Somewhere in the back of his sullen, intoxicated mind, Johannes supposes that both Horst and Bagoas think he did that on purpose. Fine. Let them think so. He certainly doesn't do much to correct the impression; anyway, he might as well have done it on purpose, he reasons, like he gives a damn, like Horst couldn't stand a little public embarrassment for a change.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Home is sounding like a good idea right now. He wanted to stay home in the first place. The--whatever he is, the foreign hijra or eunuch, looks exceedingly uncomfortable. He's not the only one; look, Herr, Fräulein, I'm drunk., he could say. I don't want to be here, in a broad or specific sense, you don't want me to be here, I think we can agree that by any definition no one wants to be having this conversation right now. So why don't we--

Johannes does not say this. He instead tips the remaining whisky back into his mouth. It burns going down. "No, carry on," he says with a gesture indicating Horst and Bagoas and their little interlude. "Don't let me stop you."