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me go,” she said, annoyed.
    “Come to me, Clara. Please . . .”
    “It’s too late. Eugen is on his way back. Let me go, let me go.”
    I touched her feverishly all over—her shoulders, breasts, legs . . .
    “Let me go,” she protested.
    “There’s still time,” I begged.
    “Where?”
    “In the back room. Come on. It’s perfect.”
    As soon as I said the word “perfect,” my chest welled with hope. I kissed her hand
again and pulled her off the chair by force. She let me drag her along the
floor.
    From that day on, our afternoon “habits” underwent a change. There was still the same
Eugen, still the same Clara, still the same sonatas (though I could no longer stand
the violin and could hardly wait for Eugen to leave); I was in the same room, but my
concerns were different. It was if I were playing a new game on a board designed for
a game I had outgrown.
    Each time Eugen left, a period of waiting began, one much more arduous than what I
had known till then. The silence in the shop was like a block of ice. Clara would
sit by the window, knitting. This was the “beginning” to each day, the beginning
without which our adventure could go no further. Sometimes Eugen left when Clara was
in the back room half-naked, and at first I thought that would speed things along. I
was wrong: everything had to begin in the shop. I had to wait until she put her
clothes on and went over to the window so she could open the afternoon book to page
one.
    I would sit opposite her on a stool and talk to her, beg her over and over, implore
her. I knew it was in vain: Clara did consent but rarely, and even then she would
resort to a ruse to rob me of complete acquiescence. “I’m going into the back room
to take an aspirin. I’ve got a splitting headache. Please don’t follow me.”
    I swore I wouldn’t and immediately ran after her. A veritable battle would ensue, but
Clara was clearly inclined to yield: she would fall on the sofa in a heap as if she
had just tripped over something, then put her hands behind her head, close her eyes,
and pretend she was going to sleep. It was impossible for me to move her body so
much as an inch. I had to pull her dress down over her legs before I could press
against her. She put up no resistance, nor did she give me any assistance: she
remained as immobile and indifferent as a piece of wood, and had it not been for her
intimate, secret warmth I would never have known that she “knew.”
    It was about this time that the doctor who prescribed
quinine was called in. The impression I received during the visit, the impression of
his resemblance to a mouse was confirmed, as I mentioned above, by a freakish,
totally absurd incident.
    One day I was lying next to Clara, feverishly tugging at her dress, when I had a
feeling there was something out of the ordinary in the room. It came more from the
vague yet acute intimation of the extreme pleasure I was anticipating and could not
share with a foreign presence than from anything tangible, but I was under the
impression that we were being watched by a living being.
    Alarmed, I turned my head, and what did I see on the trunk, just behind Clara’s
powder compact, but a mouse. It had paused next to the mirror on the edge of the
trunk and was staring at me with its tiny black eyes. The lamplight had given them
two gleaming golden spots, which pierced me deeply and peered into my own eyes for
several seconds with such intensity that they seemed to penetrate my brain. Perhaps
the creature was searching for a curse to call down on me or perhaps for a mere
reproach, but its fascination soon ran its course and it suddenly disappeared behind
the trunk. I was certain the doctor had come to spy on me.
    This supposition was confirmed that very evening as I took my quinine. Illogical
though my reasoning was, I found it perfectly acceptable: the quinine was bitter.
The doctor had seen the pleasure Clara could give me in the back room and to get
even he had prescribed