Hertrig lived alone with his mother, in a large mansion that
has been their family's property for generations.  Hertrig's
grandfather died in the first world war.  His father died in
the second.  Hertrig was determined to be killed in the
next.  Meanwhile, though - he lived alone with his mother.
The great mansion was a terrible place to be alone in.  It
had so many cold corridors and so much gray tapestry that
during the first two years after his father's death Hertrig
and his mother lived in the town because she couldn't bear
being in the mansion.  More than once in his childhood
Hertrig got lost in the mansion.
Hertrig used to switch bedrooms almost every night, there
were just so many of them.  When he was 13, though, he found
the room he'd never want to move out off.  It was a big room
and a pretty one, but there were many like that in the
mansion.  What made it special was the balcony.
The room was on the second floor, but since the mansion was
built on a slope, the balcony was in fact hardly two feet
above the ground.  Hertrig used to place one hand on the
carved stone railing, and gently hop over the edge.  There
is apparently something very appealing in the carelessness
of hopping off a balcony.

Every year, on the second Friday of April, Hertrig's mother
would hold a party in the great hall of the third floor.
Nobody really remembered what the occasion was, but it
didn't seem to bother them much, and so the custom went on.
Hertrig didn't like those parties.  As if it was not enough
that they bored him to death - old people with cocktail
drinks walking around the hall and chatting about the
economy and the arts - but his mother made him wear his
suit, even when he assured her he will not go anywhere near
the hall ("just so you seem presentable, in case you run
into some of the guests").  That actually never happened,
as Hertrig stirred well clear of the party, at least until
April '57:
Hertrig was 19, alone at home, on a Friday night, in a
tuxedo.  In the last few years, Hertrig was particularly
depressed on those party nights.  They seemed to symbolize
for him how much he didn't fit into the rest of the world.
That night he was sitting in a dark room in the East wing,
staring at the row of lighted windows in the South wing.  It
was then that he saw her - a young girl, his age, gazing
towards the horizon, or perhaps the dim lights of the nearby
village.  She must have been just as lonely as him, having
had her parents drag her over...  and she was beautiful.
He entered the party hall.  Memories from years ago flushed
back - nothing has changed there, there was just more white
hair.  He wandered around slowly, still not sure what it is
he should do, trying to catch a glimpse of her through every
window he passed by.  Finally he grabbed two drinks from the
cocktail bar and stepped out to the balcony.  As she turned
around to look at him he knew, that he should extend her a
compliment.  But it couldn't be some common one like what a
beautiful dress or what a wonderful necklace.  It had to be
original so that she knew he meant it.
"That's a lovely watch you have on there."  He commented,
intentionally skipping the introduction.
"Thank you."  She replied  "It's a real Japanese imitation
of a real one."  He handed her a drink.
"It looks like an original."
"Yes, there's no telling.  It works just as well, too."
"Really?"  He asked, in a voice of mocking astonishment.
"Does it also cost the same?"
"Of course not.  Everything we can make the Japanese can
make cheaply."
"Then why, I wonder, do people keep buying originals?"  He
leaned his back against the railing, and looked up at the
sky.
"Well," She said, imitating to the best of her ability her
economy tutor, "it is a matter of fashion."
"But we have already established that the imitation looks
just as lovely."  He insisted.
"It isn't just a matter of who wears the prettiest watch,
these people have an urge to show each other how rich they
are."
"So they buy expensive watches... BECAUSE they are
expensive?"  He asked.
"Precisely!"  She jumped up and let out a burst of
laughter.
"You do realize, that if the Japanese sold the imitation
watches for extraordinarily high prices, they could wipe out
the competition?"  He straightened up, and now they were
standing tall in front of each other.  Having finished his
drink he placed it on the railing.
"That's a marvelous idea.  Amazing that no one has yet
thought of it.  We should form a company that would buy
cheap Japanese imitations, and sell expensive Japanese
imitations!  We'd make a fortune!"
Hertrig was about to reply, when he heard the nearing
footsteps of Donald Hughes,  one of his mother's friends
whom he remembered from previous parties.  Donald has learnt
from experience that it is best to make oneself well heard
when one is approaching young couples at night.
"I see you two have met."  Said Donald.  Hertrig felt an
introduction coming on, and he didn't like it.  He didn't
want to spoil such a perfect meeting with something as
meaningless and bourgeois as a formal introduction.  He
enjoyed better the thought that she would have to find out
who he was from Donald.
"Yes, we have, but I am afraid I must be going."  He said.
He placed his hand on her neck, and when he knew that she
would not resist, he kissed her gently.  Not quite
remembering where he was, and thinking to impress her with a
stylish exit, he placed his right hand on the carved stone
railing and gently hopped over the edge.  He then fell
twenty five feet and crashed into an Oldsmobile, dying
immediately.
Just as well, there never was a WWIII anyway.