ad nauseam—‘as light exceeds vision’, and realized perfectly clearly, that while those, including herself, who snuggled down in quiet little nests, in tiny oases of decency and consideration, continued to go in fear and trembling of events outside, the furious hordes of the anarchic unshaven would instinctively assume command: it was simply that she never rebelled against the ways of the world but accepted its incomprehensible laws, was grateful for its little joys, and therefore felt justified in believing that she could proceed on the assumption, she consoled herself, that fate would spare her and her mode of life. It would spare her and protect the miniature island of her existence; it would not tolerate the possibility that she — and here Mrs Plauf searched for the right words — she who had never desired anything but peace for herself and her fellow human beings, should fall prey to them. The charming delicate strains of the light operetta (Countess Maritsa …! she recognized with an immediate thrill of pleasure) swept through the room like a gentle spring breeze, and once she was away, rocking on ‘sweet waves of song’, the startling images of the emergency train with its freight of vulgar folk which had risen anew to terrify her no longer did so, for what she felt for them now was not so much fear as contempt — in fact, precisely what she had felt at the outset of her journey, when she had first glimpsed them in that filthy compartment. The two distinct elements of that unsavoury crowd (‘crude gregarious types scoffing salami’ / ‘silent murderers’) had become so confused in her mind that she felt free at last to look down at them from her eminence, to rise, as it were, above her sorry circumstances, just as the music that flooded from her set rose and covered the earth and all its terrors. It might well be, she speculated thus emboldened, splitting another sweet cherry between her teeth in front of the television, that for now the scum gathered out there in the darkness of night had the run of the place, but, in due course and proper manner, once the racket they made had finally become quite unbearable, they would scurry back where they came from, because, thought Mrs Plauf, that is where they belong, beyond the pale of our fair and ordered world, excluded from it for ever without remission. Until that day arrived, and proper justice was meted out, she went on ever more certain of her own opinions in the matter, let all hell break loose, she would ignore it: she had absolutely nothing to do with this mess, this inhuman tyranny, these people who were nothing but jailbait and, while things were as they were, the streets being occupied by such, she would not so much as put her foot outside the house, would refuse to have herself involved in any manner, would not hear another word about it until this disgraceful state of affairs came to an end, until the skies brightened and mutual understanding and sober restraint were once again the order of the day. Lulled and fortified by these thoughts, she watched the triumph of Count Tasilo and the Countess Maritsa as, after many trials and tribulations, they found each other at last, and was about to melt weepy-eyed in the overwhelming happiness of the introduction to the finale when, unexpectedly, she heard the buzzing of the intercom in the gateway. She clutched at her heart, shaking with terror (‘He has found me! He has followed me!’) then, assuming a mask of outrage (‘Really! How dare he!’), she glanced up at the clock on the wall and hastened to the gate. It couldn’t be either a neighbour or a friend, since, originally as a matter of breeding, and nowadays for lack of courage in tackling the town after seven o’clock at night, people did not call on each other, and so, having dismissed from her mind the likelihood that it might be the nightmarish figure in the broadcloth coat, she had little doubt who it actually would be. Ever since she had moved into this sublet of the Harrers, it had, unfortunately, become the practice of her son to turn up at least every third night, often in a wine-sodden state, either to plague her for hours with his mad obsessive talk about stars and planets, or, more frequently on recent occasions, tearfully, bearing flowers his disillusioned mother was convinced he had stolen ‘to recompense her for all the pain he had caused her by his disobedience’. If she had told him once, she had told him a thousand times, in fact every time she finally managed to get rid of him: he was not to come, he was not to bother her, he should leave her in peace, she didn’t want to see him, he shouldn’t so much as set a foot inside her flat, and yes, she really meant it, really didn’t want to see him, that twenty-seven miserable years spent in his company was quite enough, that not a day, not a minute, went by but she blushed in shame at having such a son. As she confessed to her sympathetic cronies, she had tried everything she could think of, and later announced that just because her son was incapable of becoming a decent human being she did not see why she should suffer for his behaviour. She had suffered with Valuska senior, her first husband, who had been completely ruined by alcohol, and she had suffered more than enough with her son — she stressed this time and again to all her acquaintances. They advised her — and she often followed their advice — that ‘until this mad son of hers gave up his bad habits she should, quite simply, refuse to let him in’, but not only was this hard ‘for a mother’s tender heart to bear’, she also had to admit that it was no real solution. After all, it was useless laying down the law while the will that might have enabled him to adopt a normal lifestyle was clearly weak or absent; it was pointless him calling, pointless for Valuska junior — still playing the vagrant — to look in on the third day and proclaim with a radiant expression on his face that ‘his will was now resolved’, not once but again and again. Resigning herself to the hopeless struggle, to the knowledge that nowadays, in his incurable simplicity, he wouldn’t even understand what his mother wanted of him, she invariably sent him packing and that is what she intended to do right now, though when the answer came over the phone, instead of the usual stuttering plea (‘It’s … it’s only me … mama …’), she heard the confidential murmur of a woman’s voice. ‘Who?’ asked Mrs Plauf again in her surprise, and for a second she held the receiver away from her ear. ‘Only me, Piri love! Mrs Eszter!’ ‘Mrs Eszter?! Here?! At this time?!’—she exclaimed, and started to fidget irresolutely with her gown. This woman was one of those people whom Mrs Plauf — and as far as she knew, everyone in town—‘kept at arm’s length’, indeed it was as if they were practically strangers, for apart from giving her the unavoidable but naturally cool nod in the street when they met, she had hardly exchanged a dozen words with her about the weather in the course of the whole year — in the circumstances, therefore, her visit was more than surprising. It wasn’t just Mrs Eszter’s ‘scandalous past, loose morals and currently confused family situation’ that made her the perennial topic of her friends’ conversation, but also the fact that in her colossal arrogance she refused to acknowledge either that, on the one hand, her rude, bumptious and pushy manner and ‘gaudy clothes, so befitting her tub-of-lard figure’ offended the more respectable families in the neighbourhood, or, on the other, that her impudent attempts to curry favour through displays of hypocrisy—‘enough to put a chameleon to shame’—excited both distaste and opposition. As if this were not enough, ever since a few months ago she had taken advantage of the lack of vigilance occasioned by the recent disorder and atmosphere of anxiety to get herself appointed — through the influence of her lover, the chief of police — as president of the women’s committee, she had become even more stuck up than before, her jowls wobbling with pride and triumphant glee, or, as a neighbour so neatly put it, ‘glowing with a nauseating smirk of what she considers charm’. On the pretext of a courtesy visit she had managed to worm her way into even those households that until recently were barred to her. It was plain enough that Mrs Eszter was about some such mischief right now, so she padded down towards the gate with the firm intention of giving her a severe lecture on her lack of manners (‘The creature clearly lacks even the most minimal awareness of when it is proper to call on people!’), and to express her general tendency to reticence the most direct way, by sending her packing. However, this wasn’t how things turned out.