‘This view of life,’ intervened Dr Astel, ‘is a product of our generation. The soil in which it grew up is obvious. It is an utter negation of all civilised values. But man, in my opinion, is not an animal. Precisely those calculations that you, madam, relegate to weaklings and old men, are what distinguish human beings from the rest of the animal world. And don’t forget that all the aeroplanes and automobiles, et cetera, which are the pride of our generation, are based on calculations too!’

‘Enough arguments!’ said Lotte. ‘It’s time to go home. I’m tired.’

Dr Astel called the waiter and paid the bill. It was half past midnight when they left. The street lay bare in the night, spotted with light from the lamps. A sharp, cold wind blew between the walls, rattled the shop shutters, seeking escape like a trapped animal. From time to time it whipped a spray of rain like a wet broom across their faces. The women’s dresses billowed like sails. The gaslight flickered in its cages, dancing and dying down and flaring up again. The policemen were suddenly seen to be draped in orange rain capes, making them look a little less important. Solitary cars drove past, their mudguards glittering in the rain. Above their heads the lights of the advertisements went on and off, red and blue and purple, completely in vain.

The cutting wind sobered their fuddled minds a little and brought them back to reality. There was no hope of a tram at this hour. The group made haste to say their goodbyes. Thea seized Gurdweill by the hand, as if he were her property, and cried to Lotte, ‘You’ll come and visit me, won’t you, my dear, at home — from next Thursday on, Kleine Stadtgutgasse — but you know, of course! But I’m sure we’ll see each other before then in the café. If you’re free, I’d be delighted if you came to our wedding … next Thursday, at three o’clock in the afternoon, in Seitenstettengasse … Do come!’

Lotte did not reply. Thea and Gurdweill turned away in the direction of the Schottentor.

8

8

The next morning Gurdweill went to see Dr Kreindel. This time he was not kept waiting. Dr Kreindel greeted him with exaggerated joy, almost embracing him in his enthusiasm.

‘Ah, at long last! I was getting impatient. Please sit down, Herr … er, Goldwein.’

‘Gurdweill!’ Gurdweill corrected him.

‘Ah, forgive me, Herr … er, Gurdweill. You have a strange name, sir. A rare name … Melodious and rhythmical: Gurd-weill … even a little mystical. No need for any title or degree, anything of that kind would be completely superfluous: the name speaks for itself. A name of that kind is a guarantee of greatness, if I may say so, without a drop of flattery. Better than the most brilliant pseudonym … Have you written anything good lately, Herr Goldwein — oh, forgive me! — I mean, Herr G-Gurd-Gurdweill?’