“It’s against orders for the light to be on,” said Pepi, switching it off again. “I only turned it on because you gave me such a fright. What do you want here really? Did Frieda forget anything?” “Yes,” said K., pointing to the door, “a table-cover, a white embroidered table-cover, here in the next room.” “Yes, her table-cover,” said Pepi. “I remember it, a pretty piece of work. I helped with it myself, but it can hardly be in that room.” “Frieda thinks it is. Who lives in it, then?” asked K. “Nobody,” said Pepi, “it’s the gentlemen’s room; the gentlemen eat and drink there; that is, it’s reserved for that, but most of them remain upstairs in their rooms.” “If I knew,” said K., “that nobody was in there just now, I would like very much to go in and have a look for the table-cover. But one can’t be certain; Klamm, for instance, is often in the habit of sitting there.” “Klamm is certainly not there now,” said Pepi. “He’s making ready to leave this minute, the sledge is waiting for him in the yard.”
Without a word of explanation K. left the taproom at once; when he reached the hall he turned, instead of to the door, to the interior of the house, and in a few steps reached the courtyard. How still and lovely it was here! A foursquare yard, bordered on three sides by the house buildings, and towards the street—a side-street which K. did not know—by a high white wall with a huge, heavy gate, open now. Here where the court was, the house seemed stiller than at the front; at any rate the whole first storey jutted out and had a more impressive appearance, for it was encircled by a wooden gallery closed in except for one tiny slit for looking through. At the opposite side from K. and on the ground floor, but in the corner where the opposite wing of the house joined the main building, there was an entrance to the house, open, and without a door. Before it was standing a dark, closed sledge to which a pair of horses were yoked. Except for the coachman, whom at that distance and in the falling twilight K. guessed at rather than recognised, nobody was to be seen.
Looking about him cautiously, his hands in his pockets, K. slowly coasted round two sides of the yard until he reached the sledge. The coachman—one of the peasants who had been the other night in the taproom—smart in his fur coat, watched K. approaching non-committally, much as one follows the movements of a cat. Even when K. was standing beside him and had greeted him, and the horses were becoming a little restive at seeing a man looming out of the dusk, he remained completely detached. That exactly suited K.’s purpose. Leaning against the wall of the house he took out his lunch, thought gratefully of Frieda and her solicitous provision for him, and meanwhile peered into the inside of the house. A very angular and broken stair led downwards and was crossed down below by a low but apparently deep passage; everything was clean and whitewashed, sharply and distinctly defined.
The wait lasted longer than K. had expected. Long ago he had finished his meal, he was getting chilled, the twilight had changed into complete darkness, and still Klamm had not arrived. “It might be a long time yet,” said a rough voice suddenly, so near to him that K. started. It was the coachman, who, as if wakening up, stretched himself and yawned loudly. “What might be a long time yet?” asked K., not ungrateful at being disturbed, for the perpetual silence and tension had already become a burden. “Before you go away,” said the coachman. K. did not understand him, but did not ask further; he thought that would be the best means of making the insolent fellow speak. Not to answer here in this darkness was almost a challenge. And actually the coachman asked, after a pause: “Would you like some brandy?” “Yes,” said K. without thinking, tempted only too keenly by the offer, for he was freezing. “Then open the door of the sledge,” said the coachman; “in the side pocket there are some flasks, take one and have a drink and then hand it up to me. With this fur coat it’s difficult for me to get down.” K.
