The Death of the Perfect Sentence

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I am aware that the following story contains departures from the historical truth. The spot where pickets were held from spring to autumn was not in fact visible from the café where the two men were sitting. The statue of Kalevipoeg referred to does not exist, nor did the sculptor who might have created it. And even if it had stood where I put it, I doubt that it could have been used in the way described. And so forth. Memory is unreliable. Time speeds up. Successive summers merge into one. I can only apologise.

As is written in the classics, any similarities with real events are coincidental, but all names have been left unchanged.

There are two of them, sitting on the café terrace, at the far end by the railing, from where there is a good view of the square, and one of them is holding a pair of binoculars for that very purpose. They could be brothers judging by the similarity of their faces, which are expressionless and unremarkable. On closer inspection, it’s difficult to say exactly what makes them seem alike. They are both wearing exactly the same type of suit: dark, poorly fitting, evidently standard issue. Totally unsuitable for today’s warm weather. And they both have the same kind of glass on the table in front of them, one-third full of mineral water.

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