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Tried to get my mate to rewatch the movie with me last night, but she wasn't in the mood for sad she said. The book is largely bloodless, if the subject is a bit dark and sad. We watched Anthony's last Hurrah instead (a very fragmented side of NYC I was not that interested in).

Anyway ...

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It was in the Kronenhalle, on a Saturday evening, I remember it exactly. The place was full—everyone who was anybody in Zürich and up for a meal was there. Waitresses scurrying around, the food on the trolley steaming, and the rumble of traffic sounding in from the street. I was sitting under the Miró, all unsuspecting, eating my liver dumpling soup, when the sales representative of one of the big fuel companies came up to me, said hello, and sat down at my table, just like that. He was slightly drunk and in high spirits, ordered a marc and told me, laughing, that my former first lieutenant had changed his profession; that he had taken over a gas station in Graubünden, near Chur—a business the company had been intending to close down, because it had never brought in any profits. “At first I refused to believe him. The story seemed incongruous, silly, absurd. “The salesman insisted that what he was saying was true. He praised Matthäi for the way he was handling the job. The gas station was flourishing. Matthäi had many customers. Almost exclusively people he had had dealings with in the past, although in a different capacity. The news must have spread that ‘Nobody Home’ had been promoted to gas station attendant, so all the ‘old-timers’ were pulling up and zooming in on whatever wheels they had, from the most antediluvian jalopies to brand-new Mercedes. Matthäi’s gas station, he said, had become a mecca for the underworld of all eastern Switzerland. Sales were soaring. The company had just installed a second pump for premium gasoline. They had also offered to build him a modern house instead of the shack he was living in. He turned down the offer with thanks, refused to hire an assistant, too. Often there’d be long lines of cars and motorcycles, but everyone was patient. Apparently the honor of having a former first lieutenant of the cantonal police fill your tank was worth a lot.