“Ah,” the man said, with a nod. “And I thought . . . you had health problems. I was going to recommend a good doctor . . . But you do accept sex, though?”

The young woman smiled. “Naturally! We’re not asexual, are we? Sex and marriage—that’s all very good and normal. It’s just . . . tying yourself to those creatures that are always yelling and running around and—”

“And pooping,” the man suggested. “They’re always pooping as well, aren’t they? And they can’t even wipe their own backsides at first.”

“Pooping!” the young woman agreed. “That’s it precisely! Spending the best years of your life serving the needs of undeveloped human juveniles . . . I hope you’re not going to lecture me on morals and try to persuade me to change my mind and have a huge brood of kiddies.”

“No, I’m not. I believe you. I’m quite certain you’ll remain childless to the end of your life.”

The boy and his mother walked past: the child was slightly calmer now or, more likely, he had simply resigned himself to the fact that the flight was going to happen. The mother was speaking to her son in a low voice—they heard something about a warm sea, a good hotel and bullfights.

“Oh God!” the young woman exclaimed. “They’re flying to Spain . . . It looks like we’re on the same flight. Can you imagine it, listening to that little tub of lard’s hysterical squealing for three hours?”

“Not three, I think,” said the man. “One hour and ten or fifteen minutes . . .”

A slightly scornful expression appeared on the young woman’s face. The man appeared perfectly capable and competent. But then how could he not know the most ordinary things . . . “The flight to Barcelona lasts three hours.”

“Three hours and twenty minutes. But suppose—”

“So where are you flying to?” asked the young woman, rapidly losing interest in him.

“Nowhere. I was seeing off a friend. Then I sat down to drink a mug of beer.”

The girl hesitated. “Tamara. My name’s Tamara.”

“I’m Anton.”

“You probably don’t have children, do you, Anton?” asked Tamara, still unwilling to abandon her favorite subject.

“Why do you think that? I have a daughter. Nadenka. The same age as that . . . tub of lard.”

“So you didn’t want to let your wife remain a free, healthy woman?” Tamara laughed. “What does she do?”

“My wife?”

“Well, not your daughter . . .”

“By training, she’s a doctor. But in herself . . . she’s an enchantress.”

“That’s just what I dislike so much about you men,” Tamara declared, getting up, “that vulgar affectation. ‘An enchantress’! And no doubt you’re quite happy for her to slave away at the cooker, wash the nappies, get no sleep for nights on end . . .”

“I am, although no one washes nappies anymore—disposables have been in fashion for a long time.”