I am alone in my cell. There aren't many criminals in this town, and when there is one he is immediately brought to the neighboring town, the regional seat, twelve miles away.
I'm not a criminal. I'm here because my papers are not in order; my visa has expired. I've also run into debt.
In the morning my guard brings me breakfast-milk, coffee, bread. I drink some coffee and then shower. My guard finishes my breakfast and cleans my cell. The door is left open; I can go out into the courtyard if I want. The courtyard is enclosed by high walls covered with ivy and wild vines. Behind one of these walls, the one to the left as you leave my cell, is a school playground. I hear the children laughing, playing, and shouting during recess. The school was there when I was a child, as I recall, although I never went. The prison was here, on the other hand, as I also recall because I went there once.
For one hour in the morning and one hour in the evening I walk around the courtyard, a habit I developed during my childhood, when at the age of five I had to learn how to walk again.
This annoys my guard, because while I'm doing it I don't speak a word and don't hear the questions he asks me.
I pace with my eyes to the ground, my hands behind my back, turning and following the line of the walls. The ground is paved, but grass grows in the gaps between the stones.
The courtyard is almost square. Fifteen paces long, thirteen paces wide. Supposing I take three-foot strides, the courtyard's area must be 195 square yards. But my stride is probably not that long.
In the middle of the courtyard is a round table with two garden chairs; against the back wall is a wooden bench.
It is by sitting on that bench that I am able to see the greatest amount of my childhood sky.
The bookseller came to visit me on the very first day, bringing my personal effects and some vegetable soup. She continues to show up every day around noon with soup. I tell her I'm well fed here, that my guard brings me a full meal twice a day from the restaurant across the street, but she keeps coming with her soup. I eat a little out of politeness and I pass the pot to my guard, who finishes it.
I apologize to the bookseller for the mess that I left in the apartment.
She says, "Don't mention it. My daughter and I have already cleaned everything up. Mostly there was a lot of paper. I burned every sheet that was crumpled or thrown in the wastebasket. I left the others on the table, but the police came and took them."
I remain silent for a moment and then say, "I still owe you two months' rent."
She laughs. "I asked you far too much for that little apartment. But if you mean it, you can pay me when you come back. Next year, maybe."
I say, "I don't think I'll be coming back. My embassy will pay."
She asks me if there is anything I want, and I say, "Yes, paper and pencils. But I have no money."
She says, "I should have thought of it myself."
I say to her, "Thank you. The embassy will reimburse you for everything."
She says, "You're always going on about money. I wish you'd talk about something else. What are you writing, for instance?"
"What I write is absolutely meaningless."
She insists. "What I want to know is whether you write things that are true or things that are made up."
I answer that I try to write true stories but that at a given point the story becomes unbearable because of its very truth, and then I have to change it. I tell her that I try to tell my story but all of a sudden I can't-I don't have the courage, it hurts too much. And so I embellish everything and describe things not as they happened but the way I wish they had happened.
She says, "Yes. There are lives sadder than the saddest of books."
I say, "Yes. No book, no matter how sad, can be as sad as a life."
After a silence she asks, "Your limp, is it from an accident?" "No, from an illness when I was very small."
She adds, "You can hardly even notice it."
I laugh.
I have things to write with again, but I haven't got anything to drink or any cigarettes either, aside from the two or three my guard offers me after dinner. I request an interview with the chief of police, who sees me immediately. His office is upstairs. I go. I sit down in a chair across from him. He has red hair and his face is covered with red spots. A game of chess is set up on the table in front of him. The policeman looks at the board, advances a pawn, jots the move down in a notebook, and raises his pale blue eyes.
"What do you want? The inquiry isn't over yet. It will be several weeks, a month, perhaps."
I say, "I'm not in any hurry. I'm very comfortable here. Except that I need one or two little things."
"Such as?"
'The embassy wouldn't mind if you added a bottle of wine and two packs of cigarettes a day to my prison tab."
He says, "It probably wouldn't. But that would be bad for your health."
I say, "Do you know what happens to alcoholics when they're forced to stop drinking?"
He says, "No, and I don't give a damn."
I say, 'There's a risk of delirium tremens. I could die at any moment."
"No kidding."
He turns his eyes back to the board. I tell him, "The black knight."
He keeps staring at the board. "Why? I don't understand."
I advance the knight. He notes it down in his book. He ponders for a long time, then picks up his rook.
"No."
He sets down the rook and looks at me. "You play? Well?"
"I don't know. It's been a long time. But at any rate I'm better than you."
He turns redder than his spots. "I only started three months ago. And without anyone to teach me. Could you give me a few lessons?"
I say, "Gladly. But don't get angry when I win."
He says, "I'm not interested in winning. What I want is to learn."
I stand up. "Bring your set whenever you want. Ideally in the morning. The mind then is sharper than it is in the afternoon or evening."
"Thank you," he says.
He looks at the board; I wait, then cough. "What about the wine and cigarettes?"
He says, "No problem. I'll give the orders. You'll have your cigarettes and wine."
I leave the policeman's office. I go back downstairs and into the courtyard. I sit on the bench. The autumn is very mild this year. The sun sets and the sky takes on colors-orange, yellow, violet, red, and others for which there are no names.
For around two hours almost every day I play chess with the policeman. The games are long; the policeman thinks a lot, notes everything down, and always loses.
Every afternoon, after the bookseller has put away her knitting and gone off to reopen her shop, I also play cards with my guard. The card games in this country are unlike anything anywhere else. Although they are simple and there is a large element of chance to them, I always lose. We play for money, and since I don't have any my guard writes my losses down in a ledger. After every game he laughs loudly and repeats, "I'm screwed! I'm screwed!"
He is a young newly wed and his wife is expecting a baby in a few months. He often says, "If it's a boy and you're still here, I'll forgive your debt."
He talks a lot about his wife, telling me how pretty she is, especially now that she has gained weight and her buttocks and breasts have almost doubled in size. He also tells me in detail about how they met, about their "going together," their lovers' walks in the forest, her resistance, his victory, and their quick marriage, which became urgent because of the baby on the way.
But what he talks about in even greater detail and with even more pleasure is last night's dinner-how his wife prepared it, with which ingredients in what way and for how long, because "the longer it simmers the better it is."