His memories of crossing borders so long ago were dim and fragmentary but the station had prospered since then. Now he stood at the Konstanz rail station, almost three decades since he had expatriated.
It had not even been a particularly satisfying refreshment, yet, his statement to the judge that had he known that the boy lacked promise he would never have taken him to bed did little to mitigate his sentence. His last tryst had been before he had been jailed-had been the reason he had been jailed in Rome. By the time he saw the Baltic Sea he suspected he’d have the arousal of an old wether. They all wore far too many clothes covering pale skin and he thought of them like snails, a supposed-delicacy only the French could conceive of, poor things that needed the Mediterranean sun, which would divest them of wool and bronze them into something worthy of the palate. He did not linger on the visage of any of the young men aboard the train cars or waste his imagination on a fleeting glimpse through the window working the fields or travelling the roads.
Plüschow’s libido diminished as he traveled into Switzerland and finally stepped foot onto German soil.
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