“Then let’s go!” Levadski tries to hit G with the handle of his stick. After missing several times he finally succeeds.
“Bravo!” Mr. Witzturn says in praise and unsarcastically, and suggests stepping out of the elevator at the same time.
Behind the opening door a tastefully dressed lady with a poodle in her arms stands waiting, its white locks accentuating the pallor of her complexion. If it were black, she would be really elegant, twitches in Levadski’s head.
“I will count, one …” Mr. Witzturn counts, “and then we will step out into the open at the same time, two, three!”
“What a song and dance!” Levadski complains, after the elevator has swallowed the lady with the poodle.
“You are the one who insisted,” Mr. Witzturn pants, emphasizing you.
“Well, well!” says Levadski, scraping his walking stick on the carpet, “our little trip has evidently made you very tired, you are out of breath.” Mr. Witzturn purses his lips.
“I was counting and concentrating, that’s all. Some-body had to put an end to this schoolboy prank.”
“I am not the one who started it,” Levadski said, looking longingly at the door of the café.
“Mr. Levadski!”
“Levadski, if you please.”
“Mr. Levadski, I am going through that door now,” Mr. Witzturn signals in the direction of the café, “and I am going to devote myself to the reason why I made the effort this morning of shaving and getting dressed, forcing myself into my shoes and taking part in this unnecessary riding up and down. I am going to devote myself to my breakfast. I wish you a good day.”
“Be my guest,” Levadski’s open hand points towards the door.
Mr. Witzturn clatters past the illuminated display cabinets with his stick. “Youth first!” Levadski whispers after him. The narrow back stops as if rooted to the spot and then sets off again a moment later. Levadski waits for the door to stop swinging. Yesterday’s waiters dart back and forth behind the milky glass of the café door. In the engraved coat of arms a lion and a stag dig their claws into each other, which stops them from keeling over.
He went left, so I will go right, thinks Levadski, grabbing the door handle. A wall of laughter mounts in front of him, the room to the right is filled with chubby grayhaired women who have strategically sat themselves close to the buffet. “I am sorry,” the waiter says regretfully, recognizing Levadski. “Good day, I am sorry, but we have a group of Americans.”
“A gripe?” The shrieking wall is collapsing in on the waiter and Levadski.
“No, a tourist party!” It is of no significance, he will find a table, Levadski says cheerily.
“Coffee, like yesterday?” Levadski nods.
“I will bring it to your table!” the waiter promises, and is gone.
The room next door is filled with the sound of Mr. Witzturn’s rustling newspaper and the clatter of a female creature’s cutlery, who has not made a particularly convincing attempt at piling up her thin hair. “We should consider ourselves lucky for both having that one thing less to worry about,” Levadski says to Mr. Witzturn’s newspaper.
“Excuse me?” Mr. Witzturn’s striking eyes become visible above the newspaper. With the corner of his mouth, Levadski signals in the direction of the strange hairdo of the solitary lady a few tables away. “You are not only a misanthrope but a misogynist as well, Mr. Dawalski.”
“My name is Levadski, Mr. Turnwitz. Allow me?” Levadski looks hopefully at the padded chair beside Mr. Witzturn. “Thank you,” Levadski says, before Mr. Witzturn can say Please do, and, groaning, takes a seat. Mr. Witzturn lets the business pages drop into his lap, and he gazes disappointed into the distance, into which something valuable seems to be hurrying off.
“You are …”
“I wanted to apologize …”
“You are a …”
“… for my behavior.”
Mr. Witzturn allows the words to stand without comment. “I am a lonely old man,” Levadski continues, “and seldom among people. My social aptitude has been withering away for decades.” Mr. Witzturn listens with his head slightly cocked to one side, stroking the handle of the knife lying next to his empty plate. “You haven’t eaten anything yet!” Levadski remarks with dismay.
“Yes,” replies Mr. Witzturn, “I am scared of the tourist party at the buffet.”
“Americans,” Levadski shrugs his shoulders, “we can go to the buffet together!”
Mr. Witzturn scans the room. There is not a door in sight, so he concurs.
“I don’t understand,” Mr. Witzturn admits, “why the fair sex give up their splendid heads of hair with age. They look like men!”
“Who is the misogynist now?” Levadski jokes.
“No, quite honestly, I prefer the lady over there with the ridiculous bird’s nest hairdo to those bald chickens.”
“Olala!” Levadski says, pleased. “You are getting angry! A blessing, that the ladies are making such a racket. And if any of them had ever made an effort to learn a foreign language like German, the merry club would tear us to pieces like two old traveling clocks!”
Mr. Witzturn closes his eyes, opens his mouth and produces a melodic barking. Levadski also laughs. Armed with his magnifying glass and giggling, he inspects the array of cold and hot dishes at the buffet table.
“Yesterday I came down so late that although the piano was playing, breakfast was over,” says Levadski, appraising the shreds of salmon spun with dill cobwebs.
“What did you eat, then?”
“Cake. Chocolate cake.”
“Not bad. Right, I am going back to the table now. I find it difficult to stand without my stick.” Levadski looks at Mr. Witzturn’s ready plate. I am not surprised, that weighs at least a kilo, he wants to say, but pulls himself together and praises the beautiful composition.
“And the small sour pickle on the tip of the tower is the crowning glory! Good luck!”
What shall I eat, thinks Levadski, brutally surrounded by the short-haired women. A boiled egg can turn out to be a cold hard egg, better not go for that. Fruit salad? Kid’s stuff. Vitamins have been of no use to me for ages. Venison pâté, liver pâté with green pepper, a moldy French cheese? Horseradish to go with it, a piece of bread that the waiter has hopefully presliced. Yes.
When Levadski arrives at the table, Mr. Witzturn is busy squeezing a wedge of lemon over his salmon. The clattering of the cutlery at the table of the lady with the bird’s nest hairdo has become a monotonous stirring in her cup. The waiter has not forgotten Levadski — the coffee he ordered is standing in a silver pot on the table. “What I meant to ask you in the elevator …”
“A decent portion,” Mr. Witzturn interrupts, pointing approvingly at Levadski’s plate.
“What I wanted to ask you when you entered the elevator was,” Levadski continues, “was, what the time was. My watch stopped.”
“It is ten on the dot.” Levadski expresses his thanks by smacking his lips loudly.
“That is a very good idea!” remarks Mr. Witzturn on seeing the magnifying glass flashing in Levadski’s hand.
“Yes, at least you can see the hands,” Levadski jokes. “You learn where the numbers are in the course of life, don’t you?”
“You remind me of my first wife,” Mr. Witzturn tells him while pushing a rolled up piece of lettuce into his mouth.
“Did she also have a magnifying glass?”
“No, cancer.”
“Oh God,” Levadski leans back in his chair, “I am sorry.”
“Yes, so am I. It is a menace. The second one also had cancer. I didn’t dare take a third.”