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At the start of the evening, Hans felt that he would prefer to be alone with the organ grinder to be able to talk to him peacefully as was their custom. And yet, as the hours went by, Hans noticed that Reichardt began swearing at him more affectionately, and Lamberg clapped him on the back more gently. Hans descended from proud aloofness to comic verbosity. He regaled them with tales of his travels, some unbelievable yet true, others plausible but invented. Then he described the inn, the way Frau Zeit filleted fish, Thomas’s little explosions and Lisa screaming his name. When Hans swayed from side to side trying to imitate Herr Zeit, for the first time Lamberg let out a long guffaw, then seemed amazed at himself and sucked his laugh up again like a noodle.

Amid the tobacco fumes and the heat from the stoves, a city councillor had made his way over to say good day to him. Hans found this doubly baffling — he had never seen the man before, and besides, it was evening. The councillor had planted his elbows on the bar and beamed at him with a friendliness that was tainted with something. Hans had tilted his head back to take some sips from his beer. But the councillor was still there, and he had not come over simply to wish him good day.

After a few polite phrases, abounding with the words “gnädiger Herr”, “esteemed visitor”, “honourable gentleman”, the councillor looked at him differently, as though focusing a lens, and Hans knew he was about to say what he had come to say. We’re delighted to welcome you here among us, the councillor began, Wandernburg is a city that appreciates tourists, for you are a tourist aren’t you? (More or less, replied Hans.) And, as I say, tourists are most welcome here, you’ll soon see how hospitable we Wandernburgers are (I’ve already noticed, Hans observed), marvellous, marvellous, yes, most welcome indeed, let me tell you. If you don’t mind me asking, are you from around here, from these parts? Are you planning to stay long? (I’m just passing through, Hans replied tersely, and, no, I’m not from these parts.) Aha. I see. (The councillor snapped his fingers to order two more beers. The waiter hurried over to serve them.) Well, my dear sir, it’s a pleasure to converse with a man of the world like you, we welcome visitors who are men of the world. Doubtless you’ll think me inquisitive, and if so I beg your pardon. I simply like to know what’s going on, you know, curiosity, my friend! Such an important quality! And so, forgive me, but when I came in I couldn’t help noticing your attire (my attire? Hans said, pretending to be surprised), yes, that’s right, your attire, and as I did so, I said to myself: Our visitor is undoubtedly a refined gentleman, and, as I said before, nothing makes us happier. And then I said to myself: But isn’t it a little daring? (A little daring? Hans said, realising the best way to respond to the man’s cross-examination was by repeating his questions with a quizzical look.) Daring, precisely, I see we understand one another! And so it occurred to me, and you will see I have your best interests at heart, to suggest that, as far as you are able and naturally without any obligation, you should abstain from offending the sensibilities of the authorities. (The councillor beamed at Hans again and gestured at his traditional German dress, frowned upon by the post-restoration regime.) I’m referring of course (he added hurriedly, in order not to give Hans time to echo his last words) to the use of certain garments, in particular your beret. (My beret? said Hans. The councillor frowned.) Yes, indeed, your beret. Of your own free will, I repeat (I see, said Hans, you’re too kind, my free will and I are most grateful for your advice), good, very good.

Before taking his leave, perhaps by way of compensating for the negative effect of his observations, or to carry on observing Hans, the councillor invited him to a reception that same evening organised by the city council to commemorate a local hero. All the best families in Wandernburg will be there, the councillor said, you know, cultured people such as journalists and merchants. And distinguished visitors, he added as though illuminated by a sudden inspiration. Hans thought the best way to avoid suspicion and to enjoy himself would be to go. He accepted, mimicking the councillor’s pompous manner. When he was alone, he walked out into the market square and glanced up at the clock on the Tower of the Wind. He calculated that he had just enough time to return to the inn, take a bath and change his clothes.

To his disappointment, Hans noticed nothing extraordinary during the soirée. Beyond the tedium, the evening was sadly uneventful. The inside of the town hall was like all other town halls — a mixture of grandeur and gypsum. The councillor had come over to greet him with a theatrical show of friendliness, and had introduced him to Mayor Ratztrinker. Excellency, he had declared, it is my pleasure to introduce you to … Mayor Ratztrinker, who had a beaky nose and a shiny little moustache, had shaken his hand without so much as looking at him, then moved on to greet someone else. Looking down from the chandeliers, the reception hall resembled a dance floor where curved topcoats mingled with pointed shoulder capes, flashes of coloured cravats, and lights reflecting faintly off polished shoes. Hans had changed out of his frock coat buttoned to the neck, his tight breeches, knotted scarf and beret, and was wearing a waistcoat and tails, which suited him well, although he detested them.

After making polite conversation yet speaking to no one, Hans had backed himself into a corner and was waiting for the most appropriate moment to leave. It was there he made the chance acquaintance of a gentleman with bushy moustaches and an amber pipe, who was on his way back from the bathroom. When two strangers remark on the tediousness of a party, they enjoy themselves together — something similar happened between Hans and Herr Gottlieb, who claimed he was exhausted even as he went on dipping his moustaches in glasses of wine, like some hairy bird drinking at the edge of a fountain. With no one more interesting to talk to, Hans gratefully accepted his company, and managed to be more or less witty. Herr Gottlieb was the widowed father of a well-to-do family, and, as he told Hans, he had been a tea importer and a textile merchant, businesses from which, at his age, he had now retired. His moustaches had quivered when he uttered the words at my age, and Hans had felt sympathy for him. The informal tone of their conversation seemed to amuse Herr Gottlieb. After three glasses of wine and as many jokes, he decided Hans was a strange but agreeable enough young fellow, and in a sudden burst of enthusiasm invited him to his house for tea the following afternoon. Hans said he would be delighted, and the two men parted clinking glasses. The light from the chandelier floated down and drowned in the wine.

When Hans turned round, he stepped on the councillor’s foot. Are you enjoying the evening, my good man? the councillor smiled, rubbing his shoe on his trouser leg like a heron.

The Gottlieb house was a few yards from the market square, on a corner of Stag Street. The entrance boasted two stout front doors. The wider one on the left had a bronze knocker in the shape of a roaring lion’s head, and opened onto a vaulted corridor leading to the coach house. The door on the right had a swallow-shaped knocker and provided access to the stairs and the courtyard. Hans tapped on the door with the swallow-shaped knocker. At first it seemed no one was going to let him in. As Hans clasped the swallow’s wings to knock a second time, he heard footsteps hurrying down the stairs. They drew nearer, slowing before they stopped on the other side of the door. Hans found himself staring at Bertold’s lip.