When the balls are quiet again, thanks to the rugs, he calls the charlady in. While she, a fat, obtuse woman with a stiff upright gait, sets out his breakfast on the table and does a few other essential things, Blumfeld stands motionless in his dressing gown beside his bed to keep the balls in place. He watches her to check whether she has noticed anything. Hard of hearing as she is, it’s very unlikely, and Blumfeld puts it down to irritability brought on by his bad night’s sleep when he thinks he sees her stop from time to time, grab hold of some piece of furniture and listen with raised eyebrows. He wishes she would get a move on, but if anything she’s even slower than usual. Clumsily she loads herself up with Blumfeld’s clothes and boots, and goes out into the corridor with them. She stays gone a long time and there are very occasional thumps as she brushes them. And all this time Blumfeld has to wait by the bed, unable to move, so as not to bring the balls out behind him; has to let his coffee (which he likes to drink hot) go cold, and do nothing but stare at the drawn curtains, behind which the new day is murkily brightening. Finally the charlady is finished, bids him a good morning, and is on her way out. But before she finally takes her leave, she stops by the door muttering and giving Blumfeld a long stare. Blumfeld is on the point of asking her a question when she finally goes. He feels like yanking the door open and yelling at her for being such a stupid old woman. But when he thinks about what he actually has against her, he sees only the contradiction that she certainly hasn’t noticed anything but wanted to give the impression that she had. Such bewildering thoughts he has! And after only one single bad night’s sleep! He finds a little explanation for this in the departure from his habits – he didn’t smoke or drink. ‘If I ever,’ is the conclusion of his thinking, ‘don’t smoke and don’t drink, I know I’m in for a bad night.’

From now on he means to pay more attention to his physical well-being, and to make a start he takes the cotton wool from the home pharmacy kit which hangs over the bedside table and shoves two cotton-wool balls in his ears. Then he gets up and takes a trial step. The balls set off after him, but he almost can’t hear them, and a little more cotton wool is enough to render them completely inaudible. Blumfeld executes a few more steps: there is no particular unpleasantness. Each party is on its own, Blumfeld and the balls, they are connected to each other, but they don’t interfere with each other. Only when Blumfeld happens to turn round a little quickly and one of the balls doesn’t get out of his way in time, he strikes it with his knee. That’s the only incident to report, otherwise Blumfeld drinks his coffee in peace – he is ravenously hungry, it’s as though he hadn’t slept at all, but been on a long walk – washes in cold, incredibly refreshing water, and gets dressed. Up until now, he hasn’t drawn the curtains, having taken the road of caution and preferring to remain in the half-dark; he doesn’t need any snoops to watch him and the balls. But now that he’s ready to go, he needs to make arrangements for the balls in case – though he doesn’t think it likely – they should try to follow him out onto the street. At this point he has a good idea. He opens the large wardrobe and stands there with his back to it. It’s as though they could read his intentions, because they avoid the inside of the wardrobe and use every bit of available space between Blumfeld and the wardrobe, jumping momentarily, if nothing else is possible, inside the wardrobe, but then coming speeding out of its darkness. It seems it’s not possible to drive them any further inside; they would rather violate their duty and stand laterally to Blumfeld. But their little cunning is unavailing, because now Blumfeld backs right into the wardrobe, and they are compelled to follow him. And with that their fate is sealed, because the floor of the wardrobe is littered with various little items, such as boots, boxes, little cases, that are all – Blumfeld regrets it now – tidily arranged, but that make things quite a bit harder for the balls. And when Blumfeld now, having almost drawn shut the door of the wardrobe, suddenly, with a leap the likes of which he has not performed for several years, leaves the wardrobe, shuts the door and turns the key in the lock, the balls are locked away.