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more distinct than the buzzing of a fly. A void opened within him, and he could not find a single thought to fill it with; he put on his necktie, laced his shoes, and buckled his belt, moving like a sleepwalker. Not until the lieutenant had opened the door did he hear the man in plain clothes say to him, “So long,
Mister
Kowalski.”
    And he found himself in the street.

V
    THE ICY WIND BLOWING FROM THE VISTULA revived him a little; the day was misty and cold, and the pale sun glistening feebly on the damp roofs carried not a hint of spring; no one would have suspected that the sap was already gathering under the bare branches of the trees. He walked fast, straight ahead, his crumpled overcoat unbuttoned; he had no idea where he was going; he was filled with only one desire—to get as far away as possible from the scene of his nocturnal ordeal. “The whole thing is a stupid accident,” he muttered to himself. “It’s perfectly insane. Everything will be cleared up soon; damn it all, it must be cleared up! I’ll settle the matter right away; I’ll go to see whatever person I have to …” He caught the amused glances of the passers-by, and realized that he had been talking to himself; he buttoned his overcoat and slowed his pace.
    In the window of a little shop he saw a sign, TELEPHONE . He pushed the door open and entered; the shop bell above the door tinkled shrilly. Out of the darkness came the smell of stale vegetables. A young girl was standing at the telephone; Franciszek moved aside.
    “What can I do for you,” asked the proprietor, unshaven, in a dirty smock.
    Franciszek pointed to the girl: “I want to use the phone …”
    The proprietor gave a grunt of disappointment, and buried his dark face in the newspaper. “We Are AdvancingToward …” a headline screamed. After a moment he turned the page. “Yesterday’s speech caused wide repercussions …” The girl was chirping into the receiver, her lips curving deliciously: “Dzidka? Impossible! Is that so?… It’s true, she always … I don’t want to say anything mean about her, but it’s only what you’d expect …”
    The bell above the door tinkled. Franciszek shuddered as though touched by an electric current. A boy came in; his sharp eyes glinted under the visor of his cap. He put a jar on the counter. “Milk and half a pound of butter.”
    “… Dzidka? With Romek? Yes, I always …”
    “There’s no milk. I have potatoes.”
    “… I’ve always said …”
    “And the butter?”
    “No butter. I’ll have Brussels sprouts this afternoon.”
    “I’ll telephone, and the whole thing will be cleared up,” Franciszek thought. He looked resentfully at the girl’s little painted mouth. “I’ll telephone; I’ll go to the factory, and everything will be settled.”
    “And lard?”
    “No lard, but I have potatoes.”
    “… I’ve always said to Stefan, ‘Look out, you can never tell what she might do’ …”
    “When will you have butter?”
    “How the devil do I know? I told you what there is. Now get out!”
    The bell tinkled again, startling Franciszek; the boy walked out. He ran across the street, splashing through a puddle; his shoes were at least three sizes too big for him. “Fool,” thought Franciszek in irritation; “some day he’ll break his leg.” He glanced at his watch: he was already an hour late; he must telephone …
    “… you know me, you know I never say bad things about my girl friends; but in this case … What? It isn’t Dzidka? I know it isn’t Dzidka, of course not. But to get back to Wladka …”
    He put his hand on her shoulder; she turned around. “Three minutes,” he snapped. “Enough.”
    “Can’t you be polite?”
    “Can’t you grow up?”
    She flung some coins on the counter, and, looking at him with rage, walked out, slamming the door; once again the bell tinkled at the very center of his tired brain. The worn dial swung in its arc like a pendulum. “The