The Trial Begins [antikvár]

Prologue Whenever I was at the end of my strengtih, I would climb up on the window-sill and poke my head out through the narrow window. Down below, galoshes squelched and cats cried like children. Thus, for a few moments, I hung over the city, gulping its raw, damp air; then I jumped back on the floor and lAt another cigarette. That was how I wrote this story. I hadn't heard them knock. There were two of them in plain clothes standing in the doorway. They had modest, thoughtful faces and they looked like twins. One of them went through my pockets. Then he made a small neat pile of the sheets of paper scattered on the table and, moistening his fingers, counted them; there were seven altogether. He ran his hand over the first page and, presumably by way of censorship, scooped up all the char-acters and punctuaitian marks. One flick of the hand and there on the blank paper was a writhing heap of purple marks. The young man put them in his pocket. One letter — I think it was an i-flicked its tail and tried to wriggle out, but he deftly caught it, tore off its legs and squashed it with his finger nail. In the meantime his companion was listing in his notebook all the details of my private life. He tapped the walls, went through my linen and even turned the soeks inside