George Lukacs' apartment. Researchers, brows furrowed, pore over cassette interviews, share the space with the ghost of the archive. Looking for fresh clues. They have the fever. Coffee is made in the kitchen. I stand over the man's desk, The Thinker stares at the floor, a broken marble tablet puzzle hangs from three brass hooks near the entrance. The smell of books. Caricatures, the nose always oversized, why not the brain? Rilke, Mann, Hauptmann, Nietzsche. Shelves filled with intelligence, the past still speaks with the bookmark of a fruitful output. A balcony view to liberty and the river cruise ships. Germans and Swedes disembarking, not realizing the world was organized there: correctly, politically, impartially?