hartmann, who had recommended him to the professor’s old friend, Otto Brehm. Dr Hartmann had taken a liking to his gifted but reticent student and Gerhart had been touched; he couldn’t remember the last time somebody had done something for him.

The two senior partners, Otto Brehm and Hans Hosser, had not been slow to discover that young Gerhart Schroeder was an exceptionally diligent, hardworking and conscientious asset and a fortnight before his nine months internship was over, they asked if he would care to join them permanently.

Gerhart was taken aback; the offer had come out of the blue and he’d blushed and twisted and searched for words. Otto Brehm, a kindly and patient man in his late fifties, recognized the symptoms and advised his young protégée to take his time.

Brehm’s attitude assisted Gerhart in getting his voice back and he replied that he was grateful and would be honoured to accept. One thing, though, if he dared be so bold…he didn’t really want to do criminal and divorce cases. Mr Brehm, with a tiny but friendly smile on his face, asked why. Gerhart explained that he did not believe he was very good with people and therefore could not handle such cases with any degree of confidence; it being criminals, presumed guilty or not, or bitter and irrational couples reaching the end of their marriage. It was just too…too personal to…here his voice drifted and his gaze left Mr Brehm’s face who was quick to consent; no problem, the firm had plenty of other work.

The salary offered enabled Gerhart to rent a small two-bedroom apartment in Trudering, a quiet residential area that he thought suited his temperament. Marienplatz was only a fifteen-minute train ride away, and from there the office was within walking distance.

He furnished the apartment modestly and hung up a few prints by artists he admired – Monet, Pissarro and Titian.

There were no family photos.

On the very first night he sat up for a long time, unable to sleep.

Free at last.

*

After a few months existing nine to ten hours in an office and the rest of the time in his apartment and nowhere else, Gerhart Schroeder decided that he simply had to do something about his life; he had no recognizable desire to end up a hermit.

But how?

He had no social skills; day-to-day chatter was alien to him and his shyness and acute anxiety kept him from approaching anybody, even those he knew from his days at the university. The fear of condescension, indifference or rejection was deep-rooted, steadily fastening its grip as he grew up, and no dialogue he had with himself, however logical the arguments, enabled him to get out of the dark cell created by profound insecurity.

Bite the bullet, he told himself; go out and see what happens.

Overcome or perish.

One late Saturday afternoon – two weeks after he’d made his decision – he put on a white shirt, a pair of dark grey trousers and a blue blazer, all recently acquired. He looked at himself in the mirror and concluded with a warped smile that he had achieved a casual appearance.

All he had to do now was to stroll into a bar or a beer hall – the problem was that he didn’t even have a rudimentary knowledge of what was on offer.

He’ heard some of his colleagues praise the Augustiner Keller – apparently, it was large and quaint and noisy and enjoyable.

Which, he concluded, meant that there were lots of people around – nobody would stare at him.

Nobody did.

The weather was agreeable, the garden itself enormous and the din from what he reckoned had to be a few thousand guests too much to bear.

He went inside.

The interior was appealing; old-fashioned but charming except for the heads of dead animals on the walls.

He spotted an empty table and sat down.

Now what?

He did not like beer and got himself a glass of white wine.

Two colleagues from the office came in with their wives. They gave a brief wave and continued into the garden.

No – they hurried into the garden.

Gerhart sipped his wine. His forehead was burning.

Was he really that repulsive?

He looked at the menu but wasn’t hungry.

Two hours later he was back in his apartment.

He undressed, showered and lay down on his bed with an unopened book on his chest.

Disappointment gnawed its way up and reached his eyes. Waves of sharp pains shot through his stomach and into his chest.

Rejection hurts.

Well, he thought, it was only his first attempt. He’d try again, next Saturday, and perhaps somewhere else – maybe a smaller and more intimate place.

The book remained unopened.

Four Saturdays later he walked into a small, modest-looking and quiet bar that someone at a bookshop had told him was the place where artists and intellectuals congregated.

He had another three disappointments behind him.

He was early. The place was almost empty.

He sat down at the bar. The