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S. F. |
A
young blond girl, S., fell in love with me. She had fled an
abusive father and lived with little money in squats with
her girlfriends and mixed with the immigrant population of
Vienna. We got along marvelously well. She found in me the
tenderness she had never had in her father. She posed for
me and helped me to improve my German.
At
night, I took photographs of people who flocked to the cafés
in the Turkish quarter and sold them for a modest sum to those
who wanted a photo souvenir or a snapshot to send to their
family back home. I also drew portraits on week ends and,
sometimes, after collecting a few old household appliances
that were still in working order, I'd pile them into my old
car and head for nearby Yugoslavia, then a haven of black
market capitalism, and turn a neat profit.
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