The Collected Stories

pounding on my door and the sound of a woman’s voice. I couldn’t tell whether she was laughing or crying. ‘Who can it be?’ I said to myself. ‘Lilith? Namah? Machlath, the daughter of Ketev M’riri?’ Out loud, I called, ‘Madam, you are making a mistake.’ But she continued to bang on the door. Then I heard a groan and someone falling. I did not dare to open the door. I began to look for my matches, only to discover that I was holding them in my hand. Finally, I got out of bed, lit the gas lamp, and put on my dressing gown and slippers. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and my reflection scared me. My face was green and unshaven. I finally opened a door, and there stood a young woman in bare feet, wearing a sable coat over her nightgown. She was pale and her long blond hair was disheveled. ‘Madam, what’s the matter?’ I said.
    “ ‘Someone just tried to kill me. I beg you, please let me in. I only want to stay in your room until daylight.’
    “I wanted to ask who had tried to kill her, but I saw that she was half frozen. Most probably drunk, too. I let her in and noticed a bracelet with huge diamonds on her wrist. ‘My room is not heated,’ I told her.
    “ ‘It’s better than to die in the street.’
    “So there we were both of us. But what was I to do with her? I only have one bed. I don’t drink—I’m not allowed to—but a friend had given me a bottle of cognac as a gift, and I had some stale cookies. I gave her a drink and one of the cookies. The liquor seemed to revive her. ‘Madam, do you live in this building?’ I asked.
    “ ‘No,’ she said. ‘I live on Ujazdowskie Boulevard.’
    “I could tell that she was an aristocrat. One word led to another, and I discovered that she was a countess and a widow, and that her lover lived in the building—a wild man, who kept a lion cub as a pet. He, too, was a member of the nobility, but an outcast. He had already served a year in the Citadel, for attempted murder. He could not visit her, because she lived in her mother-in-law’s house, so she came to see him. That night, in a jealous fit, he had beaten her and placed his revolver at her temple. To make a long story short, she had managed to grab her coat and run out of his apartment. She had knocked on the doors of the neighbors, but none of them would let her in, and so she had made her way to the attic.
    “ ‘Madam,’ I said to her, ‘your lover is probably still looking for you. Supposing he finds you? I am no longer what one might call a knight.’
    “ ‘He won’t dare make a disturbance,’ she said. ‘He’s on parole. I’m through with him for good. Have pity—please don’t put me out in the middle of the night.’
    “ ‘How will you get home tomorrow?’ I asked.
    “ ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m tired of life anyhow, but I don’t want to be killed by him.’
    “ ‘Well, I won’t be able to sleep in any case,’ I said. ‘Take my bed and I will rest here in this chair.’
    “ ‘No. I wouldn’t do that. You are not young and you don’t look very well. Please, go back to bed and I will sit here.’
    “We haggled so long we finally decided to lie down together. ‘You have nothing to fear from me,’ I assured her. ‘I am old and helpless with women.’ She seemed completely convinced.
    “What was I saying? Yes, suddenly I find myself in bed with a countess whose lover might break down the door at any moment. I covered us both with the two blankets I have and didn’t bother to build the usual cocoon of odds and ends. I was so wrought up I forgot about the cold. Besides, I felt her closeness. A strange warmth emanated from her body, different from any I had known—or perhaps I had forgotten it. Was my opponent trying a new gambit? In the past few years he had stopped playing with me in earnest. You know, there is such a thing as humorous chess. I have been told that Nimzowitsch often played jokes on his partners. In the old days, Morphy was known as a chess prankster. ‘A fine move,’ I said to my adversary. ‘A masterpiece.’ With that I realized that I knew who her lover was. I had met him on the stairs—a giant of a man, with the face of a murderer. What a funny end for Jacques Kohn—to be finished off by a Polish Othello.
    “I began to laugh and she joined in. I embraced her and held her close. She did not resist. Suddenly a miracle happened. I was a man again! Once, on a Thursday evening, I stood near a slaughterhouse