"One evening, after my sister had already left, the insomniac spoke to me. I was at my window. I was looking out for the storm clouds that had been forecast for days. The old man spoke to me from across the street. He said, 'You can't see the stars. The storm is coming.' I didn't reply. I looked elsewhere, left and right up the street. I didn't want to strike up an acquaintance. I ignored him.
"I sat in a corner of my room where he couldn't see me. I realize now that if I stay here I'll do nothing but drink, smoke, and watch the insomniac through the window, until I become an insomniac myself."
Victor looks out the window and collapses into his armchair with a sigh. "He's there. He's there and he's watching me. He's waiting for a chance to strike up a conversation with me. But I won't let him, he might as well give up, he won't have the last word."
Lucas says, "Calm down, Victor. Maybe he's just a retired night watchman who got used to sleeping during the day."
Victor says, "A night watchman? Perhaps. It makes no difference. If I stay here, he'll destroy me. I'm already half mad. My sister noticed. Before she got on the train she said, 'I'm too old to make such a long and tiring journey again. We should make a decision, Victor, otherwise I'm afraid we might never see each other again.' I asked, 'What kind of decision?' She said, 'Your business is failing, I can see that much. You sit all day in the shop and never get any customers. At night you walk up and down in the apartment and in the morning you're exhausted. You drink too much-you've drunk nearly half the brandy I brought you. If you go on like that you'll become an alcoholic.'
"I didn't tell her that during her stay I had drunk six other bottles of brandy as well as the bottles of wine we opened at each meal. I didn't tell her about the insomniac either, of course. She continued, 'You look terrible, you have rings round your eyes, you're pale and overweight. You eat too much meat, you get no exercise, you never go out, you lead an unhealthy life.' I said, 'Don't worry about me. I feel fine.' I lit a cigar. The train was late. My sister turned her head away in disgust. 'You smoke too much. You never stop smoking.'
"I didn't tell her that two years ago the doctors discovered that I had an arterial disease caused by nicotine poisoning. My right iliac artery is blocked, there is no circulation, or hardly any, in my left leg. I get pains in my hip and my calf, and I have no feeling in the big toe of my left foot. The doctors gave me medicine, but there will be no improvement if I don't stop smoking and don't start getting exercise. But I have no desire to stop smoking. In fact I'm totally lacking in willpower. You can't expect an alcoholic to have willpower. So if I want to stop smoking, I will first of all have to stop drinking.
"I sometimes think that I should give up smoking, and then right away I light up a cigar or a cigarette, and I think while I'm smoking it that if I don't stop smoking it will soon mean the end of all circulation in my left leg, which will bring about gangrene, which in turn will mean amputation of my foot or the whole leg.
"I said nothing about any of this so as not to worry my sister, but she was worried anyway. As she got on the train she said, 'Sell the bookshop and come live with me in the country. We can live on next to nothing, in the house we grew up in. We can go for walks in the forest. I'll take care of everything. You'll stop smoking and drinking and you can write your book.'
"The train left. I went home, I poured myself a glass of brandy, and wondered what book she was talking about.
"That evening I took a sleeping pill, along with my usual medicine for my circulation, and I drank all the brandy left in my sister's bottle, about half a liter. In spite of the sleeping pill I woke up very early the next morning, with a total lack of sensation in my left leg. I was bathed in perspiration, my heart was pounding, my hands were shaking, I was immersed in a foul and fearful anguish. I checked the time on my alarm clock. It had stopped. I dragged myself to the window. The old man opposite was still there. I called across the empty street, 'Could you tell me the time, please? My watch has stopped.' He turned away, as if consulting a clock, before replying, 'It is half past six.' I was going to get dressed but found that I already was. I had slept in my clothes and my shoes. I went down into the street, I went to the nearest grocery. It was still closed. I walked up and down in the street while I waited. The manager arrived, he opened the shop, he served me. I bought the first bottle of brandy I saw, went home. I drank a few glasses, my anguish disappeared, the man across the street had closed his window.
"I went down to the bookshop, I sat down at the counter. There were no customers. It was still summer, the school holidays, no one needed books or anything else. Sitting there, looking at the books on the shelves, I remembered my book, the book my sister mentioned, the book I had been intending to write since I was a young man. I wanted to become a writer, to write books, that was the dream of my youth, and we often talked about it together, my sister and I. She believed in me, I also believed in myself, but less and less until finally I completely forgot this dream of writing books.
"I'm only fifty years old. If I stop smoking and drinking, or rather drinking and smoking, I can still write a book. Not books, but a single book, perhaps. I am convinced, Lucas, that every human being is born to write a book, and for no other reason. A work of genius or mediocrity, it doesn't matter, but he who writes nothing is lost, he has merely passed through life without leaving a trace.
"If I stay here I will never write a book. My only hope is to sell the house and the shop and go live with my sister. She will keep me from drinking and smoking, we will lead a healthy life, she will take care of everything, I will have nothing else to do except write my book, once I'm rid of the alcoholism and the nicotine poisoning. You yourself, Lucas, are writing a book. About whom, about what, I don't know. But you write. Since you were a child you have never stopped buying sheets of paper, pencils, notebooks."
Lucas says, "You're right, Victor. Writing is the most important thing. Name your price. I'll buy the house and the bookshop. We can close the deal in a few weeks."
Victor asks, "The valuables you mentioned-what are they?"
"Gold and silver coins. And jewels as well."
Victor smiles. "Do you want to inspect the house?"
"That's not necessary. I'll make whatever changes are needed. These two rooms will be enough for the two of us."
"There were three of you, if I remember correctly."
"There are only two of us now. The child's mother has gone away."
Lucas says to the child, "We're moving. We'll be living in town, in the main square. I bought the bookshop."
The child says, "That's good. I'll be closer to school. But when Yasmine comes back, how will she find us?"
"In a town this size she'll find us easily."
The child asks, "Will we not have a garden and animals anymore?"
"We'll have a little garden. We'll keep the dog and the cat, and some chickens for the eggs. We'll sell the other animals to Joseph."
"Where will I sleep? There's no Grandmother's room there."
"You'll sleep in a little room next to mine. We'll be right next to each other."
"Without the animals and the produce from the garden, what will we live off?"
"We'll live off the bookshop. I'll sell pencils, books, paper. You can help me."
"Yes, I'll help you. When are we moving?"
"Tomorrow. Joseph is coming with his wagon."