Prokofiev's composition is slowly dying away. Mashl has his ear glued to the receiver as if he and the phone were one, a single strange creature. His eyes are half-closed, and the pale fingers of his left hand are conducting to the rhythm of the closing chords - they increase in density and loudness and the tempo accelerates up to the final roar as the orchestra achieves the magnificence of a successful orgasm.
Grey drops of rain start to drum into the windowpanes.
Suddenly he remembered something.
Slowly he put the receiver down on the floor and crawled on all fours to the corner of the room that contained the rolled up carpet. It was scarcely visible under the pile of books and dirty laundry. Energetically, Mashl shifted the junk aside. He rapidly cleared his way right into the corner. He caught the small dark bump hiding under the carpet. The bump jumped but he held on to it firmly. He got a better hold on it. He could hear its faint squeaking. He tried to kick the carpet away with his foot, but failed. The bump was struggling and jerking terribly, nearly slipping out of his grasp. Then it did slip out, and he heard himself shouting. He jumped with all his weight on the roll of carpet, and something wriggled under it. He slid a hand underneath, and then caught the thing again, with both hands now. There was more feeble squeaking, but this time he knew that he wouldn't let go. Well, not unless it bit him, he realised. But it didn't bite. He slid off the rug and kicked it away. His prey was staring at him, goggle-eyed.
It was a little old Chinese man.