ON various occasions K. had tried, without at first being motivated by any specific intention, to discover the location of the office which had issued the initial indictment in his case. There was no difficulty in finding this out, as soon as he asked, both Titorelli and Wolfhart* told him the precise number of the building. Later Titorelli, with a smile he always had ready for secret plans that had not been submitted to him for approval, had supplemented his information with the assertion that this office was of no significance whatsoever, it merely said what it had been told to say, and was only the external mouthpiece of the great organization whose business it was to seek out guilt, which was, of course, inaccessible to defendants and their lawyers. So if, he went on, one wanted something from the authority—naturally there were always many things one wanted, but it was not always wise to express them—one had to turn to the aforementioned subordinate office, though that would neither gain one access to the actual authority, nor would one’s request ever reach it.
K. was already familiar with the painter’s manner, so he didn’t object or ask any further questions, but simply nodded and noted what had been said. Once more he felt, as he had several times recently, that Titorelli amply replaced the lawyer as far as torture was concerned. The only difference was that K. was not as dependent on Titorelli, and could have got rid of him without further ado had he so desired; also that Titorelli was very communicative, even garrulous, albeit more so earlier on than now; and finally, that K. for his part was equally able to torture Titorelli.
And that is what he did in connection with this matter, mentioning the building now and then in a tone of voice which suggested that he was concealing something from Titorelli, that he had established relations with the office but that they had not yet reached the stage where they could be revealed without danger. If, however, Titorelli then tried to press him for details, K. would suddenly change the subject and let some time elapse before he mentioned the office again. He derived pleasure from these little victories, they made him feel he understood these people with connections to the court much better, he could play with them, almost became one of them himself; at least for a few moments he enjoyed the clearer perception of the structure of the court which the first step, on which they stood, allowed them. What difference would it make if he should finally lose his position here below? There was another opportunity for salvation there as well, he just had to slip into the ranks of these people; even if, because of their lowly status or for some other reason, they had not been able to help him in his trial, at least they could take him in and hide him, indeed, if he thought everything through sufficiently and carried it out in secret, they couldn’t avoid serving him in this way, especially Titorelli, now that K. had become a close acquaintance and patron.
These and similar hopes were not something K. cherished every day. In general, he could make clear distinctions and took care not to overlook or miss out any difficulty, but sometimes—mostly when in a state of complete exhaustion in the evening after work—he found comfort in the least and, moreover, most ambiguous events of the day. At such times he was usually lying on the sofa in his office—he could no longer leave his office without spending an hour recovering on the sofa—and stringing one observation after another together in his mind. In this he did not limit himself strictly to people connected with the court—as he dozed, they all merged and he forgot the extensive work of the court, he felt as if he were the only defendant and all the others intermingled, like officials and lawyers in the corridors of the court building, and even the dullest had his chin on his chest, his lips pursed, and the fixed stare of conscientious thought. On such occasions Frau Grubach’s tenants always appeared as a single group, they stood together, a row of heads with mouths open, like an accusing chorus. There were many among them whom K. did not know, for a long time now he had not paid the least attention to the affairs of the boarding-house. Because of the many unknown people, he felt uneasy about closer contact with the group, which, however, was necessary when he was looking for Fräulein Bürstner among them. For example, he would scan the group and suddenly two completely unknown eyes would blaze out at him and hold him. Then he would not find Fräulein Bürstner, but when, to avoid the possibility of a mistake, he searched again, he would find her right in the middle of the group, her arms round two men who were standing on either side of her. The impression it made on him was infinitely small, especially since the sight was nothing new, it was merely the indelible memory of a photo of the beach he had seen once in Fräulein Bürstner’s room. But the sight did drive K. away from the group, and even though he returned several times, when he did he was rushing to and fro round the court building with long strides. He always knew his way round all the rooms, remote corridors which he could never have seen looked familiar to him, as if he had always lived there, details kept impressing themselves on his brain with painful clarity, a foreigner, for example, was taking a walk in one of the anterooms, his dress was similar to a bullfighter’s, the waist cut in sharply, as if with knives, his very short jacket, wrapped stiffly round him, consisted entirely of yellowish lace made of coarse threads, and this man exposed himself the whole time to K.’s astonished gaze without for a moment interrupting his walk. K. crept round him, bent low, and gaped at him, straining to keep his eyes wide open. He knew all the patterning of the lace, all the missing fringes, all the undulations of the little jacket, and still could not take his eyes off it. Or, rather, he could have taken his eyes off it long ago, or, to be more precise, he had never wanted to look at it, but it kept a hold on him. ‘What fancy outfits they have abroad!’ he thought, opening his eyes even wider. And he continued in this man’s wake until he turned over on the sofa and pressed his face into the leather.