We are being watched. A typical German street, in the country or a suburb. No one is about. Where are the people? Did that net curtain just move? This only happens in novels. That in itself is eerie. Nothing is stirring, even when someone observes us from the inside: suspiciously, captured or paralysed, full of pity or blood lust. The curtain hangs in folds like a bride’s train, like a veil, le voile.