31

Maleva’s house was in the city centre, on the third floor of a building indistinguishable from the buildings on either side. Mihály briefly contemplated the screen of water coming down over the bare brick façade, then rang the bell. He straightened his thick jumper, patterned with red and green lozenges; something he had kept from the consignments of Soviet goods. His feet were cold inside his new boots; rubber outside, fleece lining. Because it was a first date, a litmus test, he thought it would be a good idea to dress normally. Since that first encounter, the previous week in the Dialectical Medical Studies room, he had not seen her again. He tried the bell once more but nobody answered. He sheltered for half an hour in the doorway of the building opposite; maybe she hadn’t heard, he thought, maybe she’d been in the bathroom putting on make-up, or maybe he made a mistake when he wrote down the address. He tried the doorbell once more before giving up. Pulling his jacket close, he walked back to the hospital. On the way he felt, with a kind of surgeon’s intuition, that his first chance with Maleva had in fact been his last.