‘What has happened to him? A fit?’
‘No; nothing has happened.’
‘How is it you didn’t bring him?’
‘He’s pulling his house to pieces.’
‘What?’
‘He’s standing on the roof of the new building, and pulling it to pieces. Forty boards or more, I should guess, must have come down by now, and some five of the rafters too.’ (‘They shall not have a roof over their heads.’ Harlov’s words came back to me.)
My mother stared at Kvitsinsky. ‘Alone … he’s standing on the roof, and pulling the roof down?’
‘Exactly so. He is walking about on the flooring of the garret in the roof, and smashing right and left of him. His strength, you are aware, madam, is superhuman. And the roof too, one must say, is a poor affair; half-inch deal battens, laid wide apart, one inch nails.’
My mother looked at me, as though wishing to make sure whether she had heard aright. ‘Half-inches wide apart,’ she repeated, obviously not understanding the meaning of one word. ‘Well, what then?’ she said at last.