Nevertheless he padded with extraordinary certainty over to the glass carafe with water in it, poured some into his cupped palm, and splashed his eyes. Yes, there were Pupo and a stranger, standing next to his bed, beaming at him.
“I’m so sorry, I’ve … I didn’t sleep all night.” He was making excuses to the stranger. “His kind are early risers,” he thought.
“Was it at least a good binge?” Pupo was smiling contemptuously.
“Binge? No. Insomnia. Can’t sleep.” He smoothed out his rumpled suit, embarrassed. He straightened his tie, too. It was only eight o’clock. “I must have dropped off just a little while ago. Funny, I don’t remember.” But he was still standing in the same spot, face wet, confused.
“Why don’t you put it down on the floor?” said Pupo to the stranger. Indeed, the man was still holding a valise in his hand, undecidedly. A raincoat was draped over his other arm. Tall, fair-haired, lean, fortyish, with a grave, care-ridden face. Melkior finally came out of his trance. He put away the carafe, approached the man, and reached to take his valise. The man put forward his hand. Melkior returned the handshake, cordially. He said his name. The man muttered something unintelligible, looking at Melkior with an apologetic smile. “Right you are, brother,” thinks Melkior, the name remains the Stranger.
Accommodatingly, he opened the wardrobe door.
“This is for your things.” This time he succeeded in taking the valise away from the Stranger. He put it in the wardrobe. “It’s down here. Do sit down. And you, what are you wondering about?” he said to Pupo with erstwhile intimacy. “I haven’t been drinking — here, see for yourself,” and he puffed into Pupo’s face.
The Stranger laughed. “What, does he forbid it?” gesturing at Pupo.
“I educate them. The others are worse,” said Pupo asserting his authority.
“You can imagine the educator: carried by us because he’s been walking on all fours. He chews drinking glasses, not to mention shouting, ‘Down with the monarchy.’ ”
Melkior instantly realized he had gone too far. Pupo gave him a look of contemptuous rage. He had clearly been playing the saint “here,” being in a subordinate position in “those” circles.
The Stranger laughed. But on seeing Pupo’s face he abruptly cut his laughter short and erased it completely from his face. The face was now calm and care-ridden again.
“If you’d like to wash up,” said Melkior to the Stranger, “the bathroom is across there, in the flat proper.” He wished to be alone with Pupo for a moment. He wanted to apologize.
“No, thank you.”
Melkior offered him a cigarette. “Thank you, no. I don’t smoke.”
He offered one to Pupo and smiled in a friendly way. Pupo took it and accepted the smile.
“I always have black coffee in the morning. I’ll fetch some right away.” Melkior was in high spirits.
“Don’t bother on my account,” said the Stranger. “I would like only to sit down here for a minute. I’m tired.” He sat down on the sofa. But he promptly dropped down on an elbow, and then leaned his head back against the cushion. “I’m very tired,” he said apologetically.
“Lie down by all means. I’ve got to go to the office anyway. You can sleep if you like. I’ll tell the landlady not to send the maid in.”
Melkior went across to the flat proper to fetch the coffee. He explained to the landlady that a relative had unexpectedly arrived. He would be staying for a few days. She offered to do the room herself, to make the sofa for the guest, out of curiosity, of course. Melkior put that all off for later. He brought the coffee back. The two of them cut their conversation short. He felt extraneous there between them. He slurped his coffee hastily, explained to the Stranger the technique of living in the room, handed over all the necessary keys, and, with a most courteous Bye for now to both of them, fled.
He may be a future Marat for all I know, he thought, hurrying down the stairs, even though he had no reason to hurry at all. But why Marat, of all men? The man was killed in his bath — the whore Charlotte cut his throat. Danton, Saint-Just, Robespierre? … snick-snick-snick … all three heads — snick! — rolling into a basket. None of the examples is good enough. Not Zinoviev, not Kamenev, not Bukharin, not even Leo Bronstein, it was again snick-snick-snick and crash! The ice pick striking Leo’s head, whereas I wish my guest the Stranger to live. Long live my guest the Stranger! — Hip, hip, hoorayyy! He was rallying in the street, semiaudible even, making people turn around after him. He would have dearly loved to rush into the Give’nTake and tell everyone, like Bobchinsky-Dobchinsky, what kind of a guest had arrived. Mysterious, secretive, yet quite straightforward and likable, tall and fair-haired and lean and decidedly on the shy side, “No, thank you, don’t bother on my account.”
No, I must give Enka a buzz. Poor Enka. I’m really a … He nevertheless went by the Theater Café and the Give’nTake, just in case. Perhaps Viviana had decided to parade her pretty self there. But the score was zero and … zero. Making a total of zero. Too early. A rest after last night’s gentle breath. He did not telephone Enka either. He mounted the stairs to the office, tired already. Wilted enthusiasm. See proof of review, it’s to go to print today. The day’s copy was no longer with the arts editor, it was already in the composing room.
“The Old Man crossed out a paragraph.”
“Censorship, eh?”—ready for a big showdown.
“Nonsense. Too much copy. Had to trim all around.”
“Which paragraph?”
“Do me a favor. What do you care anyway — it was only ten lines or so.”
“You could’ve asked me — I would’ve done it myself.”
“I looked for you at the Give’nTake last night. ‘He’s just gone out with Don Fernando,’ and you haven’t got a phone at your digs. How was I to ask?”
“It’s wrong all the same.”
“Don Fernando’s with the editor now. He’s brought some article or other, but it’s a no-go. They’re having a discussion … matters of principle.” The arts editor was sneering with mild derision.
That was precisely what Melkior had long wanted — coming to a “matter-of-principle” grips with the editor. But when he entered the editor’s “Black Room” (so-called because everything in it was black, himself included) the two of them were heartily laughing at something. Don Fernando was sunk in a black leather armchair, his long legs crossed so high that one of his knees touched his chin and his glass of cognac, but he couldn’t drink for laughing. The editor seemed to have just finished telling him something and was laughing himself, but his laughter had pauses and long intervals in it, during which he was making it known to his silliness that he could stop this nonsense at any moment if necessary. But he was not stopping it, which meant that this—the nonsense, the laughter — was necessary.
So this was what the “matter-of-principle” discussion was all about. The embittered realization could have been read in his face, had there been somebody to read it. They went on laughing. The editor only spared a hand to gesture toward a seat. In a little while Melkior, too, touched his chin to his knee and poured himself a cognac, only he didn’t hold it to his nose — he downed it; he did not laugh. Must be something silly to make them chortle like this. A “matter-of-principle” laugh. He was irritated by the laughter. Late for the show everyone else was enjoying, he was the only one without a clue. Damned silly business! He was hurt. For we are hurt by any laughter we can’t understand.