laughing delightedly. As soon as the first sounds of argument reached his ears he had hurriedly extinguished all the lights, so that he could not be wrongly accused of anything when it was all over.
It had started in the building across the way, where the fourth floor was celebrating an anniversary of some kind. The rooms were so brightly lit that they constituted a challenge in themselves. The windows were tightly closed, because of the cold, but even so the sound of laughter and singing could be clearly heard. Trelkovsky had foreseen from the very first that the festivities would take a tragic turn. And in his own mind he had been fervently grateful to the troublemakers. “They’re just as bad as any of the others,” he thought. “I’ve already heard them complaining about the noise from the fifth floor, but that’s not important. It’ll be a case of the wolves devouring each other!”
The first reaction had been a plaintive, but nonetheless shrill voice, asking for silence for the sake of a sick woman. There was no answer to that. The second attempt, much more direct, was a shouted, “Why don’t you shut up down there? We have to work tomorrow!” Again, there was no reply. Just more laughter and singing. Trelkovsky reveled in the possibilities of this noisy pleasure. A silence that was heavy with menace had settled over every other corner of the building. One by one, the lights had gone out, demonstrating to all the world that the tenants within wanted to sleep. It was with the assurance of being well within their rights that two masculine voices then bluntly demanded silence again. A brisk dialogue ensued.
“Can’t a person even celebrate an anniversary any more?”
“All right, but enough is enough. Nobody minded your celebrating up to a decent hour, but now it’s time to call it off. Other people have to work tomorrow!”
“We have to work tomorrow too, but we have a right to a little fun now and then, don’t we?”
“Look, buddy, you’ve been told to call it off, to cut out the noise. What do we have to do to convince you?”
“If you think you’re scaring me, you’re barking up the wrong tree! I don’t like people giving me orders—we’ll do as we damned well please!”
“Oh, you will, eh? Well, why don’t you just come downstairs for a minute, and we’ll see about that?”
“Oh, shut up!”
Having arrived at this stage, the voices from either side of the courtyard began showering insults on each other, descending at last to a level of vulgarity that made Trelkovsky blush. All of the guests on the fourth floor joined in a resounding chorus of song, to prove their solidarity with their host. This development produced immediate reaction from windows which had been silent until now. An avalanche of oaths and imprecations descended on the revelers. Then the two masculine voices that had opened the battle engaged in a brief colloquy of their own, and decided to go down to the courtyard and settle this thing with the enemy once and for all.
The enemy required a little urging, but Trelkovsky was sure they wouldn’t hold out for very long. He could already hear the shouting from the court beneath his window.
“You go that way, and I’ll take this part. Call me if you catch one of them. Why don’t you come down, you bastards?”
“I saw something over there—just wait till I get my hands on you, you—!”
Trelkovsky was no longer laughing. He was beginning to be frightened. He could see that the mutual hatred of these men was no pretense. They were not playing. They seemed to have instinctively rediscovered their wartime reflexes, to have suddenly remembered things they had been taught in the army. They were no longer peaceful tenants, but killers in search of a victim. With his face pressed hard against the windowpane, he followed the developments of the conflict. After a complete circuit of the courtyard, the two masculine voices had now rejoined each other at its
It had started in the building across the way, where the fourth floor was celebrating an anniversary of some kind. The rooms were so brightly lit that they constituted a challenge in themselves. The windows were tightly closed, because of the cold, but even so the sound of laughter and singing could be clearly heard. Trelkovsky had foreseen from the very first that the festivities would take a tragic turn. And in his own mind he had been fervently grateful to the troublemakers. “They’re just as bad as any of the others,” he thought. “I’ve already heard them complaining about the noise from the fifth floor, but that’s not important. It’ll be a case of the wolves devouring each other!”
The first reaction had been a plaintive, but nonetheless shrill voice, asking for silence for the sake of a sick woman. There was no answer to that. The second attempt, much more direct, was a shouted, “Why don’t you shut up down there? We have to work tomorrow!” Again, there was no reply. Just more laughter and singing. Trelkovsky reveled in the possibilities of this noisy pleasure. A silence that was heavy with menace had settled over every other corner of the building. One by one, the lights had gone out, demonstrating to all the world that the tenants within wanted to sleep. It was with the assurance of being well within their rights that two masculine voices then bluntly demanded silence again. A brisk dialogue ensued.
“Can’t a person even celebrate an anniversary any more?”
“All right, but enough is enough. Nobody minded your celebrating up to a decent hour, but now it’s time to call it off. Other people have to work tomorrow!”
“We have to work tomorrow too, but we have a right to a little fun now and then, don’t we?”
“Look, buddy, you’ve been told to call it off, to cut out the noise. What do we have to do to convince you?”
“If you think you’re scaring me, you’re barking up the wrong tree! I don’t like people giving me orders—we’ll do as we damned well please!”
“Oh, you will, eh? Well, why don’t you just come downstairs for a minute, and we’ll see about that?”
“Oh, shut up!”
Having arrived at this stage, the voices from either side of the courtyard began showering insults on each other, descending at last to a level of vulgarity that made Trelkovsky blush. All of the guests on the fourth floor joined in a resounding chorus of song, to prove their solidarity with their host. This development produced immediate reaction from windows which had been silent until now. An avalanche of oaths and imprecations descended on the revelers. Then the two masculine voices that had opened the battle engaged in a brief colloquy of their own, and decided to go down to the courtyard and settle this thing with the enemy once and for all.
The enemy required a little urging, but Trelkovsky was sure they wouldn’t hold out for very long. He could already hear the shouting from the court beneath his window.
“You go that way, and I’ll take this part. Call me if you catch one of them. Why don’t you come down, you bastards?”
“I saw something over there—just wait till I get my hands on you, you—!”
Trelkovsky was no longer laughing. He was beginning to be frightened. He could see that the mutual hatred of these men was no pretense. They were not playing. They seemed to have instinctively rediscovered their wartime reflexes, to have suddenly remembered things they had been taught in the army. They were no longer peaceful tenants, but killers in search of a victim. With his face pressed hard against the windowpane, he followed the developments of the conflict. After a complete circuit of the courtyard, the two masculine voices had now rejoined each other at its
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