He made himself another cup of coffee, ate a few slices of black bread and jam to quell the hunger pangs, took a couple of tablets to quell the heartburn. Then he went to have a piss. He felt furious with his body, always bothering him with its needs, and preventing him from following through a single thought or observation. He stood for a few moments without moving, his head to one side, his mouth half open, as though deep in thought, and his penis in his hand. Despite the pressure in his bladder he was unable to release a single drop. He resorted to his usual subterfuge, pulling the handle in the hope that the sound of rushing water would remind his sluggish organ of its duty. But it refused to be impressed by that old and well-worn stratagem. It seemed to be saying: It’s time you thought up a new game for me. Grudgingly it released a brief, thin trickle, as a special favor. As soon as the tank stopped, this pathetic trickle stopped too. His bladder remained urgently full. Fima shook the offending member gently, then more violently, but nothing happened. Finally he pulled the handle again, but the tank had not had time to fill, and instead of a roaring cascade it gave a sort of hollow, contemptuous grunt, as though it was mocking Fima in his misfortune. As though in its defiance it was showing solidarity with the telephone.

Nevertheless he persisted. He did not retreat. He would wage a war of attrition against this recalcitrant organ. We’ll see who cracks first. The limp, shellfish-like flesh between his fingers suddenly put him in mind of a lizard, some kind of grotesque creature that had emerged from the depths of the evolutionary process and now clung irritatingly to his body. In another century or two people would probably be able to replace this troublesome appendage with a neat mechanical device that would drain the body’s superfluous fluids at a touch. The whole absurd association between the processes of urination and copulation in a single organ struck him as a crude expression of vulgar adolescent humor, in poor taste: it would be no more distasteful if humans reproduced by spitting into each other’s mouths or by blowing their noses into each other’s ears.

Meanwhile the cistern had refilled. Fima pulled the handle again, and succeeded in releasing another intermittent jet, which once again ceased the moment the water stopped pouring. He was furious: to think of all the massive efforts he had invested over the past thirty years in gratifying every whim and appetite of this pampered, selfish, corrupt, insatiable reptile, which turned you into a mere vehicle created for the sole purpose of conveying it comfortably from female to female, and after all that it repaid you with such ingratitude.

As though addressing a naughty child, Fima said: