He knew the ritual by heart. A patron would approach his little glass window, flustered or eager or bored. They would slide their ticket under the grille. Anselm would take it, punch it with a satisfying chunk , and slide it back. Then, he would nod toward the heavy red curtain that served as the inner door. “Eintusan gewährt,” he would murmur. Admission granted.
“Eintusan gewährt,” he said, but this time his voice cracked like a door finally opening. eintusan
The woman did not blink. “Is it? I can still hear the first line. ‘For you there’s rosemary and rue.’ I’ve been standing outside this theatre every night for fifty years, Anselm. Waiting for someone to tell me I’m allowed in.” He knew the ritual by heart
Anselm picked up the ticket. The date was indeed fifty years past. The price was a few Deutsche Marks. The seat: Center Orchestra, Row D, Seat 12. Anselm would take it, punch it with a