My memory's like the filing system of some boozed-up cataloguer; it's full of gaps and improvisations, the drawers have fallen on the floor, the cards have been hastily swept together. Sometimes months go by with no filing activity at all, then the work turns feverish but sloppy. I have a filing cabinet full of memories, but where are the ones that can help me answer the questions that keep me awake these days? Who is the father of my son? With whom did my late beloved betray me? And when? And above all: why? How can it be that I never noticed a thing, that I never had the slightest suspicion.