In the end she said in her usual way: ‘Herr Gurdweill is mistaken … he’s imagining it! There are no bedbugs here … Ten years I’ve been living in this house, ten years, aie, aie, aie, and I haven’t seen the ghost of a bedbug! In other houses — you have no idea! Hundreds, thousands, pssss! You can’t shut an eye. The way they bite, it’s something shocking! Phoo! The dirty things! But my house is clean, thank God. Very clean, everybody knows!’

Gurdweill was beside himself. He thought of the previous night and its horrors, and gave the landlady an annihilating look. He rushed over to the couch and pulled the blanket off in a fury.

‘And what’s this? And this? And this?’ he screamed, pointing at the suspect spots on the sheet. ‘Is that what you call clean? You have to clean properly!’

The old woman approached, bent down, and studied the sheet.

‘Aie, aie, aie!’ she whispered, shaking her head. ‘That’ll be one of them fleas, Herr Gurdweill … Give the bedclothes a good shake; that’ll do the trick. The main thing is — no bedbugs! Bedbugs are something else, disgusting, pssss! But a flea isn’t so terrible. They have them in the best families! The cinema, that’s where you pick them up … The number of fleas in the cinema — pssss! Herr Gurdweill probably likes to go to the cinema and brought one back with him … It’s not so terrible! I like the cinema myself, aie, aie, aie! The things you can see there! Not long ago I saw —’

‘It’s got nothing to do with the cinema!’ said Gurdweill through clenched teeth, flushed with anger. ‘I tell you it’s not fleas. It’s bedbugs! Bedbugs! You have to clean right away!’

The old woman inclined her head and bent her ear with her hand. ‘I can’t hear too well, Herr Gurdweill, it’s old age that does it, aie, aie, aie!’

‘Bloody old bitch,’ hissed Gurdweill under his breath. And he yelled right into her ear: ‘Clean! Clean!’

The old woman recoiled. ‘You don’t have to yell! I can hear you all right. Of course we’ll clean! Don’t we clean every day? My house is always clean, thank God. Not like other houses …’

With a bony finger she scratched her scant grey hair, which was scraped back into a little bun, and added, ‘You can rest easy, Herr Gurdweill. Everything necessary will be done. I can’t abide dirt. You have no idea! My dear departed husband — the second one, that is; may he rest in peace — even used to scold me about it. I like everything around me to be clean as a whistle — you can see for yourself! And he would always say: “Why wear yourself out with unnecessary work? Enough!” Yes, those were his very words, aie, aie, aie! And how is your son, Herr Gurdweill? Will he be coming home soon?’