Gurdweill pushed his way to the railing, where two policemen could be seen on the embankment below, standing guard over the drowned girl draped in black, and preventing the circle of curious onlookers from coming any closer. Despite the sudden weakness that had flooded him, Gurdweill went down to the embankment and pushed through the crowd until he was close to the dead girl. Underneath the black cloth, which was not big enough to cover her body, her auburn hair peeped, matted and lifeless, along with a bit of pale-blue forehead, which seemed as hard as granite; and on the other side, the toe of a brown shoe, wet and slimy, which had obviously been in the water for many days. The swelling under the cloth seemed big enough for two bodies, and the ground around it was soaked with water. Gurdweill could not tear his eyes away from the black-draped lump. His heart pounded violently.

In the meantime the hearse arrived and swept the onlookers aside. When they lifted the body, the head of the drowned girl was exposed for a moment. There was a scar on the left cheekbone, but the skin of the scar was no different in colour from the rest of the face. The nose seemed excessively long to Gurdweill. ‘There’s no need for the nose to be so long’ — the pointless thought flashed through his brain, when the wagon suddenly moved off and someone dug his elbow into his ribs, causing him to feel a short, dull pain. Gurdweill roused himself and remembered that he was in a hurry. He glanced once more at the wet ground in front of him and the smooth waters of the Danube reflecting the blue sky and scraps of white clouds, and began climbing the steps with the dispersing crowd. He suddenly felt very tired, as if after back-breaking physical labour.

‘It’s no good to be dead on a beautiful spring day like this, young sir, no good at all!’ suddenly exclaimed an old woman, stooped over and walking at his side. And she immediately added, as if it were a sure remedy against death: ‘And now I must hurry home to make dinner for my sons.’

But the beauty of the spring day had been spoiled for Gurdweill. With downcast eyes, his hands stuck in the pockets of his open coat, he walked gloomily along the asphalt pavement by the canal. Within a few minutes he reached the end of Rotenturmstrasse and turned into it. Outside the nearby booksellers, he came to a halt and, without interest, read the names of some of the new books in the window; then he glanced at his watch, saw that it was a quarter past ten, and resolutely entered the shop.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked a red-headed young man with black horn-rimmed spectacles.

Gurdweill asked to see Dr Kreindel.

The young man disappeared into the passage opposite the door and immediately returned.