A gőzoszlop

In the restless autumn of 1925 a narrow bridge in Berlin becomes a stage for an odd monument: a wooden‑and‑glass “police column” fashioned to mimic the city’s traffic officers, its black‑lacquered cap and single glass eye flashing a relentless red light through the night. A wandering narrator and an American theatrical agent pause beneath it, amused by its absurdity and the way the gleaming eye seems to pierce the endless stream of cars. Their conversation turns from the bizarre design to the sudden disappearance of the column, replaced by a scorching, cage‑like iron globe that burns like a furnace on the asphalt.

The story uses this strange traffic sentinel as a window onto a metropolis that throbs with modern anxieties and fleeting memories. Through vivid, almost tactile descriptions of light, metal and the clamor of streets, the narrator reflects on how forgotten figures can reappear in our minds, sharpened into reliefs that refuse to fade. The narrative promises a deeper exploration of urban life, intrigue, and the uncanny ways a single object can illuminate both a city and its inhabitants.