sun was coming up, he secured a postponement of the projected suicide. Badar reluctantly agreed to go on living for at least another month before making any final decision.
As he walked back home alone, Trelkovsky began to sing. He was exhausted, and slightly drunk, but in excellent humor. The almost ritual phrasing of the conversation had delighted him. It had all been so deliciously artificial! It was only reality that found him unprepared and defenseless.
The doors to the café across the street from his apartment were just being opened when he arrived. Trelkovsky went in to have some breakfast.
“Do you live across the street?” the waiter asked him.
Trelkovsky nodded. “But I haven’t been there very long.”
“You’re in the apartment of the girl who committed suicide?”
“Yes. Did you know her?”
“I sure did. She came in here every morning. I never even waited for her to order—I just brought her her chocolate and dry toast. She didn’t drink coffee, because it made her too nervous. She told me once that if she drank coffee in the morning she couldn’t sleep for two days.”
“That’s true,” Trelkovsky agreed. “It does make you nervous. But I’m too used to it now; I couldn’t get along without my morning coffee.”
“You can say that because there’s nothing wrong with you now,” the waiter said smugly, “but the day something happens and you get sick, you’ll drop drinking it.”
“Perhaps,” Trelkovsky said.
“No doubt about it. Of course there are some people who can’t drink chocolate, on account of their liver, but she wasn’t one of those. There can’t have been anything wrong with her in that way.”
“No, I guess not,” Trelkovsky said.
“It’s too bad, though. A woman like that, who’s still young, and kills herself, and nobody knows why. And probably for nothing at all. A fit of depression, the feeling you’ve had it and—hop!—you give up. Shall I bring you a chocolate?”
Trelkovsky did not answer. He was thinking about the former tenant again. He drank the chocolate without realizing that it wasn’t coffee, paid his check and left. When he reached the third floor landing he noticed that the door to his apartment was standing slightly open. His eyebrows came together in a puzzled frown.
“That’s odd,” he thought. “I was certain I closed it.”
He pushed the door open and went inside. The grayish light of early morning filtered wanly through the curtains at the solitary window.
He was not worried, but greatly surprised. He thought of the neighbors first, then of Monsieur Zy, and then of Simon and Scope. Was it possible that they had actually carried out one of their idiotic plans? He pulled back the curtains and surveyed the room around him. The door to the armoire was wide open, and its contents were strewed across the bed. Someone had searched through everything he owned.
The first thing he knew to be missing was the radio. And shortly after that he realized that his two suitcases were gone.
He no longer had a past.
Not that there was anything very valuable in the suitcases—just an inexpensive camera, a pair of shoes, and some books. But there were also some snapshots of himself as a child, as well as some of his parents and the girls he had loved when he was still an adolescent, a few letters, a collection of souvenirs of the farthest reaches of his memory. Tears flooded his eyes when he thought of them.
He took off one of his shoes and hurled it across the room. The angry gesture relieved him.
Someone rapped on the wall.
“All right!” he shouted. “I know I’m making too much noise! But you should have rapped while this was going on, not now!”
He made an effort to control himself. “It’s not their fault, after all. And besides, perhaps they did rap while it was going on.”
What should he do? Make a complaint? Yes, that was it; he would go and make a complaint at the police station. He looked at his watch: it was seven
As he walked back home alone, Trelkovsky began to sing. He was exhausted, and slightly drunk, but in excellent humor. The almost ritual phrasing of the conversation had delighted him. It had all been so deliciously artificial! It was only reality that found him unprepared and defenseless.
The doors to the café across the street from his apartment were just being opened when he arrived. Trelkovsky went in to have some breakfast.
“Do you live across the street?” the waiter asked him.
Trelkovsky nodded. “But I haven’t been there very long.”
“You’re in the apartment of the girl who committed suicide?”
“Yes. Did you know her?”
“I sure did. She came in here every morning. I never even waited for her to order—I just brought her her chocolate and dry toast. She didn’t drink coffee, because it made her too nervous. She told me once that if she drank coffee in the morning she couldn’t sleep for two days.”
“That’s true,” Trelkovsky agreed. “It does make you nervous. But I’m too used to it now; I couldn’t get along without my morning coffee.”
“You can say that because there’s nothing wrong with you now,” the waiter said smugly, “but the day something happens and you get sick, you’ll drop drinking it.”
“Perhaps,” Trelkovsky said.
“No doubt about it. Of course there are some people who can’t drink chocolate, on account of their liver, but she wasn’t one of those. There can’t have been anything wrong with her in that way.”
“No, I guess not,” Trelkovsky said.
“It’s too bad, though. A woman like that, who’s still young, and kills herself, and nobody knows why. And probably for nothing at all. A fit of depression, the feeling you’ve had it and—hop!—you give up. Shall I bring you a chocolate?”
Trelkovsky did not answer. He was thinking about the former tenant again. He drank the chocolate without realizing that it wasn’t coffee, paid his check and left. When he reached the third floor landing he noticed that the door to his apartment was standing slightly open. His eyebrows came together in a puzzled frown.
“That’s odd,” he thought. “I was certain I closed it.”
He pushed the door open and went inside. The grayish light of early morning filtered wanly through the curtains at the solitary window.
He was not worried, but greatly surprised. He thought of the neighbors first, then of Monsieur Zy, and then of Simon and Scope. Was it possible that they had actually carried out one of their idiotic plans? He pulled back the curtains and surveyed the room around him. The door to the armoire was wide open, and its contents were strewed across the bed. Someone had searched through everything he owned.
The first thing he knew to be missing was the radio. And shortly after that he realized that his two suitcases were gone.
He no longer had a past.
Not that there was anything very valuable in the suitcases—just an inexpensive camera, a pair of shoes, and some books. But there were also some snapshots of himself as a child, as well as some of his parents and the girls he had loved when he was still an adolescent, a few letters, a collection of souvenirs of the farthest reaches of his memory. Tears flooded his eyes when he thought of them.
He took off one of his shoes and hurled it across the room. The angry gesture relieved him.
Someone rapped on the wall.
“All right!” he shouted. “I know I’m making too much noise! But you should have rapped while this was going on, not now!”
He made an effort to control himself. “It’s not their fault, after all. And besides, perhaps they did rap while it was going on.”
What should he do? Make a complaint? Yes, that was it; he would go and make a complaint at the police station. He looked at his watch: it was seven
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