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First she cut the narrow empty margins from old newspapers, and thus armed, took up her stand before the books. She grasped one in her hand, read the name, spoke it out loud and wrote it down on one of the long paper strips. At every letter she repeated the whole name, so as not to forget it. The more letters there were, the more often she said the whole word, and the more strangely did it become transformed in her mouth. Blunt consonants at the beginning of a name, B, D, or G became sharp and sharper. She had a preference for anything sharp, and it gave her great pains not to tear the newspaper strips with her sharp pencil. Her wooden fingers could produce only capital letters. She became indignant with long scientific titles, because there was no room for them from one end to the other of her strips. One book, one line: that was her rule, so that the strips could be the more easily counted and would look more beautiful. She would break off clean in the middle of a name if she reached the end of the paper, and send the rest, which she did not want, to the devil.

Her favourite letter was O. From her schooldays she had retained some practice in writing Os. (You must all close up your Os as nicely as Thérèse, teacher used to say. Thérèse makes the best Os. Three years she stuck in the same class, but that was no fault of hers. It was teacher's fault. She never could stand her, because in the end she made her Os better even than her. All the children had to copy her Os. Not one of them wanted to copy teacher's Os any more.) So she could make an O as small as she liked. The neat regular circles were dwarfed by their neighbours, three times their size. If a long title had a great number of Os she would count first,
how
many, then write them all down quickly at the end of the line and use what room there was left at the beginning of it for the title itself, duly deprived of its Os.

When she had completed a strip she drew a line, counted up the books, made a note of the sum in her head — she had a good memory for figures — and wrote it down as soon as she had added it up three times to the same figure.

Her letters grew smaller week by week, the circles along with them. When ten strips were completed they were neatly sewn together at the top and became another piece of her hard-earned possessions — an inventory of 603 books, hidden away in the pocket of her clean skirt together with her keys.

After about three weeks she fell upon the name of Buddha, which she had to write out countless times. Its gentle sound moved her.
This
was the name for the superior young man, not Brute. She closed her eyes, standing on the top of the ladder, and breathed as softly as she could, 'Mr.' Puda'. Thus her original form of the word, Puta, became Mr. Puda. She felt herself to be known by him and was proud because there was no end to his books. How beautifully he talked, and now he had written all these books too. She would have liked to take a peep inside. But she simply hadn't time.

YOUNG LOVE

The moment the doctor had said: 'To-morrow you can get up!' Kien felt well again. But he did not at once leap from his bed. It was evening, he intended to begin life as a healthy man in orderly fashion at six o'clock in the morning.

The following day he began it. For many years he had not felt so young and strong. While he was washing it seemed to him suddenly that he even had biceps. The enforced rest had suited him well. He closed the doors into the adjoining room and sat down bolt uptight at the writing desk. His papers had been disarranged, cautiously, but he did not fail to notice it. He rejoiced at putting them in order; the touch of the manuscripts was pleasant to him. An endless perspective of work stretched before him. The woman had searched here for his will, immediately after his fall, when fever had robbed him of his senses. Among the varying moods of his sick-bed, one principle had remained constant: he would not make a will since she set so much store upon it. He decided to attack her sharply as soon as he saw her; to order her back, swiftly and effectually, within her ancient limits.

She brought him his breakfast and wanted to say: 'The door must be kept open.' But she had planned a smiling campaign to win the will from him, and since she did not know his temper now that he was again on his feet, she mastered herself so as not to irritate him too soon. She merely stooped and pushed a small wedge under the door so that it could not simply be closed again. She was in a reconciling mood and willing to go roundabout to get her own way. He shot to his full height, looked her boldly in the face and declared with acid emphasis:

'Among my manuscripts I find an unholy disorder reigning. I cannot forbear to ask: how came the key into hands which had no right to it? I have found it again in my left trouser pocket. I am regretfully compelled to assume that it has been illegally removed, misused and subsequently replaced.'

'That would be a fine thing.'

'I demand for the first, and also for die last time; who has been tampering with my writing desk?'

'Think of that!'

'I insist on knowing!'

'I ask you, I haven't stolen anything!'

'I demand enlightenment.'

'Enlightenment, that's easy.'

'What is the meaning of this?'

'The things people do.'

'What people?'

'Time will tell.'

'The writing desk ..."

'I always say . ..'

'What?'

'You've made your own bed, now you must lie in it.'

'I am not interested.'

'He said they were good beds.'

'What beds?'

'The double beds are a picture.'

'Double beds?'

'That's what they say.'

'I am not interested in matrimony.'

'Maybe you think I married for love?'

'I need peace!'

'A respectable person goes to bed at nine ...'

'In future this door remains closed.'

'Man proposes, God disposes.'

'I have lost six full weeks owing to my illness.'

'Work, work, work, morning, noon and night.'

'This shall go no further.'

'And what has a husband done for his wife?'

'My time is valuable.'

'At the registry office both parties ought..."

'I shall make no will.'

'Who would think of poisoning?'

'A man of forty ... '

'A woman of thirty.'

'Fifty-seven.'

'Nobody ever called me that.'

'It can be plainly read on your birth certificate.'

'Reading! Anyone can read.'

'Well!'

'A woman must have it in writing. Where are the joys of life? Three rooms belong to the wife, one belongs to the husband, I've got that in black and white. A woman gives a man her everything and there she is — landed. Why was she such a fool? In black and white, that's the only way. Words don't count. One fine day the husband drops down in a fit. I don't even know which bank. A wife ought to know the name of the bank. If she doesn't know which bank, ' No", she says. I ask you, am I right or not? What's the use of a husband without a bank; Her husband won't tell her which bank. What a man, he won't even tell her the bank. That's not a man at all. A man ought to tell her which bank.'

'Get out!'

'Anyone can get out. What does a wife get out of that? A husband should make a will. A woman never knows. A man isn't the only person in the world. His wife's human too. In the street all the men stare at me. Wonderful hips make all the difference. Get out won't do at all. The room must be kept open. I have the keys. He's got to get the keys first of all, then he can lock up. He can whistle for the keys, the keys are here!' she tapped her skirt — 'You don't want to get there, do you? You do, but you daren't!'

'Get out!'

'First a wife saves her husband's life, then she's told to get out. The man was dead. Who fetched the caretaker? He did, didn't he? He was lying under the ladder. I ask you, why didn't he call the caretaker himself? He couldn't move a finger. First he was dead, and now he 
f
rudges his wife the least little bit. That new brother would never ave known. The bank must tell me. A woman wants to marry again. What did I get out of my husband? All of a sudden I may be forty and the men won't stare at me any more. A woman's human too. I ask you, a woman has a heart!'

From nagging she had fallen to sobbing. The heart, the heart a woman has, sounded on her lips like a broken one. There she stood propped up against the door jamb, her body for once as crooked as her head, presenting a piteous spectacle. She was determined not to move from her place, and quite expected a physical attack. Her left hand she held protectively over her skirt, in the very place where, in spite of its stiffness, it bulged with the keys and the catalogue of the books. The moment she had made sure of her property, she repeated: 'A heart! A heart!' and, overwhelmed by the strangeness and beauty of this word, fell once more to sobbing. 

The scales fell from Kien's eyes; the hated will was forgotten. He saw her, wretched, begging for love; she wanted to seduce him, he had not seen her like this before. He had married her for the books, she loved him. Her sobs filled him with a great fear. I will leave her alone, he thought, alone it will be easier for her to calm herself. Hurriedly he left the room, the flat and the house.