Karl made up stories about himself all the time. One of them went like this: he was the son of a Russian mother and a German father. He had the broodiness of MaTb and the blood-pressure of Vater; but in neither language was he particularly adept, although the German influence on him was growing stronger, as evidenced by the seriousness of the books he borrowed from Metro Central or bought from the second-hand stores on Harbord. (Karl's sentences, like the previous one, were usually too long.)

Books had ruined him. Without them he had no subject to speak of. More and more, he met people who, though literate enough, took less and less enjoyment in the discursive literary wristburning he called conversation. They avoided him. Or so he thought.

His employer, an institution that few could distinguish from the federal government, remarked Karl's waning productivity and suggested, by way of a semi-sealed envelope, that he make an appointment with a therapist named Ida Kohl.

Ida saw him once a week for six, nearly seven, months. He wasn't a difficult client.

"So, you gave up the teaching assistant position and went to Montreal. Why was that?"
"I was looking for Lou Andreas-Salomé."
"And not Salome herself?"
"You think I have a castration complex?"
"Karl, this isn't analysis. -- Why else did you go there?"
"I was involved with someone. It was getting too intense. Another friend had been talking about going to McGill."
"Another woman friend?"
"Yes, someone I'd slept with from time to time."
"You were sleeping with two women? Did they know each other?"
"Since childhood."
"Did they know they were sharing you?"
"It wasn't like that, exactly. They sort of succeeded each other. Over and over again."
"How was it in Montreal?"
"Not good. I tried living with my uncle. I couldn't find a job. Karen decided to go to York instead. And I was missing Brenda like crazy."
"Brenda?"
"Brenda."
"Hm."

---