At breakfast, Merkel watched Schiller awkwardly fold the newspaper. After hesitating, he finally said:
"Sir, would you like me to help?"
Schiller did not reply. He was trying his best to prop up the newspaper so he could read it while still holding his fork to eat, but he quickly discovered that this was quite difficult—far less convenient than looking at a phone. So he sighed and tossed the newspaper aside.
After once again lamenting the backwardness of twentieth-century technology, Schiller focused on the food on his plate.
Reheated toast with sausages, fried eggs, and stewed peas, along with a glass of hot milk at just the right temperature. He did not have to cook for himself or wash the dishes afterward. Once full and satisfied, Schiller leaned back in his chair and lamented the decadence of aristocratic life.
But Merkel, who was about to clear the dishes, froze again. He looked down at his watch once more and realized that Schiller had spent only twenty minutes on breakfast. It was not even seven o'clock yet.
There was not much left on the plate—only a slightly overbaked piece of bread crust and a little pea gravy. The knife had been carelessly tossed beside his hand, while the fork rested across the plate, and the glass of milk sat in front of it...
Merkel thought that Schiller might really be sick.
Never mind the utterly ritual-free, unstructured meal, or the irregular leftovers, or even the haphazardly placed knife and fork. That milk glass, positioned in the middle but not quite at the exact center, alone would have been enough to make the usual Schiller furious for an entire day.
If this had happened before, Merkel could only silently pray for the students attending Schiller's classes that day.
The overly normal dining