‘There! That’s all there is. Give it to the setters.—Are the others inside?’

‘Where else would they be?’ the belle replies, naughtily answering the question with a question. ‘Do they need an invoice?’

‘Of course they don’t need a flaming invoice. Have you ever known any of those monkeys pay for space?! It was all of nine marks. Has the owner come down?’

‘The owner has been up inventing since five this morning.’

‘God protect him! And his wife? Sozzled?’

‘Not sure. Think so. Fritz had to go and get her a bottle of cognac at eight.’

‘Then everything’s as it should be.—Oh, Jesus, how I hate this place!—Are they in there?’

‘You asked me that once already.’

‘Oh, don’t be like that, Clara, Clarabella, Clarissima. You know I saw you come out of the Grotto at half past midnight.’

‘Well, if I’m to live off what he pays me—’

‘I know, I know. I wonder if the boss has money.’

‘No chance.’

‘And what about Wenk—is there any in the cashbox?’

‘The Baltic Cinema paid yesterday.’

‘So I’ll get my advance. He is in there, is he?’

‘I think you asked—’

‘—you that already. Change the reel, won’t you, sweetie. Don’t forget the copy.’

‘My God. And what if I do.’

II

Tredup pulls back the sliding door to the editorial office, walks in, and slides it shut behind him. The lanky managing editor, Wenk, is sprawled across an armchair, fiddling with his nails. Editor Stuff is scribbling something or other.

Tredup slings his folder on to a shelf, hangs his hat and coat up by the stove, and sits down at his desk. Indifferently, seemingly unaware of the questioning glances coming his way, he pulls out a card index file and begins sorting the cards. Wenk stops trimming his nails, examines the penknife blade in the sunlight, wipes it on the sleeve of his rayon jacket, shuts his knife and looks at Tredup. Stuff carries on writing.

Nothing happens. Wenk pulls one foot off the armrest and asks benevolently: ‘Well, Tredup?’

‘Herr Tredup, if you don’t mind!’

‘Well, Herr Tredup?’

‘I’ve had it with that bloody “well” of yours.’

Wenk turns to Stuff. ‘He’s got nothing, I tell you, Stuff. Nothing.’

Stuff shoots a look at Tredup from under his pince-nez, sucks his greying moustache through his teeth, and affirms: ‘Of course he’s got nothing.’

Tredup jumps up in a rage. The card index file clatters to the ground. ‘What do you mean, “of course”? How dare you “of course” me! I’ve been round to thirty businesses. I can’t make them take space, can I? Pull the advertisements out of their noses? If they won’t, they won’t. I’m reduced to begging them . . . And the scribbler says “of course”. Ridiculous!’

‘Don’t get het up, Tredup. What’s the point?’

‘Of course I get het up about your “of course”.