It must be a dream from a complete different time, C. told himself, a completely different region, maybe a dream from around the town where I was born. . He had fallen asleep on his chair in the cafe on Frankfurter Allee, the right half of his face resting on the windowpane, fogged to the point of opacity by his fitful breath. — When you look out at the street, all’s right with the world, said Feuerbach, striking up his long-familiar recitative. And that’s all we should be doing, looking out, nothing but that, and not asking where the whole show’s headed. Just so you know!—C. followed his impulse to remain silent. — And the first lieutenant added: And where the show’s headed, that’s for us to know, and no one else. You don’t have to know, because you’re the one who keeps it running. .
C. looked out at the show, the usual picture: amid the fog of the exhaust fumes the automobile cohorts roared down the lanes and whirled their lights’ trailing reflexes through the blue-grey dusk, the big glass pane jittered, and the motors howled; and by degrees the vast multitude of these racing vehicles let fall in the city a mighty thunder which people had already ceased to hear, and the years of uninterrupted thunder were slowly demolishing the world. And when C. looked out the window long enough, everything seemed to stand still out- side, while the cafe interior fled nightwards in ever-greater surges of speed. .)
When he opened his eyes for the second time, his headache was gone. The scent of coffee came from Frau Falbe’s kitchen, across the hall and into the bedroom, both doors were ajar, he heard the clink of dishes and the clatter of silverware. W. had meant to sneak out down the hall, but it was impossible now that he’d smelt the coffee; perhaps the very smell had banished his headache. And he recalled a thought he’d sometimes had: Why shouldn’t he act the artist and embrace the advantages that entailed. . life was comfortless enough as it was, many writers he knew from the Scene scraped by with the bare minimum and still let no one spoil their fun. Soon enough he’d have to realize, yet again, that something in him was unsuited for this existence. . or he’d have it proven to him. So why should he sneak away from a table set for coffee just because of a harmless attack of impotence. . Frau Falbe was a woman of experience. — And she didn’t even mention the incident when at last, having taken a cold shower in the bathroom, he perched in his underwear on the edge of a chair in her kitchen attempting to dispatch the Turkish-style beverage (Frau Falbe had experience in these things as well) down his swollen gullet in the largest possible swigs. — He was sitting here in his underwear. . that meant the rest of his clothes were down in his room, where, back from the pub, he had first undressed before hitting on the idea of going upstairs and ringing the doorbell again. And now it occurred to him that his ringing had been prolonged, he’d had to turn on the stairwell light at least five times and ring unremittingly before there was any sign of life behind her door. And then he’d collapsed into bed next to her and at the first attempt to embrace her he’d fallen asleep. And he’d kept babbling uncontrollably about the gun, about Harry and Feuerbach, about the story he had to hear again. . He turned uneasy, nearly flinching: Had he really blurted out the name Feuerbach? He was sure he hadn’t talked; before Frau Falbe could even start in on the story he’d already been snoring. . if necessary the name Feuerbach could be explained as the preliminary stage of a snore.
Your eyes are blazing red, she said once, when he glanced up because she’d spoken. — She’d been saying that Harry had also been like that a lot when he got up. . she guessed he hadn’t heard that. But probably it’s getting on your nerves already, the way I’m always talking about him? — No, he said, go on talking. — He didn’t even notice any more that she steadfastly maintained the formal ‘you’, completely ignoring what had been going on between them for several nights now. . and in fact it wasn’t disagreeable, it simplified the situation for him when all he could think of was disappearing. — But last night you wanted to know exactly how it was when they came for Harry, she said. I’ll tell you sure enough. — You already told me, said W. — Yes. . I can see it’s time for you to go again. . W. thought he heard a touch of regret in her voice; she was drying the hair on the back of his head with a towel. I know, you have to go into town again. Just don’t get caught by that guy who’s looking for you. . you know. And don’t get caught by the longlegs who was here the other day!
W. ran down the stairs in his underwear; he found that he had left the key in the lock, fortunately on the outside. . but first he listened a minute for someone in the room. . and inside, from the door, he peered about for anything that might have changed. — All the while he had the feeling that Feuerbach would come in at any moment. .
In his room he sat in the red armchair and let time pass by. . he was actually rested and felt good, the second three or four hours of sleep up at his landlady’s had dispelled the paralytic after-effects of his bender. A newspaper lay on the desk, which he recalled buying two days ago; the day before yesterday exactly four weeks had passed since Feuerbach had vanished from the city! He didn’t know why he assumed Feuerbach’s absence would be limited to a month. . that was just how it usually was, and if someone wasn’t away for four weeks, he was away for three months; one could say those were the established timeframes for official business. And so it wasn’t unreasonable to think that for the past two days his boss had been waiting for him. — It was now twenty past four in the afternoon (judging by the alarm clock on the floor by the cot. . his watch was anything but reliable); even if he set out this moment, he’d never reach the cafe on Frankfurter Allee by five. Five p.m. was one of the times Feuerbach tended to set for their meet-ups. . another time was 7 p.m.; he could easily make it by then. There was no need to hurry; he could tidy up the desk first, where scribbled paper, illegibly scribbled paper, had proliferated once again. He folded up the papers one by one into the smallest possible packets and stuffed them into the crack between the seat and back of his red armchair.