The men collected their tools and loaded them onto the cart. Then Brunner and Maunz put the construction-site sign back in its proper place and hung up the warning light. Reiter just stood there, holding his safety goggles and squinting into the dusk. At that moment, the streetlamps flickered on but without effect because it was not yet dark enough; their shimmering flecks dissolved into the air toward the Floridsdorf Bridge. The man looked up and then down again⁠—the street lay there eviscerated, its metal entrails of untethered streetcar rails clearly exposed.

“Will I see you at the café later?” Reiter asked as the other two started to push the cart away. Brunner shook his head and Maunz didn’t even turn around. Reiter stayed behind and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He saw the streetcar approaching, signaled to the conductor to slow down a little, and jumped aboard. He got off at Am Spitz and raised his cap in thanks.

The café was empty.

Reiter stood all alone on the street and for a moment he had the feeling that there was no traffic rushing by, just the cold gusts of wind blowing from the Danube. He was standing not far from the flood zone; behind him, between the North and Northwest Railways, was a demolished section of the city. He wanted to keep his back to those buildings for a long time, to not turn around, to not go home, to not lie down between the locomotive factory, the cable factory, and the oil refinery. He didn’t want to be caged up in one of those stone boxes, forced to greet the people who lived there.

The café was empty. Reiter had hoped to find someone with whom he could play cards or share a beer; he was looking for someone in this Nowhere, looking for some idle familiarity before heading home. Almost every evening he sought out a kind of floodplain between work and home, like the floodplain between the city and the working-class districts to the east. He went to the back of the café and bumped into a few chairs, then returned to the front of the deserted room. He sat at a window and stared out. He heard the waiter, Franz, approach, turned his head when he sensed him standing there, and said, “A large café au lait.” He wanted to add something, to start up a conversation, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

Night was setting in … It was the hour when pensioners were playing billiards in other coffeehouses, but in this café no one played billiards; the workers who came here had hands that were too heavy, or they simply had something against the game. But recently a slot machine had been installed, which tempted every customer. Reiter stood abruptly and started feeding coins into it, pulling the lever and relishing the raucous squeaks and rattles. He stopped when he ran out of coins and went back to his table, where his coffee and a glass of water were waiting for him. He gulped down the coffee, then drank the water. As he stretched his legs, his foot touched an object under the table. He bent down and groped in the dark until he was holding something unfamiliar, a small package⁠—no, not a package. For a while he kept his hand under the table, trying to determine what the thing was before he finally retrieved it. The object turned out to be a book in a brown-paper dust jacket. The man placed it next to the tray with the water glass and glanced around. He looked for Franz, who’d again disappeared. Today even the cashier was gone. No one was here today.

He started to stand up and take the book⁠—this “lost” property⁠—to the counter. But he was too tired, too dejected. So, Brunner and Maunz really weren’t coming. He opened the book, flipped through a few pages, and read a few words. He wasn’t paying much attention but still caught their gist. He simply read the words the way he always had, whether on an official form or in a sports newspaper, the way he’d learned in school, one word at a time.

He read at least ten lines, then clapped the book shut. Then he opened it again right away; he wanted to see what kind of book it was. It was called The Gay Science. Below that was a second title … or maybe it was all one title, he couldn’t quite tell⁠—the man laughed as he read it. He wanted to leave the money on the table and go but realized he didn’t have enough on him. He called out, “Franz, put it on my tab!” Book in hand, Reiter headed toward the door with a loud, firm step, but turned back, alert. He saw the waiter coming from the direction of the restroom, pulling out his pad and pencil. As Reiter nodded to Franz, he reached through the curtain in front of the door with his hand holding the book, and then he left.

Reiter looked up as the doctor entered the kitchen and gently closed the door. “Listen,” the doctor said. The man pulled a chair out for him and got two shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of egg liqueur from the buffet while the doctor washed his hands at the sink and quickly wiped them on the checkered hand towel. “She can get out of bed tomorrow,” the doctor said, and sat down. They sipped reluctantly from the thick, unctuous homemade liqueur.

“But I’m not happy with her. Not happy at all,” the doctor said. “She should spend some time out in the country or in a sanatorium.”

The man stared glumly ahead. “She could go to Hollabrunn, to stay with her parents. But she wouldn’t get any rest or recuperation there.”

“In that case she’d better not,” the doctor said.

“You have to excuse her for being so stupid,” the man said apologetically. “She’d rather see a charlatan, a swindler who uses magnets. It’s a complete con, I know. She goes to swindlers.”

The doctor didn’t reply. He wrote out a prescription, illegibly, scribbled a signature, and placed the paper in front of Reiter, who left it there and, without looking up, blurted out, “I haven’t gone to work for two days. You have to write me a sick note.”

“As an exception,” the doctor said, “because your wife needs you. I can do it just this once. But I can’t do it again. It’s a punishable offense.”

The man nodded, took a sick-leave form from the kitchen table drawer, and shoved it toward him. The doctor didn’t fill it out right away but asked, “What’s the matter? Something is the matter, isn’t it?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” the man replied. “Well, actually, I’d like to ask you something.”

“Yes?” The doctor wasn’t in a hurry; he thought of his five or six remaining house calls, all in foul-smelling, unaired rooms with disgusting beds, kitchens, women, children. He remained seated, sluggish, comfortable, not wanting to move. This kitchen was clean, it was familiar to him. Rosi Reiter was a tidy woman, the two of them were orderly people. Decent people, he’d even say to himself now and then.

“Where are your children?” the doctor asked.

“With the neighbor,” the man said and pointed at the ceiling. “Just until tomorrow. I’ll fetch them tomorrow.”

“So what’s the matter with you?” the doctor casually asked again.

“It’s about a book,” the man said, looking down. “I want to ask you something on account of this book.” He went to the radio, which was resting on a crate. The book was lying on the radio. He handed it to the doctor. “Do you know it?” he asked.