Gurdweill flung the remnants of the cigar onto the floor in disgust, put a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter, and began typing with a furious clatter that silenced Dr Kreindel, who smiled smugly to himself. It was nearly midday, and the wall opposite was completely illuminated by the sun, which had already covered half the courtyard in its orange glow. ‘If only it were now!’ The thought snaked through the lines of the letter covering the paper in the typewriter. ‘Come what may, but now, right now! In the middle of a day like this. Another month — I can’t stand it …’ He heard Dr Kreindel going into the shop and felt as if a current of fresh air had entered the room. If he had to wait another month — he continued the thread of his thought — the first, strong taste of happiness would be lost. Little by little he would get used to the certainty, and in the end he might even go to the other extreme and regret the loss of his job. He removed the completed letter and glanced at his watch. It was time to go to lunch. And the ten schillings? No, he had better forget about it. He couldn’t face the thought of asking Dr Kreindel again. As he was about to leave, Dr Kreindel came into the room.

‘Ah, you asked me for ten schillings, didn’t you? Here you are!’ And he handed him the banknote. ‘Bon appétit, my dear friend!’

23

23

When Gurdweill returned from work that evening, he did not find his wife at home. She came and went as the fancy took her: sometimes she didn’t come home until after midnight. Gurdweill began lighting the stove and, as always when he was alone in the house, he soon succeeded. The stove was as capricious as a hysterical woman: sometimes it obstinately refused to burn and nothing helped, and sometimes it responded in a moment — one match was enough. Gurdweill made himself black coffee, a commodity of which they never ran short, and ate a slice of the delicious fresh bread that he had brought with him from the shop. After this meal he took his copybook from the suitcase where he kept his manuscripts hidden from Thea, and sat down to continue the story he had already begun, but on no account could he concentrate. His feelings were in turmoil. If only Thea would come home early today, so that he could unburden himself of the news of his dismissal! He could already imagine the scene and hear his wife’s abuse. Not only that, but he could also feel the guilt that he would no doubt feel later towards his furious wife. Two cigarettes, one after the other, did nothing to help him to concentrate his thoughts. Full of rage against some unknown person, he locked his copybook away, put on his coat, and went out.