Time passed quickly. By ten o'clock, the cup of chicory coffee had been drunk by all three of them. Yesterday, none of them had noticed that barely any remained at the bottom of the tin.
During the short break, Elisa went out to the nearby park instead of having coffee. Perhaps she was speaking with a friend or family member, perhaps she intended to exchange a kiss with her lover. She didn't linger longer than they did over their coffee.
After this brief break, Elisa became clumsy. First, she knocked over a few vials, then measured a few grams too much of one component of a medicine, then mixed two ingredients together, even though the containers were labeled with huge red letters.
Elisa was having a bad day. It happens. Not a big deal.
Eva was forgiving. If she hadn't been paying attention, trouble could have arisen. She would have been held responsible because of Elisa.
She stays vigilant at work every moment, every day.
It wasn't the sort of thing that needed reporting.
No report needed.
Today, she was even working in Elisa's place.
At three o'clock, she didn't head straight home. She needed to buy a wristwatch.
She decided to go up to the second floor as well, to exchange a few words with Olga.
She wasn't going to lunch at the cafeteria today. She still had flour, jam, and oil at home. She would make pancakes in the afternoon.
But why not take some pancakes to Olga?
She turned back. A line had formed in front of the butcher's shop. Goods had arrived, which the morning and night shifts had luckily secured.
Luckily?
Who knows.
The line grew as Eva continued toward the bus stop.
She set her bag down on the small table in the hallway, next to the phone, on the red woven tablecloth. She slipped on her house slippers.
She washed her hands thoroughly, tied an apron around herself, and took out a bowl and a spoon. She didn't need the kitchen scale—she could judge the weight of each ingredient by sight.
The phone rang once.
Eva put the spoon down and waited.
The woman on the line had been mistaken and hung up in time. A single ring, then silence.
She made a huge batch of pancakes—enough for Márk, Olga, and some for tomorrow.
She placed six on a plate; that was all it could hold. Then she wrapped them in that bulky brown paper.
There were still time until the bus. Out of habit, Eva went into the living room to check the cuckoo clock.
The clock still lay disassembled, broken, on her round table.
She looked at the mechanism.
Then she saw the "bug."
It crouched there, questioning or accusing, nestled between the metal workings of the cuckoo clock.
Perhaps it was the reason the gears hadn't advanced. Yesterday, the cuckoo had struck four twice.
She backed silently out of the living room, as if she'd seen something not meant for her.
Then she checked the time in the bedroom, on the alarm clock.
Someone had been in their apartment and had planted the bug.
Márk was a journalist.
She wouldn't say anything about the bug—she'd show it in the afternoon.
She still had fifteen minutes until the bus. She placed the pancakes in the red cloth bag, removed her apron, washed her hands, put on her outdoor shoes and autumn coat, and grabbed her bag from beside the phone.
The device remained silent.