She immediately controlled herself and continued, more calmly, ‘Let’s go. I always dress quickly. Half an hour at the most.’ And she opened the door with a hard little laugh, which for some reason tore at Gurdweill’s heart like a cry of pain.

In the Café Herrenhof they found Ulrich sitting with Dr Astel and his friend from Berlin, a shy man with a timid expression in his eyes, whose age and occupation were difficult to guess. When Dr Astel introduced him as Herr Bloch, the man smiled in embarrassment, as if being called Bloch and being there made him guilty of some kind of crime. After the introduction he remained standing, making vague, unfinished gestures as if to indicate that he would be happy to give up his seat to Fräulein Lotte. But she had taken Ulrich’s seat. When everyone was safely seated he dropped into his chair with all the relief of a man who has finally completed some arduous task.

Lotte, who was sitting diagonally opposite him, enquired: ‘Herr Bloch comes from Berlin, I understand?’

‘Yes,’ replied Bloch, blushing faintly, ‘that is to say, I live in Berlin.’

‘I was there once,’ said Lotte. ‘I didn’t like it. It’s like something written in copperplate, without any signs of individuality. Herr Bloch lives in Kurfürstendamm, I presume?’

‘No. I suppose I should have lived there … but I happen to live in Freiburger Strasse.’

‘Why on earth should you have lived in Kurfürstendamm?’ Dr Astel laughed.

‘I don’t know,’ said Bloch in confusion, ‘I just feel I should … Presumably because I don’t like it in the least, and since one is usually obliged to live under conditions that are the opposite of one’s true inclinations …’

‘Not everyone!’ pronounced Dr Astel.

‘And how do you like Vienna?’ enquired Lotte. ‘First impressions are always interesting.’

‘A city with a heart, in my opinion. One could grow fond of such a city, I imagine. But I can’t say anything definite yet. I’ve only been here for three days.’

For a while they spoke of different cities, and then the conversation turned to the German nation. Gurdweill took no part. The café was full of holiday visitors, unfamiliar faces never to be seen here on ordinary weekdays. It was very hot and stuffy; the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. A place to be avoided by anyone susceptible to headaches. At the table to the right of them sat a corpulent man with a pale, plump face like a eunuch’s, blowing his cigar smoke right into Gurdweill’s face without taking any notice of the angry looks that the latter darted in his direction. In the end Gurdweill said to him: ‘Pardon me, sir, do you think you could blow your smoke in another direction and not straight into my face?’