IN SPRING THE ILLNESS seemed to take a turn for the worse; there was a consultation and she was transported to the hospital. There, on the eve of the operation, she spoke to him with sufficient clarity, in spite of her suffering, about the will, the attorney, what he must do in case tomorrow she … She made him swear twice—yes, twice—that he would treat the girl as if he were her real … And that he would see to it that she bore no ill feelings toward her late mother. “Maybe we should have her come after all,” he said, louder than intended, “what do you think?” But she had already finished giving instructions, and tightly shut her eyes in agony; he stood for a while by the window, heaved a sigh, kissed the yellow fist on the folded-back sheet, and left.

Early the following morning he had a call from one of the doctors at the hospital, informing him that the operation had just ended, that it had apparently been a total success, surpassing the surgeon’s every hope, but that it would be best not to visit until tomorrow.

“Success, eh? Total, eh?” he muttered incoherently, rushing from room to room, “Isn’t that just dandy.… Congratulate us—we’re going to convalesce, we’re going to bloom.… What’s going on here?” he abruptly cried in a guttural voice, giving the toilet door such a slam that the crystalware in the dining room reacted with fright. “We’ll see about this,” he continued amid the panic-stricken chairs, “Yes sirree … I’ll show you a success! Success, suckercess.” He mocked the pronunciation of sniveling fate. “Just nifty, isn’t it. We’ll keep on living and thriving, and marry off our daughter nice and early—no matter if she’s a little frail, for the bridegroom will be a lusty fellow, he’ll go ramming rough-shod into her frailty.… No, I’ve had enough of this! I’ve taken all the derision I’m going to! I too have a voice in the matter! I …”—and suddenly his roving rage happened upon an unexpected prey.

He froze, his fingers ceased twitching, his eyes rolled up for an instant—and he returned from this brief stupor with a smile. “I’ve had enough,” he kept repeating, but with a different, almost propitiatory tone.

He immediately obtained the needed information: there was a most convenient express at 12:23, arriving at exactly 4:00 P.M. The return connection was not as simple … he would have to hire a car and leave immediately—by nightfall we’ll be back here, the two of us, in utter seclusion, the little thing will be tired and sleepy, get your clothes off quick, I’ll rock you to sleep—that’s all, just some cosy cuddling, who wants to be sentenced to hard labor (although, incidentally, hard labor now would be better than some bastard in the future)… the stillness, her naked clavicles, the little straps, the buttons in back, the foxlike silk between her shoulder blades, her sleepy yawns, her hot armpit, her legs, the tenderness—mustn’t lose my head … although what could be more natural than bringing home my little stepdaughter, deciding on it after all—they’re cutting open her mother, aren’t they?… Normal sense of responsibility, normal paternal zeal, besides, didn’t the mother herself ask me to “take care of the girl”? And while the other is quietly reposing in the hospital, what—we repeat—what could be more natural if here, where my darling couldn’t possibly disturb anybody … At the same time she’ll be close by, one never knows, one must be ready for any eventuality.… A success, was it? All the better—their character improves as they convalesce, and if madam still elects to be angry, we’ll explain, we’ll explain, we wanted to do what was best, maybe we got a little flustered, we admit, but all with the best …

In a joyful rush, he changed the sheets on his bed (in her former bedroom); tidied up summarily; bathed; called off a business meeting; canceled the char; had a quick snack in his “bachelor” restaurant; bought a supply of dates, ham, rye bread, whipped cream, muscat grapes—had he forgotten anything?—and, when he got home, disintegrated into multiple packages and kept visualizing how she would pass here and sit down there, springily bracing herself behind her back with her slender bare arms, all curly and dark—and at that moment there was a call from the hospital asking him to look in after all; on the way to the station he reluctantly stopped by and learned that the person was no more.

He was seized first of all by a sense of enraged disappointment: it meant that his plan had fallen through, that this night with all its warm, cosy closeness had been snatched from him, and that, when she arrived in response to a telegram, it would naturally be in the company of that hag and that hag’s husband, and the two of them would settle in for a good week. But the very nature of this first reaction, the momentum of this shortsighted rush of emotion, created a vacuum, since an immediate transition from vexation at her death (which happened to have temporarily interfered) to gratitude (for the basic course destiny had taken) was impossible. Meanwhile, that vacuum was filling with preliminary, grayly human content. Sitting on a bench in the hospital garden, gradually calming down, preparing for the various steps of the funeral procedure, he mentally reviewed with appropriate sadness what he had just seen with his own eyes: the polished forehead, the translucent nostrils with the pearly wart on one side, the ebony cross, all of death’s jewelry work. He parenthetically gave surgery a contemptuous dismissal and started thinking what a superb period she had had under his tutelage, how he had incidentally provided her with some real happiness to brighten the last days of her vegetative existence, and thence it was already a natural transition to crediting clever Fate with splendid behavior, and to the first delicious throb in his bloodstream: the lone wolf was getting ready to don Granny’s nightcap.

He was expecting them next day at lunchtime. The doorbell rang on schedule, but the late person’s friend stood on the doorstep alone (extending her bony hands and taking unfair advantage of a severe cold for the exigencies of obvious condolence): neither her husband nor “the little orphan” could come because both were laid up with the flu. His disappointment was alleviated by the thought that it was best this way—why spoil things? The girl’s presence amid this combination of funereal encumbrances would have been just as agonizing as had been her arrival for the wedding, and it would be much more sensible to spend the coming days getting the formalities over with and thoroughly preparing a radical leap into complete safety. The only part that irritated him was the way the woman said “both”—the bond of illness (as if the two patients were sharing a common sickbed), the bond of contagion (maybe that vulgarian, following her up a steep staircase, liked to paw her bared thighs).

Feigning total shock—which was simplest of all, as murderers know too—he sat like a benumbed widower, his larger-than-life hands lowered, scarcely moving his lips in reply to her advice that he relieve the constipation of grief with tears, and watched with a turbid gaze as she blew her nose (all three were united by the cold—that was better). When, absently but greedily attacking the ham, she said such things as “At least her suffering did not last long” or “Thank God she was unconscious,” on the lumped-together assumption that suffering and sleep were the natural human lot, that the worms had kind little faces, and that the supreme supine flotation took place in a blissful stratosphere, he nearly answered that death, as such, always had been and always would be an obscene idiot, but realized in time that this might cause his consoler to have disagreeable doubts about his ability to impart a religious and moral education to the adolescent girl.

There were very few people at the funeral (but for some reason a friend of sorts from former times, a gold craftsman, showed up with his wife), and later, in the home-bound car, a plump lady (who had also been at his farcical wedding) told him, compassionately but in no uncertain terms (as his bowed head bobbed with the car’s motion), that now, at least, something must be done about the child’s abnormal situation (meanwhile his late spouse’s friend pretended to gaze out into the street), and that paternal concerns would undoubtedly give him the needed consolation, and a third woman (an infinitely remote relative of the deceased) joined in, saying, “And what a pretty girl she is! You’ll have to watch her like a hawk—she’s already biggish for her age, just wait another three years and the boys will be sticking to her like flies, you’ll have no end of worries,” and meanwhile he was guffawing and guffawing to himself, floating on featherbeds of happiness.

The day before, in response to a second telegram (“Worried how is your health kiss”—and this kiss written on the telegraph blank was the first real one), came the news that neither of them had any more fever, and, before leaving for home, the still runny-nosed friend showed him a small box and asked if she could take it for the girl (it contained some maternal trinkets from the remote, sacred past), after which she inquired what would happen next, and how. Only then, speaking extremely slowly and expressionlessly, with frequent pauses, as though with every syllable he were overcoming the speechlessness of sorrow, he announced to her what would happen and how: after first thanking her for the year of care, he advised her that in exactly two weeks he would come to fetch his daughter (the very word he used) to take her south and then probably abroad. “Yes, that’s wise,” replied the other with relief (somewhat tempered, but only by the thought, let us hope, that, of late, she had probably been making a nice little profit on her ward). “Go away, distract yourself—there’s nothing like a trip to calm one’s grief.”

He needed those two weeks to organize his affairs so he would not have to think about them for at least a year; then he would see. He was forced to sell certain items from his own collection. And while packing he happened to find in his desk a coin he had once picked up (which, incidentally, had turned out to be counterfeit). He chuckled: the talisman had already done its job.