The cat of the proprietress was purring on top of the piano.
I smoked a cigarette slowly.
The atmosphere made one drowsy. . . .
What a strange voice that girl had, yesterday!
Husky a bit, perhaps, but sweet, too.
"Bring us some newspapers, Alois," said I.
The door creaked.
Rosa entered. Rosa, the graveyard pros'titute, otherwise known as "the Iron Steed"—a nickname in honour of her indomitableness.
She had come, as was her custom on Sunday mornings, for a cup of chocolate. Afterwards she would be going out to Burgdorf to visit her child.
"Good day, Robert."
"Hello, Rosa. How's the youngster?"
"Just going to find out.
Here—look what I'm taking her."
From a bundle of paper she produced a doll with hectic red cheeks and proceeded to prod it in the stomach.
"Mama," bleated the doll.
Rosa beamed.
"Fine," said I.
"You wait though." She tilted the doll backwards.
The eyes shut with a snap.
"Well, I never!"
Rosa was delighted and set about wrapping up the doll again.
"You understand these things, Robert, I can see.
You'll make a grand father some day."
"Think so?" said I dubiously.
Rosa lived for her child.
Until three months ago, when it started to walk, Rosa had kept it in her room.
She had contrived this in spite of her profession, by making use of a small closet adjoining her own room.
When she came in at night with a lover, on some pretext or other she would leave him waiting outside, while she went in and hastily pushed the pram into the closet, and shut the door; then she would return and admit her cavalier.
But during the month of December the child had to be turned out of the warm room into" the unheated closet too often, with the result that it would get chilled and begin to cry at precisely those times when she was entertaining a visitor.
Hard as it was, Rosa was obliged to part with her.
She had placed the child in an expensive children's home, where she had given herself out for a respectable widow—had the authorities known the truth they would not have accepted the child.
Rosa stood up.
"You are coming on Friday, of course?"
I nodded.
She looked at me.
"You know what it is for?"
"Of course."
I had not the faintest idea; nor did I ask questions.
I had made that a rule during my year here as pianist.
It was much the best.
By the same principle I used to treat all the girls with the same friendliness.
My position would have been impossible otherwise.
"Au revoir, Robert."
"Cheerio, Rosa."
I stayed on a little longer.
The International had become a sort of Sabbath rest to me, but to-day for some reason, I was unable to arrive at the peaceful somnolence that belonged to the place on Sundays.
I had another glass of rum, stroked the cat and then left.
I traipsed about the city all day.
I could not make out what was wrong with me. I was fidgety and could remain nowhere for long.
Late in the afternoon I looked in at the workshop.