glowed brightly, while along the opposite wall a large trunk and a matching dresser of walnut stood on either side of a bed hung with curtains which appeared to be fresh and clean. A large blue Dresden ewer and washbowl on the dresser completed the furnishings.
Content with what I had seen, I glanced back in the direction of the innkeeper and his boy to announce my presence. But something in the tableau vivant stopped me. The red-faced boy was still crouching down before the fire, the tall innkeeper hovering over him, hands on his hips. I could see only Totz’s profile, but there was no mistaking the menacing expression on his face. With the roaring of the bellows, the swoosh of flames and the crackling of wood, I could make little sense of what they were saying. Totz was speaking earnestly to the boy, the veins standing out boldly on his neck as if he suppressed a desire to shout.
‘Play with flames, Morik, you’ll burn your fingers!’ he sneered.
‘He certainly does know how to start a fire, Herr Totz,’ I said out loud, taking off my travelling-cloak, and dropping it on the bed. When I turned back to the fireplace once more, I was astonished by the sudden transformation of the scene, the expressions frozen on their faces. Fear was written on the boy’s pinched features like a cornered fox as the hounds close in for the kill, despite his attempt at a welcoming smile. Ulrich Totz, who had been so angry only a moment ago, was now all accommodating smiles and seasoned humility. His left hand rested with a heavy, proprietorial air on the skinny shoulder of his young charge. For all the world, innkeeper Totz looked like a village beagle who had just taken the lad up for thieving.
‘Here’s your room, sir,’ the landlord said with a conspiratorial wink in my direction. ‘Whatever you need, my wife’ll be back from her sister’s this evening. I’m downstairs in the tavern as a rule. This here’s Morik, my nephew.’
The hand on the boy’s shoulder gave a quick, hard nip, and the hollow smile on the boy’s face was shattered by a grimace of pain.
‘That fire is to my liking, Morik,’ I said, measuring my enthusiasm to avoid increasing the animosity of the master in the boy’s regard.
The innkeeper smiled again broadly, though I had the impression that his good humour cost him a great deal of effort when I told him to go, but ordered the boy to remain behind to unpack my bag. The mere fact that the master had been dismissed from the room seemed to put the young servant at his ease. He was a sprightly little lad, bright of eye, his round face as rough and shiny as a golden russet apple, no more than twelve years old. He fell on my valise like a quick little monkey, pulling out the contents, laying out my shirts, stockings and linen on the bed, positioning my combs and hairbrushes with excessive care beside the washbasin, opening and closing drawers. He seemed to take some pleasure in feeling the cut and the quality and the weight of everything he touched. In a word, he was slow.
‘That will do, Morik!’ I stopped him, my patience running short. ‘Just pour some warm water into that bowl, will you? I need to wash before going out again. A gentleman is waiting for me downstairs.’
‘The policeman, sir?’ Morik asked quickly. ‘Is the inn being watched?’
‘All of Königsberg is under strict surveillance,’ I replied vaguely, smiling at this impetuous show of childish curiosity. Then, I sat myself down at the table near the window, laid out my writing necessaire and began to pen a letter that I had never believed I should need to write.
Herr Jachmann ,
Circumstances beyond my personal control bring me once more to Königsberg. I have been assigned a Royal Commission of extreme gravity and exceptional importance which I wish to explain to you in person at your earliest convenience. I will call on you at 12 a.m. tomorrow. I hasten to repeat my word as a gentleman that I will avoid any form of
Content with what I had seen, I glanced back in the direction of the innkeeper and his boy to announce my presence. But something in the tableau vivant stopped me. The red-faced boy was still crouching down before the fire, the tall innkeeper hovering over him, hands on his hips. I could see only Totz’s profile, but there was no mistaking the menacing expression on his face. With the roaring of the bellows, the swoosh of flames and the crackling of wood, I could make little sense of what they were saying. Totz was speaking earnestly to the boy, the veins standing out boldly on his neck as if he suppressed a desire to shout.
‘Play with flames, Morik, you’ll burn your fingers!’ he sneered.
‘He certainly does know how to start a fire, Herr Totz,’ I said out loud, taking off my travelling-cloak, and dropping it on the bed. When I turned back to the fireplace once more, I was astonished by the sudden transformation of the scene, the expressions frozen on their faces. Fear was written on the boy’s pinched features like a cornered fox as the hounds close in for the kill, despite his attempt at a welcoming smile. Ulrich Totz, who had been so angry only a moment ago, was now all accommodating smiles and seasoned humility. His left hand rested with a heavy, proprietorial air on the skinny shoulder of his young charge. For all the world, innkeeper Totz looked like a village beagle who had just taken the lad up for thieving.
‘Here’s your room, sir,’ the landlord said with a conspiratorial wink in my direction. ‘Whatever you need, my wife’ll be back from her sister’s this evening. I’m downstairs in the tavern as a rule. This here’s Morik, my nephew.’
The hand on the boy’s shoulder gave a quick, hard nip, and the hollow smile on the boy’s face was shattered by a grimace of pain.
‘That fire is to my liking, Morik,’ I said, measuring my enthusiasm to avoid increasing the animosity of the master in the boy’s regard.
The innkeeper smiled again broadly, though I had the impression that his good humour cost him a great deal of effort when I told him to go, but ordered the boy to remain behind to unpack my bag. The mere fact that the master had been dismissed from the room seemed to put the young servant at his ease. He was a sprightly little lad, bright of eye, his round face as rough and shiny as a golden russet apple, no more than twelve years old. He fell on my valise like a quick little monkey, pulling out the contents, laying out my shirts, stockings and linen on the bed, positioning my combs and hairbrushes with excessive care beside the washbasin, opening and closing drawers. He seemed to take some pleasure in feeling the cut and the quality and the weight of everything he touched. In a word, he was slow.
‘That will do, Morik!’ I stopped him, my patience running short. ‘Just pour some warm water into that bowl, will you? I need to wash before going out again. A gentleman is waiting for me downstairs.’
‘The policeman, sir?’ Morik asked quickly. ‘Is the inn being watched?’
‘All of Königsberg is under strict surveillance,’ I replied vaguely, smiling at this impetuous show of childish curiosity. Then, I sat myself down at the table near the window, laid out my writing necessaire and began to pen a letter that I had never believed I should need to write.
Herr Jachmann ,
Circumstances beyond my personal control bring me once more to Königsberg. I have been assigned a Royal Commission of extreme gravity and exceptional importance which I wish to explain to you in person at your earliest convenience. I will call on you at 12 a.m. tomorrow. I hasten to repeat my word as a gentleman that I will avoid any form of
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