The landlady, a desiccated woman like 
a mastiff beaten a moment ago - or a vixen, for she's red - 
so, OK, a just-beaten vixen, she drops in on the first
Monday of the month. Knocks on the door, but 

nobody can hear it: Mushroom's watching a web-movie,
Obrycki's washing his paintbrush in the bathroom, she's
banging on the goddamn door. It's always noisy at Greg's room,
the room that's closest. Turn it down a bit, OK,

says Obrycki and Mushroom - a hell of a trumpeter - turns it up
a bit, by mistake. I'm at my Chinese philosophy classes at the same time.
In the end nobody opened the door for her. She went away. Thursday she comes 

again. Says to me, well, you weren't here on Monday, were you,
and I says, well, I was not. And what about the money, can you pay me today?
OK, sure, I says, and I pay her; I visited my bank on Tuesday.