In every tomb lives a story. Everywhere I go, for a moment or longer, I’m going to listen. Mostly to her who mourns. As a professional nomad, I can only tame my restlessness in cemeteries. From Zanzibar, at the grave of the Belgian consul who died of malaria in 1860. Or the Dutch consul who committed suicide out of boredom and the British consul who was shot dead during a drunken quarrel and Neil Brown “who played the trumpet and broadcasted jazz programs from Jeddah”, now side by side in a Christian cemetery in Saudi Arabia. To the Jewish cemetery of Marrakech where I heard echoes of Die Stimmen von Marrakesh, stories by Elias Canetti, in Waar je gevallen bent blijf je, stories by the Dutch writer Cees Nooteboom. In a monastery/mausoleum in the Middle Atlas in Morocco; the empty tomb of Jerusalem or the one of that other prophet in Medina; in the Jordan Valley at any tomb that is mentioned in all volumes of sacred law. In Greece, where I’ve been looking for the lost grave of the anatomist Andreas Vesalius. But the restlessness remains, even today, roaming the parks of the living and the dead in Scandinavia.