It was now well into the morning. A cloudy late-autumn morning. Gurdweill dragged himself wearily back into the Hauptallee, sat down for a while on last night’s bench, got up again, and went for a walk in Praterstrasse, stopping from time to time outside the windows of the shops that were already open, to look unseeingly at the goods on display — until nine o’clock came at last and he started walking home. To be on the safe side, he waited on the corner of the street until a quarter past nine, in order to avoid meeting his wife, and then he went up to his room. Thea was not there. It seemed to Gurdweill that he had not been there for many days. The room looked strange to him, alien. But he had no time to ponder this. He locked the door and threw himself on the pile of bedclothes on his couch, just as he was, fully dressed and shod. In a second he was asleep.

31

31

At half past two in the afternoon Gurdweill woke up with a headache and a foul, bitter taste in his mouth. The memory of the previous night immediately invaded his heart like an oppressive, shameful nightmare, thoroughly disagreeable down to its last ignominious detail. But there was no time to waste: he had to find lodging for the coming night.

He jumped out of bed, threw off his coat and jacket, and sat down to shave. As he did so, he wondered who to ask for a loan. Most of his friends were out of the question: some because he already owed them money, and some because they themselves were as broke as he was. He decided to try to talk to Frau Fischer. She would not turn him away empty-handed, even though he owed her a packet too.