Michael Rost glanced through the window at the fine threads of an autumn shower falling on the riverbank. ‘Hmm,’ he said, and left the room. It was about ten at night. A reddish-brown sky lay over the roofs; the pavement gleamed moistly. His tall body leaning forward with a slight stoop, he strolled at a leisurely pace along the gradually emptying streets, past the brightly lit display windows, past the prostitutes standing under the awnings. After a while he went into a café. He nodded briefly in the direction of a few acquaintances and sat down opposite the entrance at a small table whose occupants had just left. Emmy Vitler, her red hair cropped and her slim figure dressed in black, waved a slender, delicate hand, and gave him a friendly smile. Without waiting for an invitation she sat down next to him and lit a cigarette.

‘I was at the cinema. I left in the middle. A boring film.’

‘Did you go alone?’


‘Yes, I sometimes do. By the way, lately Igon has been paying attention to the pretty little Pole. You know her. A real charmer.’

With pouting lips she took little sips of the steaming coffee. Next, she took a gold compact out of her black handbag and powdered her face. From the whispering embers of the cigarette lying in her saucer, its tip stained red by her lipstick, a reddish-blue spiral of smoke rose, giving off a pungent, perfumed smell.

‘And who is taking his place in the meantime?’ Rost smiled.

‘Impudence! But I’ll tell you anyway. I’m taking a short break to explore philosophical questions about the meaning of life ...’ And she laughed an arch little laugh.

‘Have you reached the right age? One usually begins such pursuits at the age of fifty and over. According to my estimation you have about twenty-five years to go.’

‘Plain women start at any age.’

‘Are you trying to fish for compliments? Do you really need them?’

‘All women do. Even the most beautiful. Without them she grows ugly.’

‘And the one who pays the most compliments wins the prize?’

‘Maybe.’

‘In that case ... in that case all is not lost for men suffering from all kinds of deformities.’

Emmy immediately imagined a horribly disfigured cripple crouching over her body. A wave of revulsion rose in her throat. ‘Please stop. You’re making me think the most loathsome thoughts.’