In this household you should realise, Herr Dan, that I always come last.’

Frau Santschin had an idea: one could buy tea from Herr Fisch, if he were not actually asleep. There was no chance of his lending any. For profit he would gladly sell it.

‘Let’s go to Fisch,’ says Stasia.

First, Fisch must be woken. He lives in the last room of the hotel, 864, and free of charge, because the merchants and industrialists of the town and the distinguished guests on the lowest floors are paying for him. Rumour has it that he was at one time married, well thought of, and a well-to-do factory owner. Now he has lost everything along the way; through carelessness, who can tell? Private charity keeps him going, but he does not admit it and calls himself a ‘lottery dreamer’. He has the faculty of dreaming lottery numbers which must infallibly win. He sleeps all day, lets himself dream lottery numbers, and bets them. But even before a draw he has another dream, sells his ticket, buys another with the proceeds, the first one wins, the second one does not. Many people have become rich through Fisch’s dreams and live on the first floor of the Savoy. Out of gratitude they pay for his rooms.

Fisch – his first name is Hirsch – lives in constant anxiety because somewhere, at some time, he has read that the government is going to abolish the lottery and introduce tombola.

Hirsch Fisch must have dreamed ‘lovely numbers’, for it is a long time before he gets up. He admits no one to his room, greets me in the corridor, listens to Stasia’s wish, shuts the door again and after quite a time opens it with a packet of tea in his hand.

‘We’ll put that on our account, Herr Fisch,’ says Stasia.

‘Good evening,’ says Fisch, and goes to bed.

‘If you have any money,’ Stasia recommends, ‘buy a ticket from Fisch,’ and she tells me about the Jew’s wonderful dreams.

I laugh, because I am ashamed to give in to my belief in miracles, something to which I am very prone. But I am determined to buy a ticket if Fisch will part with one.

The life stories of Santschin and Hirsch Fisch filled my mind. Everyone here seemed to be shrouded in secrecy. Have I dreamed that steam from the laundry? What lived behind this door and that one? Who had built this hotel? Who was Kaleguropulos, the manager?

‘Do you know Karegulopulos?’

Stasia did not know him. Nobody knew him. Nobody had set eyes on him, but if one had the time and the inclination one could position oneself just at the time he did his rounds of inspection, and then look at him.

‘Glanz tried it once,’ says Stasia, ‘but he didn’t see Kaleguropulos. Incidentally, Ignatz says there will be an inspection tomorrow.’

Even before I can go downstairs, Hirsch Fisch buttonholes me. He wears a shirt and long white underpants and holds a chamberpot stiffly out in front of him. Tall and haggard as he is, he looks in the dim half-light like someone risen from the dead. The stubbly hair of his grey beard stands up threateningly like small sharp spears. His eyes are deep set, overshadowed by powerful cheekbones.

‘Good morning, Herr Dan! Do you think that the little lady will pay me for my tea?’

‘Surely she’s likely to?’

‘Listen, I’ve dreamed some numbers! A certainty! I shall bet today. Have you heard that the government means to abolish the lottery?’

‘No!’

‘It would be a great misfortune, I can tell you. What do poor people live on? What can make them rich? Must one wait until an old aunt dies, or one’s grandfather? And then the will says that everything is left to the orphanage.’

Fisch talks, holding the chamberpot in front of him, apparently forgotten. I glance at it and he notices.

‘You know, I save money by not tipping. Why would I need a floor waiter? I keep myself tidy. These people steal like magpies. Everyone has had something stolen by now, but not I. I look after myself. Ignatz says they will do rounds today. I always go out.