I brush my teeth, curl my hair, manicure my nails and dab peroxide on my upper lip to bleach the black hairs -- all this in less than half an hour.
Nine-thirty. I throw on my bathrobe.
With soap in one hand, and potty, hairpins, panties, curlers and a wad of cotton in the other, I hurry out of the bathroom.
The next in line invariably calls me back to remove the gracefully curved but unsightly hairs that I've left in the sink.
Ten o'clock. Time to put up the blackout screen and say good-night.
For the next fifteen minutes, at least, the house is filled with the creaking of beds and the sigh of broken springs,
and then, provided our upstairs neighbors aren't having a marital spat in bed, all is quiet.
Eleven-thirty. The bathroom door creaks. A narrow strip of light falls into the room.
Squeaking shoes, a large coat, even larger than the man inside it... Dussel is returning from his nightly work in Mr. Kugler's office.
I hear him shuffling back and forth for ten whole minutes,
the rustle of paper (from the food he's tucking away in his cupboard) and the bed being made up.
Then the figure disappears again, and the only sound is the occasional suspicious noise from the bathroom.
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