After the third or fourth round of drinks, Elsa did indeed offer to put me up. You don’t look like a maniac, she said, why not, I’ve got enough room.
I tried to explain it to Magdalena the next morning. When I walked into our room, I found her lying on the bed, completely dressed. She looked exhausted and puffy from crying. In a dull voice, she asked me where I’d been all night, but when I started to tell her, she interrupted me to say how she’d got back to the hotel a little before midnight, and had seen the editor and the director down at the bar. They had told her I’d run out of the restaurant, they couldn’t say where to or why. When Magdalena didn’t find me up in the room, she had gone back downstairs, but by now they’d closed the bar, and there was no one around. She hadn’t slept a wink all night, had stayed up waiting for me, worried about me. I just needed to get away, I said, I’m sorry, I was drunk. That’s not the point, said Magdalena, crying. You should just admit you don’t want to be with me anymore. Or has your courage deserted you already? I don’t know what’s more contemptible. She watched in silence as I packed my suitcase. I hesitated briefly in the doorway, but, not knowing what to say, I left without any further words of explanation or goodbye. I spent the next two nights in a room in a cheap pension. I saw Magdalena for the last time at the airport.