Gurdweill lit another cigarette. ‘Zushka, the maid, was short, dark, and rather dumpy, and she was about twenty-five years old. She had glittering eyes, and sharp, shining little teeth like an animal’s. Her upper lip was rather short, and her teeth were always exposed, as in a smile. Despite her clumsy body she was light on her feet. Mother said that she was a hard worker too. Zushka knew a lot of Polish songs and she always sang when she was working. I loved to listen to her singing in her melodious voice: the folk songs full of feeling would waft down the long corridor from the kitchen, rather muffled when they reached my bedroom and moving me to tears. For a long time I didn’t know that it was Zushka singing: the voice seemed to be coming from very far away. I only found out later, quite by chance, that it was her, and it made no difference to me at all. All that mattered was the singing. To the maid herself I paid no attention. You might almost say that I didn’t know exactly what she looked like; to me she was a kind of abstract idea — a maidservant in the house, and that was all. After a few weeks I grew conscious of her presence. Suddenly she was there, and the house was full of Zushka. I don’t know if it was intentional or not: wherever I turned I encountered her. Wherever I happened to be, she had something urgent to do. When I was in my room, she would always appear with a duster or a broom. She couldn’t find any other time to clean the windows, dust the furniture, or make the bed. Not only that, but she always squeezed herself so close to me that I could almost feel the heat of her body and hear her breath. And at the same time she would look directly at me with a strange smile, as if I were something ridiculous, until I felt extremely uncomfortable and my heart pounded. I felt shy of her without knowing why, and the minute she left I would run straight to the mirror to see if I had a smudge on my nose or something of the kind. She behaved like this for several days, perhaps a week.