Don’t stop, she cried, or rather she thought. But Hans hesitated, as though he’d just remembered something. Something that removed him from the room, and, at the same time, allowed him to see it vividly. They were both there. He could see himself. She, too.
Lying across the bed, he on his side, legs hooked under hers, both were assailed by the same vision, the exact same one, without knowing it. They saw two L-shaped torsos submerged in water, as though they had discovered themselves fornicating with their own reflection, struggling to possess it and to be separate from it. As though, thrusting against each other, neither knew where one ended and the other began, and they were no longer sure if they were two or one. As though neither could decipher the other by contemplating him or her, by contemplating each other as they gave themselves to one another. When the frisson came and they cried out as one, the image disappeared. The water went still. The mirror dissolved. Their bodies grew cold.
After leaving the mansion for his daily coach ride, Rudi saw him, on the right-hand side of the pavement, a few yards from where King’s Parade meets Border Street, strolling along. He saw him strolling along in his rabble-rouser’s beret, his common frock coat, his sloppy cravat, walking with that irritatingly absent-minded yet insolent gait of his, partly nonchalant, partly self-conscious, much like his free-flowing hair, as though while behaving as he pleased he always knew he was being watched. Rudi saw him through the window, he felt his gorge rise and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself a little. He gave three short raps on the roof of the carriage, his body rocking with the rhythm of the braking vehicle, slid his buttocks along the length of velvet. He waited for the driver to open the coach door, gracefully thrust one hip forward and let his boot fall onto the folding steps. He descended them with a faint creak of patent leather, his bulky frame leaning back in order to compensate for the tilt of the carriage, and stepped onto the pavement without muddying his boots. He approached Hans from behind, marching in step with him for a few paces, took one long stride forward. He dug his pointed heel in the ground, steadied himself, and nimbly brought his ankles together. He stretched a gloved hand towards Hans, and prodded him on the shoulder. And when Hans wheeled round, without uttering a word, he gave him a resounding punch in the face.
Hans crumpled like a rag doll and lay sprawled over the pavement. He tried to get up. Rudi reached down, helped him to his feet and punched him again. Twice. Once with each fist. A fist for each cheek. Hans crashed to the ground once more. During this second fall, amid the shooting pain and the spray of blood from his face, he realised what was going on. As he lay on the ground he received six or seven swift, precise patent-leather kicks. He made no attempt to defend himself. It would have been futile in any case. Amid the hail of blows, he noticed Rudi wasn’t trying to break his bones — he was aiming at the soft parts, mainly his stomach, avoiding his ribs. The kicking was astonishingly forceful yet measured, as though he were drumming a signal. Hans’s response to the punishment was to try not to choke or to cry out. When the battering was over, besides a feeling of panic, a sour taste on his tongue and a ring of fire in his head, Hans experienced a humiliating pang of sympathy.
Somewhat agitated, Rudi examined his gloves to make sure they weren’t soiled. He congratulated himself on having avoided Hans’s nose and mouth — such blows turn the defeated opponent into a blatant victim, besides being unnecessarily messy. He steadied his hands, adjusted his sleeves so that they were even, raised his chin to its normal height. He realised he was missing his buckle hat, stooped to pick it up from the floor bending at the waist, blew on it gingerly. He placed it on his head, turned round, walked back to his carriage. He caught sight of a mounted policeman, waited for him to approach, signalled to his driver.
The Chief Superintendent looked at him with languid curiosity, as though the sight of Hans’s wounds had woken him from a nap. His jaw dropped and his lips formed into something resembling a smile. Before he began to speak, his teeth clacked, emitting a sound of toppling dominos. The policeman who had arrested Hans stood in the doorway gazing at the ceiling. On it he counted six cracks, four candle stubs and three spiders spinning.
You, here again? clacked the Chief Superintendent. That was quick, you like a bit of fun.
The Chief Superintendent questioned him for half-an-hour. Hans went from being addressed politely as “you” to being called “foreigner”. When he mentioned Rudi, Hans was told no charges would be pressed because he had been defending his honour. He, on the other hand, would remain in custody for a few hours in order to make a statement about the incident and about his relationship to the offended party. The offended party? Hans said in astonishment. The Chief Superintendent, realising he was refusing to collaborate, ordered the foreigner to be thrown into the cells for the night in order to help him to collect his thoughts.
The cell itself was innocuous — it was more ugly than intimidating. A simple square plunged into darkness. It was no filthier than the organ grinder’s den. It was, of course, cold. And above all damp, as if the walls had been smeared with a mixture of steam and urine. The pallet wasn’t the worst he’d slept on either, although to be on the safe side, Hans decided to remove the mattress. The jailer guarding his cell was given to belching and had a queer sense of humour. He didn’t seem concerned with the arrests or what went on in the police station. He only opened and closed the cell door. All the rest, he affirmed, was none of his business, nor did they pay him enough for him to worry about it. When Hans asked whether he might use the bucket as a seat, he replied shrugging his shoulders: Masturbate into it if you want. Then he added: That’s what most people use it for. Hans let go of the bucket instantaneously and crouched as best he could.
To begin with Hans was surprised that the jailer insisted on bringing him supper. He even found his cruel jokes amusing. (If a man’s to be condemned to death, he had said, it might as well be on a full stomach.) Hans wolfed down the salted bread, the slice of bacon and the sausage. Afterwards, he was surprised when the man diligently offered him a second loaf. He quickly understood the reason for all this generosity — the jailer had been ordered not to give him any water. Don’t take this personally, he said, and don’t complain, it could be worse. Did you really think we’d tie you up? Beat you? Hang you upside down by your feet? Don’t be a fool. We save our strength here. Go thirsty for a day. Or sign the declaration and leave.
At midnight a bailiff woke him up tapping on the bars with a truncheon. In between gulps of water, which he made a point of spilling on purpose, the bailiff tried to persuade Hans to sign a declaration admitting to provocation and disturbing the peace in exchange for his immediate release. Each time Hans refused, the bailiff turned to the jailer and exclaimed: “Will you listen to that?”; “Well I never!”; “What’s to be done?” To which the jailer replied: “They say he studied at Jena”; “A real scholar”, and other such remarks. If Hans invoked justice or demanded a lawyer, the bailiff would guffaw: “A lawyer!” and the jailer would add: “Whatever next!”