The bell rang - and the very same moment the glass and concrete structures of the wide school corridors were plunged into chaos. Pupils poured out of the classrooms, pushing each other toward the staircases. However, inside room 308, there was silence. A dark-haired man in his thirties was left to himself. He took a deep breath. Was Clarissa right when she said that he looked like Doctor Zhivago? (Why don't these 14-year-old girls show any respect these days?) - - No - that was just his moustache again... Other people had told him that he looked like Magnum, the RTL late-night private investigator! But at least there was one thing he had in common with Dr. Zhivago: Although he was a teacher and not a poet, Andreas had the distinct feeling that he wasn't in the right place.

He taught German and Art at a large Cologne comprehensive school - and this was not an easy job. People in these parts of the city had to work hard for their living - unless they were out of work, of course. Andreas believed that most of his pupils were not used to concentrated work on any specific project or task - and reading complete books was probably more than most of them could imagine... at least this was the impression he had got when he had tried to read Boell's Billiards at half-past Nine, one of his favourite novels, with them. His Art lessons were slightly more enjoyable for him, as he sometimes managed to communicate some of his enthusiasm to his older pupils by inviting them to his private studio and allowing them to see his own paintings. Yes, he had dreamed of being an artist - but after some rather frustrating attempts to launch his career he had studied art history instead (Maybe one of his problems was his rather strong admiration for Mondrian, whose later style he copied with great diligence!)

Andreas sighed. High time for a coffee. His next lesson would start in ten minutes' time - and it was the group he felt least comfortable with... analysing short stories with those 28 youngsters aged 13-15 would be really, really tough. Today they would read the shortest short story he knew (in his opinion, nothing else would do!). With thoughts like these he had managed to get down to the ground follor, enter the wing of the corridor labelled "administration", cross the staff common room, pou himself a coffee, spill some of it over his shirt while bumping into Mrs. Nagelschmidt-Boehlau ("Oh, I am so sorry." - "Don't worry about it; I should have seen that YOU are coming, Mr. Vaulenberg.") and finally take his seat.

Andreas Vaulenberg took another deep breath. But wait a minute. There was sthis strange letter he had got this morning - a letter from Ireland! Andreas thought of green landscapes, shamrocks, Guiness, St. Patrick's Day celebrations. He did not have the faintest idea about why he had got that letter. With some impatience, he ripped the envelope open. Brian O' Donnell - yes, he had met him - and not too long ago, too. Brian - that was a real artist with a personal vision and yet able to communicate something beyond the sphere of purely individual interest. Whether he was still alive? Why not? He had seen him just a few years ago. And actually he hoped that he might see him again. Andreas folded the letter with the distinct feeling that he had to embark on this journey to Achill Island - and that this journey would change his life completely.