” he yelled, in Russian, Polish, God knows what; crawled his way face down onto the couch and threw forward one arm in the manner of a swimmer. His snore was heartfelt, rumbling, rich in bass; head, chest, buttocks rising up like a bellows with every slurp of cushion-thickened air.
“I will call the police,” she yelled, but wasn’t heeded. He snorted, shifted, and slept on.
5.
Anna Beer calmed herself. She was not, by nature, easily frightened. Just to see whether it worked, she picked up the phone on the little table in the hallway alcove. There was no signal, just the tinfoil rattle of the static, feigning interest in her lot.
Pensive, her hand still holding the receiver to her chin and ear, she stared back into the study, at the snoring, sprawling sleeper on the couch. Water might wake him, a glass poured over the face, or, better yet, a bucket. But water would not sober him: he would wake, grow violent; lash out at her with those enormous hands. Who was he? She replaced the receiver and had a look at the apartment door, wondering whether he had somehow forced his entry; found his key still stuck into the lock. Mechanically, considering its implications, she pulled it out and slipped it in one pocket. She left the hallway, went first into the kitchen, where she searched the drawer for the carving knife, then back to the living room, where she drew up a chair next to the sleeper and sat there with the blade across her skirt-clad thighs.
The clock struck one, a single bleating running solemnly through the flat. Outside, the rain had stopped. The yard was dark and quiet; cloud chasing cloud in the city’s ambient glow. As she sat there, waiting, there came through the ceiling the strains of a muted argument. It was the woman’s voice that carried, high-pitched and insistent, interrupted only by her cough. She kept repeating her phrases, “What a pig you are” and “It cannot be borne,” over and over, in a tear-choked falsetto that seemed to whistle through the building’s brick.
Within half an hour Anna could not listen to it any longer, stood up and shifted to another chair, closer to the bookshelf and the door, where the voice was less audible. The chair was large and cushioned, upholsteredin blood-red velour. She pulled up her feet, slipped out of her jacket, and hugged it like a blanket to her chest. But what if she should chance to fall asleep again? The man might wake first, might approach her: curled up, sleeping, one stockinged heel tucked under her rump. The thought unsettled her.
She picked up the knife, walked over to the sleeper, stared blankly at those giant hands. The palms were nearly square, the backs thick-veined and bony, the fingers broad and flattened at the tips. And everywhere there was a terrible angularity about the man, his giant back and yard-wide shoulders, the unbending stiffness of his neck. It was as though a too-modest wrap of skin had been stretched across an outsized frame of bones: he contrived to be both massive and at the same time very thin. He was not the sort of man she wanted creeping up on her.
Standing there, listening to his snore, the neighbour’s whine still seeping through the ceiling, she came to a decision; turned around at once, left the study, and locked the apartment door from the inside (it could not be opened without a key). Then she picked up a dining room chair and, wedging it under the handle, barricaded herself in the bedroom as best she could.
Anna Beer lit a cigarette, smoked about one-half of it, pacing the room with measured steps, then sat down on the dusty covers of her marital bed, underneath the picture of a pretty girl in a linen nightdress. Ever since leaving Vienna, she had got into the habit of sleeping no more than five or six hours a night, lying in the dark in a state of angry boredom, then waking the next morning feeling drained and restless, unrefreshed. But now she again fell asleep, almost at once, her breathing shallow and
“I will call the police,” she yelled, but wasn’t heeded. He snorted, shifted, and slept on.
5.
Anna Beer calmed herself. She was not, by nature, easily frightened. Just to see whether it worked, she picked up the phone on the little table in the hallway alcove. There was no signal, just the tinfoil rattle of the static, feigning interest in her lot.
Pensive, her hand still holding the receiver to her chin and ear, she stared back into the study, at the snoring, sprawling sleeper on the couch. Water might wake him, a glass poured over the face, or, better yet, a bucket. But water would not sober him: he would wake, grow violent; lash out at her with those enormous hands. Who was he? She replaced the receiver and had a look at the apartment door, wondering whether he had somehow forced his entry; found his key still stuck into the lock. Mechanically, considering its implications, she pulled it out and slipped it in one pocket. She left the hallway, went first into the kitchen, where she searched the drawer for the carving knife, then back to the living room, where she drew up a chair next to the sleeper and sat there with the blade across her skirt-clad thighs.
The clock struck one, a single bleating running solemnly through the flat. Outside, the rain had stopped. The yard was dark and quiet; cloud chasing cloud in the city’s ambient glow. As she sat there, waiting, there came through the ceiling the strains of a muted argument. It was the woman’s voice that carried, high-pitched and insistent, interrupted only by her cough. She kept repeating her phrases, “What a pig you are” and “It cannot be borne,” over and over, in a tear-choked falsetto that seemed to whistle through the building’s brick.
Within half an hour Anna could not listen to it any longer, stood up and shifted to another chair, closer to the bookshelf and the door, where the voice was less audible. The chair was large and cushioned, upholsteredin blood-red velour. She pulled up her feet, slipped out of her jacket, and hugged it like a blanket to her chest. But what if she should chance to fall asleep again? The man might wake first, might approach her: curled up, sleeping, one stockinged heel tucked under her rump. The thought unsettled her.
She picked up the knife, walked over to the sleeper, stared blankly at those giant hands. The palms were nearly square, the backs thick-veined and bony, the fingers broad and flattened at the tips. And everywhere there was a terrible angularity about the man, his giant back and yard-wide shoulders, the unbending stiffness of his neck. It was as though a too-modest wrap of skin had been stretched across an outsized frame of bones: he contrived to be both massive and at the same time very thin. He was not the sort of man she wanted creeping up on her.
Standing there, listening to his snore, the neighbour’s whine still seeping through the ceiling, she came to a decision; turned around at once, left the study, and locked the apartment door from the inside (it could not be opened without a key). Then she picked up a dining room chair and, wedging it under the handle, barricaded herself in the bedroom as best she could.
Anna Beer lit a cigarette, smoked about one-half of it, pacing the room with measured steps, then sat down on the dusty covers of her marital bed, underneath the picture of a pretty girl in a linen nightdress. Ever since leaving Vienna, she had got into the habit of sleeping no more than five or six hours a night, lying in the dark in a state of angry boredom, then waking the next morning feeling drained and restless, unrefreshed. But now she again fell asleep, almost at once, her breathing shallow and
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