‘Now I’ve got them!’ thinks Blumfeld, hot with joy, and he tears off his dressing gown to throw himself into his bed. But just then, that same ball jumps back under the bed. Excessively disappointed, Blumfeld slumps back. The ball probably just took a look at conditions on the bed and found it didn’t care for them. And, of course, now the other ball follows suit, and of course it stays under the bed, because under is better. ‘Now I’m going to be stuck with those two drummers all night,’ thinks Blumfeld, biting his lip and shaking his head.

He feels sad, though he doesn’t know what the balls could do to harm him at night. His sleep is extremely sound; he will easily manage to ignore their slight noise. To be sure of this, as experience has already taught him, he pushes a couple of rugs under the bed. It’s as though he had a small dog there, and wanted to make sure it’s comfortable; and as though the balls were getting tired and sleepy too, their jumps becoming lower and slower than up until now. As Blumfeld kneels down by the bedside and shines a torch under the bed, he sometimes has a sense that the balls will stay forever on the carpets, that’s how feebly they’re falling, how slowly they’re rolling a few inches this way or that. Then, admittedly, they get a grip on themselves and perform. Still, Blumfeld thinks it perfectly possible that when he looks under the bed in the morning, he will find just two harmless and motionless toys.

But they don’t seem to be able to keep bouncing until the morning, because no sooner is Blumfeld lying in bed than he can’t hear them anymore. He strains to pick up a sound, leans right out of his bed – nothing at all. It’s not possible for that all to be because of the rugs; no, the only explanation is that the balls have stopped jumping. Either they can’t lift themselves off the soft rugs and have for the moment given up, or – and this strikes Blumfeld as the likelier of the two – they will never jump again. Blumfeld could of course get up and check, but in his satisfaction that quiet has returned, he remains lying where he is, he won’t even send a look the way of those pacified balls. He doesn’t even miss his evening smoke; he rolls over onto his side and is asleep immediately.

But he is not undisturbed; his sleep is dreamless, as it always is, just very restless. Innumerable times he is woken by the fancy that someone is knocking on his door. Of course he knows there is no one; who could possibly come knocking on his lonely bachelor’s door at night. Even though he knows it, he still can’t help leaping up and looking tensely in the direction of the door, his mouth agape, his eyes starting, strands of hair shaking on his damp brow. He tries to keep count of the number of times he is woken, but driven demented by the vast numbers that come up, he falls back to sleep. He thinks he has an idea where the knocking is coming from, it’s not the door at all, but somewhere else, but in the muzziness of sleep he can’t remember what this assumption of his is grounded on. All he knows is that many tiny disgusting little taps, put together, make a big powerful knock. He thinks he would tolerate all the disgustingness of the little taps if he could avoid the knocks, but for some reason it’s too late, he is unable to intervene, he’s missed his moment, he doesn’t even have words, his mouth opens only for a mute yawn and, in fury, he mashes his face down in the pillow. This is his night.

In the morning he is woken by the knocking of the cleaner and with a sigh of relief he greets her gentle knocking – it always annoyed him that it was inaudible. And he is on the point of calling out ‘Come in’ when he hears another lively knocking, still muted, but positively warlike. It is the balls under the bed. Have they woken up – have they, unlike him, gathered fresh strength over night? ‘One moment,’ Blumfeld calls to the charlady, jumps out of bed, but taking care to keep his back to the balls, throws himself to the floor with his back to them, then twists his head in the direction of the balls – and – he almost swears. Like children pushing their unwanted blankets away, the balls, presumably through a sequence of nudgings kept up all night, the balls have managed to push the rugs so far under the bed that they have gained access to the parquet and are able to make a noise. ‘Get back on the rug!’ says Blumfeld with an angry expression.