One day I go into the bookseller's to buy paper and pencils. The fat man of my childhood is no longer there; now it is a woman who runs the place. She is sitting and knitting in an armchair near the French door that looks out onto the garden. She smiles at me.
"I know you. I see you going in and out of the hotel every day. Except for when you return too late and I'm already asleep. I live above the bookshop and like to look at the square at night."
I say, "Me too."
She asks, "Are you vacationing here? For very long?"
"Yes, vacationing. In a way. I'd like to spend as much time here as possible. It depends on my visa as well as on my money."
"Your visa? You're a foreigner? You don't look it."
"I spent my childhood in this town. I was born in this country. But I've been abroad for a very long time."
She says, 'There are a lot of foreigners here now that the country is free. Those who went away after the revolution come back to visit, but more than anything it's the curious ones, the tourists. You'll see, when the nice weather sets in they'll come by the busload. That'll be the end of our peace and quiet."
In fact the hotel is increasingly filled. Saturdays are dance nights; sometimes the dances last until four in the morning. I can stand neither the music nor the shouts and laughter of the people amusing themselves. So I stay out in the streets, sitting down on a bench with a bottle of wine I have bought earlier in the day, and wait.
One night a small boy sits down next to me.
"Can I stay here next to you, mister? I get a little scared at night."
I recognize his voice. It's the child who carried my suitcase when I arrived. I ask him, "What are you doing out so late?"
He says, "I'm waiting for my mother. When there are parties she has to stay to help serve and to do the dishes."
"So? All you have to do is stay home and sleep quietly."
"I can't sleep quietly. I'm afraid something will happen to my mother. We live far away from here and I can't let her walk alone. There are men who attack women walking alone at night. I saw it on television."
"And children aren't attacked?"
"No, not really. Just women. Especially if they're pretty. I could defend myself. I can run very fast."
We wait. Slowly silence descends inside the hotel. A woman comes out, the one who brings me coffee in the morning. The little boy runs to her and they go off together, hand in hand.
Other staff members come out of the hotel and quickly fade into the distance.
I climb up to my room.
The next day I go see the bookseller.
"It's impossible for me to stay in the hotel any longer. It's too crowded and there's too much noise. Would you know of anyone who might rent me a room?"
She says, "Come live at my place. Here, upstairs."
"I would be disturbing you."
"No, not at all. I'll live at my daughter's, it's not far from here. You'd have the whole floor. Two rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom."
"For how much?"
"How much do you pay at the hotel?"
I tell her. She smiles.
"Those are tourist prices. I'd let you live here for half that much. I'd even clean up for you after I closed the shop. You're always out then anyway, so I wouldn't disturb you. Would you like to see the apartment?"
"No, I'm sure it will be fine. When could I move in?"
"As early as tomorrow, if you like. All I have to do is collect my clothes and my things."
The next day I pack my suitcase and settle my bill at the hotel. I arrive at the bookseller's just before it closes. The bookseller hands me a key.
'That's the key to the front door. It's possible to get up to the apartment directly from the store, but you'll be using the other door, the street door. I'll show you."
She closes the shop. We climb up a narrow staircase lighted by two windows that look onto the garden. The bookseller explains to me, "The door to the left is the bedroom, across from the bathroom. The second door is the living room, from which you can also pass through into the bedroom. The kitchen is at the end. There's a refrigerator. I've left some food in it."
I say, "I only need coffee and wine. I eat my meals in bars."
She says, "That's not very healthy. The coffee is on the shelf and there's a bottle of wine in the fridge. I'll go now. I hope you like it here."
She leaves. I immediately open the bottle of wine; I'll lay in a supply tomorrow. I go into the living room. It's a big room, simply furnished. Between its two windows is a large table covered with a red plush cloth. I immediately cover it with my papers and pencils. Then I go into the bedroom, which is narrow and has only a single window, or rather a French door that leads out onto a little balcony.
I lift my suitcase onto the bed and put my clothes away in the empty closet.
I do not go out that night. I finish the bottle of wine and settle in front of one of the living room windows in a deep armchair. I watch the square, and then I go to sleep in a bed that smells like soap.
When I get up around ten o'clock the next morning I find two newspapers on the kitchen table and a pot of vegetable soup on the stove. The first thing I do is make myself some coffee, which I drink while reading the newspapers. I have the soup later, around four in the afternoon, before going out.
The bookseller does not disturb me. I only see her when I pay a visit downstairs. When I'm out she cleans the apartment, taking away my dirty laundry as well and bringing it back washed and ironed.
Time passes quickly. I have to appear in the neighboring town, the regional capital, to have my visa renewed. A young woman stamps my passport RENEWED FOR ONE MONTH. I pay and thank her. She smiles at me: "Tonight I'llbe at the bar of the Grand Hotel. There'll be a lot of foreigners there; you might run into some compatriots."
I say, "Yes, perhaps I'll come."
I immediately take the red train back home to my town.
The following month the young woman is less amiable; she stamps my passport without saying a word. The third time she crisply warns me that a fourth time will be impossible.
Toward the end of summer I have almost run out of money; I am forced to economize. I buy a harmonica and play in bars, as I did in my childhood. The patrons offer me drinks. As for meals, I am content with the bookseller's vegetable soups. In September and October I am no longer able to pay my rent. The bookseller does not ask me for it; she continues to clean, to do my laundry, to bring me soup.
I don't know how I'llget by, but I don't want to return to the other country; I must stay here, I must die here, in this town.
My pains have not reappeared since my arrival despite my excessive consumption of alcohol and tobacco.
On the thirtieth of October I celebrate my birthday with my drinking friends in the town's more popular bars. They all pay for me. Couples dance to the sound of my harmonica. Women kiss me. I am drunk. I begin to talk about my brother the way I always do when I've drunk too much. Everybody in town knows my story: I'm looking for my brother who I lived with here, in this town, until I was fifteen. It is here that I must find him; I am waiting for him and know that he will come when he hears that I have returned from abroad.
All this is a lie. I know very well that I was already alone in this town, with Grandmother, that even then I only fantasized that there were two of us, me and my brother, in order to endure the unbearable solitude.
The bar quiets down somewhat around midnight. I no longer play, I just drink.
A scruffy old man sits down in front of me. He drinks from my glass. He says, "I remember you both very well, your brother and you."
I say nothing. Another man, a younger one, brings a liter of wine to my table. I ask for a clean glass. We drink.