It was almost midnight. It was a starless night. The man stood in the darkness of a narrow lane near the centre of a small town in a small country. He stood in the darkness and listened to the noise of two drunken men leaving the pub nearby, swearing, shouting obscenities, lighting cigarettes and urinating against the high wall on the other side of the lane. The man stood silent in the dark shadow of a garage door until the drunks were gone. Their voices disappeared and he felt the mountains on both sides of the narrow valley like a burden weighing on the town, pressing the people and the buildings to the ground. The man felt the heavy mass of the mountains through the dark and cold night. The black, colourless mountains weighed upon his soul.

It was spring, it was a cold spring but it was a night without the smell of spring and without the warm light of the stars. The man stood in the cold road, he waited until it was completely silent, and then he shouted a name towards the windows on the top of the wall. He shouted very softly, he waited, shouted a little louder. "Marco!" he repeated again and again. It was the name of his son. He looked through the darkness to the top of the wall. He could hardly recognise the small windows covered with grids, heavy, black, iron grids. He knew that behind one of the windows was his son, sleeping or lying awake on a small plank in a small cell. The man finally shouted very loudly, but he didn't get any answer. Far away he heard a car passing the main street, he heard the wind brushing the forests on the slopes of the mountains and he heard his own heart beating.

It had been about seven o'clock, when the telephone rang. It was one of those calls that changes your life suddenly. When you take the receiver in your hand, you know already that something is wrong. You know it even before you hear the voice on the other end of the line.

"Police." It was like a thriller. They had arrested Marco in the factory where he was doing his apprenticeship. Two policemen had travelled all the way from the town in the valley to the town on the lake where Marco lived. It had taken them about an hour by car. They had arrested him at noon in the workshop, later they had searched his studio. Then they had taken him back in the police car. Like a criminal, they had interrogated him for several hours and finally thrown him into a cell. They had treated him like a criminal, despite his age. Marco was sixteen years old.

"What is his offence?"

"He is the leader of a gang of sprayers. They have damaged property for about 70 000."

The father was shocked, as if in a dream.

Then he asked: "Did he admit anything?"

"Yes, Sir, he did."

"So let him go. You know what he has done. He is a child."

The policeman said that the investigating judge had decided to keep Marco in prison until the investigation was closed.

"When will it be over?"

"I don't know, Sir."

The father called a solicitor, but the man was just leaving for a trip to Italy. "When I am back, I will help you. Keep cool, man."

He said that the only thing he could do was to go to the prison, to call his son, to shout to him through the window that he shouldn't be afraid.

"I will be back Monday evening. Call my office on Tuesday." He hung up. It was Thursday evening, half past seven. Nothing was the same as it had been.

They had a project. They wanted to open a disco in the valley, in the old printing factory near the town that served as a warehouse for all kinds of rubbish, carpets and car wheels and old clothes and rusty army equipment. It was a run-down building with leaking roofs and cracked walls, grey like most buildings in the town and the villages along the river, grey like the constantly covered sky, grey like the dusty road and the dirty pubs, grey like life. But they were going to change it. The disco was called Backstage, and it was Roland's idea.

Oh, yes, there were discos in town. One was run by the Catholic church, one by the Protestants, with young vicars or priests in jeans, nice ladies behind the bar with deep feelings of social responsibility and good hearts and also the unavoidable melancholic social worker with long hair. Coca Cola, popcorn, chips, soft music, no joints. Smoking only in the toilettes.

Roland had been there just once to know that the young people of the valley needed something different. They needed colour, music, long nights, lights, discussions, noise, love, hope. Roland was older than the others, he was 21. He had a job at the filling station on the hill, filling fuel tanks, cleaning car-windows, pumping tires, selling motorway-stickers. He did it properly, early till late, six days a week, without speaking a lot. But while he was working, he was dreaming. He was dreaming of a new life. He would be the manager of a good place for young people. While he filled fuel tanks he heard the sounds, he saw the light effects, he saw the bodies of the girls and boys moving in the red and green and yellow light and dancing to the rhythms of the music. His dream had a name: Backstage. The disco would be his new life.

"Anything else, Sir?"

"No, thanks."

"Oil? Air?"

"It's OK."

"Oh, you haven't got the new motorway-sticker, Sir. Do you need one? It's January."

"You're right. Give me one."

He went to the station, came back with the sticker. "You are lucky, Sir. It's just the last one."

"Really? You are a good salesman, young man."

He smiled. His face was red, pimpled. "Should I remove the old one, Sir? And attach the new one?"

"Thanks. It's OK. I will do it at home. Aren't you a friend of Marco's?"

"Yes Sir, I am."

"What's your name."

"Roland."

He stood beside the car, watched the traffic on the main road until the way was clear. He waved, smiled again, a small, fat young man in a blue overall. He had sold him a sticker, the last one.

Finally the father heard the noise of keys, opening and closing heavy iron doors. A couple of years ago he had visited the big prison near the city in another part of the country and he remembered the same noise of keys and squeaking hinges, he remembered it also from the thrillers on television. It was exactly the same sound. But nothing is the same if your own son is involved, not a person you don't know or an actor in a movie. The steps came closer to the wall, then a small iron door opened and an officer in a blue uniform came out. At his belt hung a revolver and in one hand he carried a bunch of keys. He was a rather small man with a dark beard and dark eyes. He looked like the farmers in the valley. His face had the melancholic expression which is typical for them, poor people, for centuries oppressed by rich landlords and forever depressed by the mountains. He was certainly the descendant of farmers who, having found a job as policeman, did nothing but his duty, day and night. He introduced himself with a name which was very common in the valley.

"I heard you calling, Sir," said he through the darkness to the father who stood still in the shadow of the garage door.

"May I see my son?" asked the father with low voice.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I am not allowed to let anybody in."

"Why not? I'm the father. He is a child."

"The investigating judge has given the order. And it's also prohibited by law."

The cop stood now very close, a small but strong man, son of farmers, friendly and tough. The father saw the revolver hanging at his side, he could have reached it with a fast movement of his hand, he could have turned it towards the cop, reversing the situation in seconds.

"Marco is sleeping," said the policeman with his friendly voice. "It's better we let him sleep and dream. He had a rather hard day. And tomorrow the investigation will continue."

"Have you been interrogating him?" asked the father without taking his eyes from the revolver. Once he had been a sergeant in the army, an excellent shot with training in close combat. But he didn't move, he didn't free his son with the weapon of the cop. He was too reasonable and he was too much a coward. And this was no exercise and no movie.

They walked along the lane, passed the pub which was empty and dark. The officer guided him to a small building at a corner of the lane and showed him a wall which was covered with words in bold letters. It was a foul smelling public toilet and the wall was dirty. The cop showed him the word CREO and said: "This is your son. We have identified the word. The sprayers call it a tag. Its their fingerprint. There are dozens of tags of your son all over the town and also in other towns."

"And how the hell did you find out?"

The officer hesitated. Then he said: "We found clues in your son's studio. Drawings and photographs. And they have confessed."

"They? Who else?"

"There are four of them. Marco, Jan, Peter. All sons of well known families of the valley." He said it in a way to make clear, that he wasn't from a well known family. He was just a peasant and a policeman.

"Are they? And who is the fourth?"

"His name is Roland, poor boy."

"Poor boy? Why?"

"He is the only one over eighteen. That means, he will go before a regular criminal court. The others will be judged by the juvenile court."

When the father drove back through the valley, he saw the first light on the mountains. It was a grey light and the stars were blinking like candles swimming on the surface of a deep and dark ocean. When he passed the filling station on the hill, he remembered the fat young man in the blue overall who had sold him the sticker. The last one.

It was Friday the 13th, a bright day with a black date. The sky was clear and pale blue, the cool colour of spring. Warm red light was painting the mountains and on the highest peaks gleamed the last snow. It was a warm day in a cold time. The father was sitting at his desk, looking through the window to the most beautiful landscape in the world, but he didn't see it. He sat there for minutes or even hours without moving, thinking only of two phrases. I lift my eyes to the hills ­ from whence my help comes? It was the beginning of a psalm. He hadn't read the holy bible for decades and he never went to church. But on that morning he could hardly think anything other than the desperate words of the psalmist. And he didn't find an answer.

He had phoned dozens of people, friends, well-known lawyers, journalists and even a cousin who was a member of the high court. He had moved heaven and earth to get his son out of prison, but without success. Everybody told him that the only way was to speak to the investigating judge, but Mr. Weyrauch was not in the office. His secretary said that he had already left for the weekend without leaving an address.

"What kind of human being is a man who throws four children in jail and then leaves for vacation. And he is even paid with our tax money."

"I am sorry, Sir," said the secretary. "Dr Weyrauch is employed only part time. Call him Monday. I suppose he will be in his office."

"Nothing you can do," a friend told him, a highly qualified lawyer. "But they have to release Marco tomorrow because according to the law the investigation imprisonment can last only 48 hours."

"Is that true?"

"Yes, it is illegal, unless there are severe reasons to keep him longer."

"And who decides."

"The investigating judge only."

"And if he is not in his office?"

"You have to wait. No other choice."

It was about two in the afternoon when the phone rang.

"Who is speaking?"

"This is Jan, a friend of Marcos."

"Really? Where on earth are you? I thought you were in jail."

"I was there until noon. They released me after lunch."

"And Marco? Where is he?"

"He has to answer further questions, I think. But he is fine, I should tell you. I suppose they will release him soon. Perhaps this evening."

"Why did they let you out?"

"I have confessed and signed the protocol. They told me that Marco, Peter and Roland had already confessed everything. But they are keeping them in the clink for a bit longer."

"So they haven't yet confessed, I suppose. The cops have used the most stupid tricks to make you confess."

Jan was silent for a moment, perhaps he was shocked. But then he said in a low voice: "I'm afraid so, Sir."

Late in the afternoon the father drove to the police headquarters where he could speak to Marco for a few minutes. The other boys had already left. Mr Lutz, a young and very eager policeman, stood guard. He said that it was owing to him that they had finally arrested the sprayers who had done so much damage. He said he had already been working for several weeks on this case. "Day and night, Sir, you can imagine. Over a hundred pages of protocol. But now they have confessed. I am relieved." His eyes shone proudly.

Mr Lutz was from another part of the country and the father had the impression, that this success was very important to his career. It was difficult for a young policeman from outside to be accepted by the locals.

Marco was pale and silent. He said that they treated him very well and that he had everything he needed. A bed, good food, magazines and even a toothbrush. He said that he had confessed without any pressure because he wanted to leave the prison as soon as possible and go back to work.

"We will release you soon if you cooperate well," said Mr. Lutz.

"What does cooperate mean?" asked the father.

"That he tells us everything."

"Didn't he do that already?"

"Yes he did. But he has still to read and sign the protocol. After that, Mr Weyrauch will decide."

"But he is away this weekend, I have been told."

"Don't be afraid, Sir. Everything will be handled in the best possible way."

"So you know where he is?"

"Investigation is our job, Sir, not yours."

It was dark when he drove back. He stopped near the new carpet-factory, in front of the ugly modern building of concrete and bricks. Once there had been a historic industrial complex, very typical for the industrial architecture of the valley. But they had pulled it down. On the naked concrete wall was painted a big graffiti in fat colours, showing a boy with an aerosol can in one hand and a baseball cap. Below there were two tags: CREO and ZORRO. It was obviously the work of Marco and Jan.

One Saturday night they opened the disco Backstage in the old hand-printing factory. Nothing was as yet perfect, the music not loud enough because the amplifiers didn't have sufficient power, the light effects were only improvised, but Roland was happy. It was a start, it would grow, he saw a future, he would run his own business instead of cleaning car windows and filling tanks. It was about three o'clock in the morning when most of the people had gone. All the guys with their girls had left. It was a sudden silence after the heavy music, the noise of feet on the old wooden factory floor, the loud voices. Only Marco, Jan and Peter were still sitting at a table, emptying the last cans of coke and talking nonsense. They didn't have girls and now, after the long night passed dancing and enjoying themselves, a sudden sadness touched them.

After a moment of silence, one of them said: "Here we are. What's happening now? I'm not tired."

Another said: "Lets do something."

Roland said: "We should put the disco in order."

"Oh, that job can wait until tomorrow," said the fourth of them.

Then, Marco and Jan proposed to go to the railway station and paint graffiti. There was one already, a sentence very unattractively painted on the sandstone-wall of the main building. "Buy meatpie instead of tanks." It was a slogan against the army which maintained barracks for the tank troops on one of the alpine meadows in the valley.

Roland was against the graffiti. He finally agreed just to accompany them and watch.

They had two motorcycles and they drove them to the station, two on each, hoping that no police car was about. The sandstone-wall with the old graffiti was too visible to paint, so they went to the other side of the building and found two railway-cars, parked in the shade as if somebody had purposely left them exposed. Painting a car was the most thrilling work a graffiti artist could do. They took up the challenge, picked up their cans and shook them. Marco, Jan and Peter started spraying immediately, each of them at a different corner. The click-clack of the cans as they shook and the whisper of the spraying colour was the exiting sound of graffiti artists doing their silent and secret work. It was music to their ears. Marco watched them and finally he took a can himself and wrote a few words in clumsy letters. "Fuck the army," he wrote without thinking of anything. Perhaps it was the only sentence in English language that he knew. Later, during the interviews, he said that he hadn't had any political message in mind.

"Have you also written that stupid sentence on the sandstone-wall?" he was asked.

"No," he said and it was true. He wasn't against the army, and he would have liked to do his military service, but hadn't been accepted for medical reasons.

When the four graffiti artists saw the first light of dawn caressing the top of the mountains they stopped and drove back. They were in high spirits and started putting the disco in order.

During the afternoon Jan and Marco went back to the station and secretly took some Polaroid pictures of the neatly painted rusty railway-cars. They didn't notice that a railway worker watched them before walking away and called the police.

Saturday there was a short message in the local newspaper: "Gang of sprayers arrested." It was reported that one of them was still in custody and that the other three had been released. According to the newspaper the damage was estimated at about 70'000.

When the father walked through the town he had the impression that everybody was pointing their finger at him. Nobody knew that he was the father of one of the sprayers but he felt as guilty as if he had done the graffiti himself. He had found out Mr Weyrauch's private address. He lived on the main street just opposite his office in a government building. There was no name near the bell but the father rang and waited. He waited for a long time, he pushed the button again and again. There was no movement and no light. There was no light in the office the other side of the street. There was only the shadow of the evening slowly filling the valley and street and his heart.

He felt terrible. He had found out quite a lot about Mr Weyrauch, who was not only an investigating judge for the juvenile court but also a had a private solicitor's office. In this function he was member of the board of several companies with strange names and unknown activities, such as Aromex Ltd., Fininvest Ltd., Serena Ltd. One of these letter-box-companies was called Creative Partners Ltd. According to his research it was a company "to support creative enterprises". Perhaps this company would rather support exotic dancers in a red light bar than a team of graffiti artists, thought the father in his anger.

Finally he went to police headquarters. He had an appointment with Mr Lutz at five o'clock because the 48 hours of investigation internment were over. He asked the officer at the desk to call Mr Lutz. While the father waited the man told him that for more than one year he himself had suspected that Marco was one of the sprayers they searched for. He had seen the graffiti which Marco had sprayed in the disco Backstage, legally of course, and he had compared it's style with the illegal ones. He had become convinced that Marco was responsible for all this damage but he couldn't prove it. It was only by chance that Mr Lutz hat found the final clue. He had served at the desk the Sunday when the railway worker called.

You fucking asshole, thought the father, but he didn't say anything. After some time Mr Lutz and Marco arrived.

"Have you got your bag?" asked the father. "We are going home now."

"Just a moment," said Mr Lutz. "He cannot leave just now. We haven't yet got the okay from Mr Weyrauch."

"Mr Weyrauch is neither at home nor in his office," said the father. "And if you need his okay you know his weekend-address.You can give it to me immediately."

"Keep cool, Sir," said the policeman. "Mr Weyrauch will call Captain Koller within one hour. After his agreement Marco will be free."

"Who is Mr Koller? Call him."

"Captain Koller is our boss. He will be here when we release Marco. I suggest that you have a cup of coffee somewhere in town and come back after an hour."

Marco didn't say one word. He was pale. He smelled of sweat and smoke and cabbage, he hadn't changed his clothes since they had taken him in. He smelled of prison.

The father left. He went to Ruedi's cafe where the beautiful people of the town usually met. It was full of neatly dressed young women with their guys and lonely ladies enjoying Ruedi's excellent cappuccino, hot chocolate and homemade almond-cake. Ruedi's cappuccino was said to be the best in the valley, perhaps the best in the country or even the best in the world. It was certainly the best in the world, because for the patrons of Ruedi's cafe the world was as big as the valley. The city, 50 miles away on the other side of the lake, already belonged to another world. It was the outside world, good for work and holiday, but not for living. The small valley was a big enough a world for them to feel important.

He found a small round table in a dark corner where he sat and drank the best coffee in the world. But it was the worst of his life. He listened to two couples talking about their holiday plans. One of them intended to spend their holiday in the Caribbean. The problem was what to do during the day. He preferred sailing and she preferred bathing. "If you like sailing you can do it on our own lake," she said. "The wind is better and it's cheaper."

"And you can wet your backside in our own lake too," he said. "It's also cheaper and the water is not as salty as in the Caribbean's."

"But it's too cold here," she said. "And I like it hot." They laughed stupidly.

He listened to their smalltalk and finally he left without emptying his cup.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Ruedi following him to the exit.

"I'm not in the mood today," he said.

"Is something wrong with your son?" Ruedi asked.

"Why should something be wrong with my son? Did anybody tell anything?"

"Not precisely. But you know that here the walls are talking," said Ruedi with low voice.

"You mean some painted walls?"

"Exactly," said Ruedi. "Take it easy, man. We all did our thing when we were young, didn't we." He knocked him on the shoulder.

"Of course," said the father. An suddenly he remembered a night long ago, a very dark night when he had sprayed on a wall the sentence: "Stop the war in Vietnam." He had been a student at the university in the city and he had long forgotten the incicident.

They shook hands. Then he went back to police headquarters. Marco was waiting behind the desk. With him was a police officer with white hair, obviously the boss.

"Hallo," said the father smiling. "Are you ready, Marco?"

"Hallo," said the officer.

"Are you Mr Koller?" asked the father.

"I am Captain Koller," said the officer in sharp voice. "I am the chief of headquarters."

The father introduced himself and asked if he could leave now with his son.

"No," said Captain Koller. "He has to remain with us until Monday."

"But Mr Lutz said releasing Marco was only a formality."

"I am sorry, Sir. The investigating judge has decided that he has to remain in custody until Monday."

"Until Mr Weyrauch is back from his nice weekend?"

"This is not your problem, Sir. We have laws."

"I wonder which law allows you to keep a child in prison?"

"Who has broken law, Sir?"

"There are also laws of humanity and reason."

"I don't want to waste my time in useless discussion, Sir. This is not my business. Speak to Mr Weyrauch." He took handcuffs out of his pocket. They clicked.

"Come," said the Captain to Marco and pulled him to the exit.

"One hour ago Mr Lutz promised to release my son. You have cheated him and me. You have lied. What kind of people are you? What impression does this make on a young man? Marco is not a criminal, but you are going to make one out of him."

"I want to go home," Marco suddenly cried out and the tears ran down his cheeks.

"I cannot help you," said the father helplessly. "Keep calm my son. Do what they say and I will do what I can."

When they had left, the policeman behind the desk stood up and mumbled: "I am sorry, Sir, but..." The father turned and left.

On Sunday afternoon the mother returned home from a seminar which she had organised and for which she was responsible. During the last three days she had had hardly a minute's spare time to think of her son. She knew what had happened but she repressed every feeling. She couldn't interrupt the seminar and send the people home, they had paid for it and it was her job. And what sense would it have made? What could I do what my husband can't, she thought during the sleepless nights. Would I stand in front of the prison and cry until a crowd of people came together and helped me break into the prison and free my son? Or hunger-strike until all the tabloids of the country put the story on the front page?

When she was back home, she packed a bag with clothes, some chocolate and some toilet-articles and drove with the father to the police headquarters in town.

They were shown to a room where two officers and two men sat around a big table. It looked as if they had just finished a meeting. They stood up and introduced themselves as police officers Lutz and Captain Koller, responsible for the investigations. Lutz seemed to be slightly embarrassed. Koller shook her hand without looking her in the face. She had the impression that something was wrong.

"We had a short meeting with the fathers of Jan and Peter," explained Lutz.

"Why didn't you invite my husband?" she asked.

"We will arrange a meeting with all parents when the investigation is closed," Captain Koller told her flatly. "I am sorry madam." He turned to her husband. "I have to leave immediately. We have a lot do as you can imagine. Mr Lutz will be at your disposal."

He left with the two men, they shook hands and she noticed that they called each other by their first names. They all belong to the brotherhood, she thought. To the so called brotherhood belonged the members of certain families of the valley, the councillors, the members of parliament, the solicitors, the judges, the owners of the factories, the estate agents, the top-managers, the politicians, the army-officers, members of the two leading parties, members of the rotary or lions club and of the numerous associations, commissions and councils. They all formed a informal network which the rest of the country called the "brotherhood of the valley". Most of them were men, almost all of them belonged to the establishment families, they knew each other and called each other by their first names. They comprised the political and economic power of the valley.

"What the hell is going on here?" she asked. "Are they making Marco an example?"

"Please, be quiet," said the father and pointed. "The walls have ears. I suppose they have microphones behind the paper."

"The walls can hear every damned word I am saying and the cops can hear it too," she said angrily. "Where are they? What are they doing? What's going on?"

"Mr Lutz is getting Marco from the cell."

For a long time they sat in silence in the room and now she noticed that the decoration was very noble. Antique furniture, the silk wallpaper, the satin curtains. The table was enormous and heavy, with a top of slate. It was the type of table the valley had exported two centuries ago all over the world, but for half a century the slate-caves had been closed. Hundreds of slate-workers had died of silicosis or in accidents, but the owners of the caves got rich and their descendants still lived on those fortunes.

"It seems that they spend a nice bit of our tax-money for our friends and helpers," the father murmured.

Then Lutz opened the door and Marco came in. The mother embraced him and kissed him and cried.

"What's up?" he asked. "I am fine. I feel great. I have slept the whole day. If they would let me out this evening, I would do some nice graffiti in town."

"Don't be a fool," the father said.

She handed Marco the bag. "Please change your clothes. You smell bad, my son."

"Next time they won't catch me, I swear," he said. "I am learning a hell of a lot."

"Shut up!" the father cried.

"Can you have a shower where you are?" the mother asked, avoiding the words "prison" or "cell". "I have brought you everything you need. Soap, a fresh towel and a comb and brush."

"Of course," Marco said. "I can have almost everything. They get the food from a restaurant. Dessert and coffee and everything."

Then the father started swearing. "What fucking assholes are these cops?" He had discovered that Lutz had locked the door. He banged with his fist.

"Now we are all in prison," the mother said with a sudden smile. Finally the family is united in jail."

A key was turned.

As they were leaving, they saw Lutz accompanying Marco back to the prison building. They had to cross the road. Marco had to walk two steps in front of the policeman as if he was a violent criminal.

Monday was a wonderful, warm day. It was spring and in the meadows the first flowers were blooming. The sun was shining and the world was painted with the light colours of awakening nature. It was a fine day. They had left the valley and driven along the lake, crossed the city and now they were driving on the motorway through a green plain. Police officer Lutz drove, Captain Koller watched the traffic through the front window. Sometimes he lit a cigarette and smoked half of it, then threw the stub out of the window. They were driving to Guellen, a town in the great plain near the capital of the country, about 150 miles from the valley. In autumn the big hip-hop concert had taken place at Guellen. Marco remembered the happening. They had travelled there by train, hundreds of boys with baseball hats and jackets and heavy tennis-boots without laces. Each of them had carried a skateboard and a rucksack filled with spray-cans. When they moved, you could hear the characteristic click-clack of balls in the cans. It was music to the ears of the graffiti artists. After the concert, heavy techno-sound and dances and the ultimate lights-shows, the boys spread out. They painted the whole town of Guellen, the venerable sandstone-walls of the Middle Age buildings, the concrete of bridge-pillars and factories, the doors of garages and warehouses. Dozens of boys had participated in the spontaneous action but the police had caught only a few. Unfortunately on the police-photographs the experts had also recognised the sprayed tags of Marco and Jan. That was the reason for their trip to Guellen. They had to identify their tags. Captain Koller said, that it was useless to deny their participation. And he said also that even if hundreds of sprayers had helped to do the graffiti, those who were caught had to pay for the entire damage, not only their own small contribution. It was a shock for Marco and Jan, they couldn't believe it, but Captain Koller said that that was the law and it was no joke.

The identification of the tags took not more than a few minutes. Afterwards Marco and Jan were brought to the prison in Guellen which was in a castle on a hill in the centre of the town. They had to have dinner together with the prisoners, men of every age and background. Burglars, murderers, drug dealers, rapists. One of them asked if the management was going to open a kindergarten in the prison. They laughed. Another offered the two lads a can of beer. "Really nice guys there," would Marco remark later. They told them about their crimes.

"Did you ever hear about Harald Naegely, the famous sprayer?"

"No," said Marco.

"He was in jail for a year and a half. We washed dishes together in prison. And now he exhibits his works in the finest galleries and museums all over the world and makes good cash."

"Don't worry," said a man whose arms were covered with tattoos. "the soup is never eaten as hot as it is cooked. It's just fun for the fucking cops to make you worry. They can't do you a lot of harm, you are just children, aren't you."

While Marco and Jan had their lunch with criminals, Captain Koller and Lutz enjoyed a decent meal in one of the typical restaurants of Guellen at the expense of the citizens of the valley. After desert, coffee and cognac they fetched the two boys at the castle and drove home. At four o'clock in the afternoon Marco was finally released. The policemen drove him home. The sun was going down, the shadows were growing and a harsh wind was blowing through the valley.

They became experts in cleaning walls. The police had found more than 70 graffitis or tags in town and in other villages of the valley. They had contacted the owners of the buildings and suggested bringing charges against the four sprayers. Only a few of them had done it before because most of the damage has not been severe.

The parents of Jan, Marco and Peter held a meeting and decided to contact all private persons or companies involved and offer to clean or repaint the buildings if they would withdraw charges. Most of them agreed. Only Roland's parents didn't show up. Roland had only been charged by the railway company, he had participated just once. Peter's father said: "I will talk to the management of the railway. The railway is a good customer of my factory, we have contracts for several million a year. I know the responsible manager personally. Perhaps he will turn a blind eye to this."

Jan's father knew also quite a few of the people involved . After the meeting they had a glass of wine together and all left, quite relieved.

The cleaning went on rather well. Marco's mother turned out to be the most skillful cleaner. She developed techniques adapted to the material of the walls, she bought the brushes, the cleaning liquids, the chemical substances needed. They had to clean sandstone, bricks, concrete, iron and wood. At the end she joked that she could make a fortune running a wall-cleaning company, because demand was growing in the city . It was true. Most of the walls were cleaner after their treatment than before. And almost all of the owners withdrew their charges after a telephone call or a letter of apology. Only a very few didn't.

A elderly lady who lived alone in one of the poorer parts of the town said that she would never withdraw the charge because the lads had to be punished. It would educate them properly in a way she had educated her own children long ago. They had tagged only a window-shutter of her house. It looked like new after the cleaning, but she remained stubborn.

The management of a plastic-company behaved in the same way. The father got angry. He knew that it was exactly the same factory which some years ago had been charged for illegal night-shift-work. The law prohibited night-shifts for women without special permission and the company hadn't complied. There had been a big scandal because the women involved were all of foreign origin, didn't speak the language, didn't know the laws and so, couldn't defend themselves. Finally a secretary of the union had disclosed the facts to the press. But one of the local members of parliament had successfully lobbied the responsible departments of the national administration for industrial development and had reached an agreement. The company had gotten retroactive permission and was not prosecuted. The father had written an article about this scandal; a typical arrangement among the corrupt "brotherhood of the valley". He had written about it and now he was convinced that they had taken the occasion to hit back.

The last problem was Mr Shuler, one of the richest people in town and a lawyer himself. He lived with his family in a villa in the residential district. The property was surrounded by an old and crumbling wall. Marco had decorated it with a huge graffiti. Mr Shuler received Marco and his parents very cordially. He said that he hadn't seen the graffiti yet. They walked along the wall, it was a long walk because the property was an enormous park and Mr Shuler had taken the longer way as if he wished to demonstrate to them how big it was. They walked in silence for a while. Suddenly he asked Marco: "I was thinking about the reasons for this illegal painting. Can you explain it to me? What drives you to do it? Is it art or just the thrill of doing something illegally?"

Marco said, that the art of graffiti had its origins in New York City. It was the non-verbal communication of poor black boys who often were illiterate. Graffiti was their language, their passion, their way to express their needs and feelings. "It's their culture, it's street culture."

"Have you ever been in New York?"

"No," Marco said, slightly embarrassed. "But I will go there as soon as I have finished my apprenticeship."

"And how do you know about the so-called street culture?"

"I have read about it," Marco said. "I have a book with pictures."

"I have been in New York," said Mr Shuler in cool voice. He didn't say anything else, but they all understood that he meant: I have been in New York quite often, I know the world, not like you, who know it only from books and television.

They walked silently along the crumbling wall, the limestone was wet and covered with moss and on the top grass grew. Sometimes they could see the park, green and nice, the ground covered with spring-flowers and the trees in bloom. Finally they reached the graffiti which was big but not a masterpiece. It had obviously been painted in a hurry. Mr Shuler looked at it for a minute, than turned to Marco and said. "I don't like it. You have to remove it." Then he left.

Some weeks later, after cleaning this wall and many others, the father and the mother passed by occasionally. The old crumbling wall was freshly plastered. It was clean and grey and boring like all of the walls in town and the heads of some of it's inhabitants.

After a rainy and rather cool spring the weather suddenly became hot. The grey and dusty colour of the valley turned to the deep green of fast growing meadows. The forests on the slopes of the mountains shone in the afternoon sun like the blue velvet curtains of Snow-White's castle. Even the rocks and the glaciers on the top appeared less steep and threatening. Life went it's ordinary way.

One Saturday afternoon Jan, Marco and Peter met in a cafe in town. They sat on the line of metal chairs lined up along the street behind small round tables and talked about a trip to Paris during the holidays.

"What for?" asked Peter.

"Just to climb the Eiffel tower and to have a look at the graffiti. They're cool in Paris, I've been told," said Marco.

"And perhaps we can leave a tiny tag of ours somewhere," added Jan.

"I'm quitting", said Peter. "I'm fed up with all this trouble. And, by the way, there is still one big wall left to clean."

"Really?" noted Jan in a bored voice, though he knew it very well. They had to repaint the wall of the public swimming pool, a very long and high concrete face built for a prison rather than for a place of enjoyment. The administration knew that it was ugly and had given permission to repaint the graffiti. But painting by daylight was no fun at all for the graffiti artists. So they had delayed the job from week to week. They were waiting for the decision of the juvenile court. The punishment wouldn't be to hard, Jan said, because they had done their best to repair the damage.

"Perhaps they will send us for a week or two to help out a farmer on the alpine meadows during the harvest."

"I have been up there," said Marco. "It's not too bad. They have cheese, fresh milk, cream and always a bottle of brandy."

"I prefer climbing to the top of the Eiffel tower", said Jan.

"Perhaps they will even teach us yodelling and alpenhorn blowing up there," fancied Peter.

The sat outside the cafe, smoking and talking and drinking coke until the sun went down and the heavy shade of the mountains fell on the town and Snow-White's castle turned black and inaccessible.

There were two obituary notices in the local newspaper. One was from the family.

Our beloved son, brother and uncle Roland has left silently. We have lost a very kind person.

The other was singed "Staff of Backstage Disco" and the only text was Roland, we love you.

The father couldn't help but crying, when he saw it in the newspaper and again he remembered the psalmist and his words. I lift my eyes to the hills ­ from whence my help comes? It was a warm summer evening, warm twilight flowed down the slopes of the mountains but he shivered and the stream of warm air became icy and the light turned black and all colours died. It remained just one colour, the black colour of the mountains and made him sad and helpless and hopeless. Too late, he thought, and the only thing he could do was to recall for a few minutes the young and fat and red faced and pimpled man, filling the tank of his car and selling him the motorway sticker. The last one, he remembered. Roland had sold the last sticker while he was dreaming his last dream. The father cried silently and without any tears. The hills were sinking slowly into the night like ships of shadow, and he knew that there was no help.

A few days later Marco phoned. "What happened to Roland?" asked the mother.

"He killed himself," said Marco.

"Why?"

Marco remained silent. The mother heard voices whispering on the line, perhaps they told the story of a young man who had lost his last bit of hope and had left the valley and the world forever. She listened to the voices, but she didn't understand the words.

After a while Marco mumbled: "I don't know. Nowbody knows. He didn't say anything to anyone. It was over the weekend and he was alone."

"Did you go to the funeral?" asked the mother.

"Of course," said Marco, "my boss was very nice. I could take the day whole day off. But ..."

"What but?"

Marco hesitated. "We have decided to go to Paris, mum, Jan and me."

"What for?"

"You know, Roland had always dreamed of a trip to Paris. We will remember him. Perhaps we will put his tag somewhere."

For a moment the mother couldn't speak.

Then she asked: "And how was the funeral?"

"Oh, I am sorry. We said we'd meet at the cafe in town, Jan and I, but we missed each other and then it was too late. We thought it wouldn't be very polite to just drop in afterwards."

During the holidays they travelled to Paris. After the trip they painted the wall of the swimming pool, On a red background was written POOL with letters that were formed of faintly blue bubbles. On one side was painted a boy in a green baseball jacket, baseball shoes and a reddish face with a sad expression. But one of his hands was raised and two fingers formed the victory sign. On the biggest bubble was written: Dedicated to Roland.

I am very grateful to Jackie Baumberger for correcting the manuscript and encouraging my writing ventures in English.