3
I worked hard at the office today. The boss was nice. He
asked me if I wasn’t too tired and he also wanted to
know Maman’s age. I said, “About sixty,” so as not to
make a mistake; and I don’t know why, but he seemed
to be relieved somehow and to consider the matter
closed.
There was a stack of freight invoices that had piled
up on my desk, and I had to go through them all. Before
leaving the office to go to lunch, I washed my hands. I
really like doing this at lunchtime. I don’t enjoy it so
much in the evening, because the roller towel you use
is soaked through: one towel has to last all day. I mentioned it once to my boss. He told me he was sorry but
it was really a minor detail. I left a little late, at half past
twelve, with Emmanuel, who works as a dispatcher. The
office overlooks the sea, and we took a minute to watch
the freighters in the harbor, which was ablaze with sunlight. Then a truck came toward us with its chains
rattling and its engine backfiring. Emmanuel said, “How
’bout it?” and I started running. The truck passed us and
we ran after it. I was engulfed by the noise and the dust. I couldn’t see anything, and all I was conscious of was
the sensation of hurtling forward in a mad dash through
cranes and winches, masts bobbing on the horizon and
the hulls of ships alongside us as we ran. I was first to
grab hold and take a Hying leap. Then I reached out
and helped Emmanuel scramble up. We were out of
breath; the truck was bumping around on the uneven
cobblestones of the quay in a cloud of dust and sun.
Emmanuel was laughing so hard he could hardly breathe.
We arrived at Celeste’s dripping with sweat. Celeste
was there, as always, with his big belly, his apron, and his
white moustache. He asked me if things were “all right
now.” I told him yes they were and said I was hungry. I
ate fast and had some coffee. Then I went home and
slept for a while because I’d drunk too much wine, and
when I woke up I felt like having a smoke. It was late
and I ran to catch a streetcar. I worked all afternoon. It
got very hot in the office, and that evening, when I
left, I was glad to walk back slowly along the docks. The
sky was green; I felt good. But I went straight home
because I wanted to boil myself some potatoes.
On my way upstairs, in the dark, I ran into old
Salamano, my neighbor across the landing. He was with
his dog. The two of them have been inseparable for
eight years. The spaniel has a skin disease-mange, I
think-which makes almost all its hair fall out and
leaves it covered with brown sores and scabs. After
living together for so long, the two of them alone in one
tiny room, they’ve ended up looking like each other. Old Salamano has reddish scabs on his face and wispy yellow
hair. As for the dog, he’s sort of taken on his master’s
stooped look, muzzle down, neck straining. They look as
if they belong to the same species, and yet they hate each
other. Twice a day, at eleven and six, the old man takes
the dog out for a walk. They haven’t changed their route
in eight years. You can see them in the rue de Lyon, the
dog pulling the man along until old Salamano stumbles.
Then he beats the dog and swears at it. The dog cowers
and trails behind. Then it’s the old man who pulls the
dog. Once the dog has forgotten, i t starts dragging its
master along again, and again gets beaten and sworn at.
Then they both stand there on the sidewalk and stare at
each other, the dog in terror, the man in hatred. It’s the
same thing every day. When the dog wants to urinate,
the old man won’t give him enough time and yanks at
him, so that the spaniel leaves behind a trail of little
drops. If the dog has an accident in the room, it gets
beaten again. This has been going on for eight years.
Celeste is always saying, “It’s pitiful,” but really, who’s
to say? When I ran into him on the stairs, Salamano was
swearing away at the dog. He was saying, “Filthy, stinking bastard!” and the dog was whimpering. I said “Good
evening,” but the old man just went on cursing. So I
asked him what the dog had done. He didn’t answer.
All he said was “Filthy, stinking bastard!” I could barely
see him leaning over his dog, trying to fix something on
its collar. I spoke louder. Then, without turning around,
he answered with a kind of suppressed rage, “He’s always there.” Then he left, yanking at the animal, which was
letting itself be dragged along, whimpering.
Just then my other neighbor carne in. The word
around the neighborhood is that he lives off women. But
when you ask him what he does, he’s a “warehouse
guard.” Generally speaking, he’s not very popular. But
he often talks to me and sometimes stops by my place for
a minute, because I listen to him. I find what he.has to
say interesting. Besides, I don’t have any reason not to
talk to him. His name is Raymond Sintes. He’s a little
on the short side, with broad shoulders and a nose like
a boxer’s. He always dresses very sharp. And once he
said to me, talking about Salarnano, “If that isn’t pitiful!”
He asked me didn’t I think it was disgusting and I said
no.
We went upstairs and I was about to leave him when
he said, “I’ve got some blood sausage and some wine at
my place. How about joining me?” I figured it would save
me the trouble of having to cook for myself, so I accepted. He has only one room too, and a little kitchen
with no window. Over his bed he has a pink-and-white
plaster angel, some pictures of famous athletes, and
two or three photographs of naked women. The room
was dirty and the bed was unmade. First he lit his
paraffin lamp, then he took a pretty dubious-looking
bandage out of his pocket and wrapped it around his
right hand. I asked him what he’d done to it. He said
he’d been in a fight with some guy who was trying to
start trouble .