He drank his coffee in big gulps and jumped up. ‘Well, Herr Gurdweill — you want to stay a little longer, don’t you?’

‘Why drag Herr Gurdweill away, Johann?’ said his mother. ‘You may have to leave now, but Herr Gurdweill can stay with us a little longer. We haven’t seen him for ages.’

But Gurdweill stood up to leave. He had seen in Johann’s eyes that he wanted him to leave with him.

There was no light on the stairs. With a candle, Vrubiczek led them to the head of the staircase and waited for them to descend the two floors. Then they groped their way down the third flight in the dark and went outside. The wind hit them in the face like a cold, wet cloth.

Johann seized Gurdweill by the arm. ‘I want to talk to you, Herr Gurdweill! I have to talk to you! I can’t talk to my father. It’s about Mitzi, my wife.’ His voice trembled slightly.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Gurdweill.

‘We can go and sit somewhere,’ suggested Johann, ‘only if you’re free, naturally, and if you really want to. I was very glad to find you there. I can’t talk to my father. We can go and sit in some café, or tavern, whichever you prefer, and talk with nobody to bother us.’

‘Of course I want to,’ said Gurdweill.

Gurdweill felt in advance something of the distaste and embarrassment usually felt by the sensitive and fastidious when obliged to listen to the secret troubles of others, especially those concerning the relations between man and wife, which were not meant for a third party’s ears. And despite his curiosity, he was for some reason afraid of hearing this confession.

‘What will you drink?’ asked Johann, as they sat down at a round table in a dimly lit and almost deserted little tavern on the corner of Wassergasse.

Gurdweill asked for a beer, and Johann ordered half a litre of wine for himself.

For a while Johann was silent. He sat opposite Gurdweill, staring at some point in the distance behind him. It was apparently hard for him to begin. Gurdweill, too, evaded his companion’s eyes, not wishing to embarrass him. ‘In these cases,’ it occurred briefly to Gurdweill, ‘it’s better not to look into a person’s eyes. Later on, if he regrets his frankness, he can always delude himself that the other person didn’t hear everything, that he didn’t hear the most important part.’

The waiter brought their order, and Johann took a big gulp of wine, as if to give himself courage.

‘I don’t know,’ he began in a whisper, ‘if they’re all the same, or if it’s only her … but I can’t take it … I won’t stand for it … Something terrible’s going to happen … I’m not responsible for my actions anymore.’

He breathed heavily.