...more

As a result of his listlessness, point of view splits in two, multiplies. Between eye and object, sleep interposes itself; attention gradually focuses, analyzing perspectives, improvising variations on the simplified outlines which ordinarily meet his gaze. Contours dissolve, planes dilate; upon the threshold of darkness, partitions disintegrate: upon those novel elements the white space restructures itself.

In this drowsy state, it is somewhat as if he were observing himself from without, in close range of his reflection in the right-hand corner of the walls.

From the window, a beam of pale light crosses the room and casts itself on the opposite wall, where two dark surfaces are hanging: on the right, the door leading to the bathroom; on the left, the twin flaps of the closet whose dark brown glinting paint is marred by streaks of roughly scraped-off plaster. A map is pinned to the wall, equally distant from the door and the closet; from the bed, some grayish patches are discernible, furrowed with curving lines: it is probably a map of the mountain where only the salient features of the relief emerge, but from a short distance it might be taken for a large insect or a creeper with branching offshoots.

Even though the remaining portion of the room is engulfed in darkness, he relocates the position of the objects without effort: the painted wooden night table against the bedstead; the wicker chair, between the window and the fireplace, a little farther, on the shelf above the hearth, the two terra-cotta candle holders.

On the floor, the black-and-white tile squares alternate in a checkerboard pattern: several are cracked or badly joined; the white ones are rather yellowed.

The ceiling is as white as the walls, and as empty. There is no electrical outlet in the room. But a sort of glazed Roman lamp, in which a piece of candle is stuck askew, has been placed on the night table. This is all he has at his disposal to light his way: he has forgotten the flashlight in his bad, which has been left in the bathroom with all the equipment.

Lying on his right side, the sheet pulled up under his chin for fear of mosquitoes, his eyes follow the dividing line between light and shadow, which runs to the foot of the wall, over there, along the small yellowed tiles of the plinth, then scales the entire height of the closet, stops in the vicinity of the ceiling, heads back towards the bathroom door, proceeds down along it, but disappears before touching the ground, concealed by the night table.

By raising his head, he perceives, behind the night table, the door to the vestibule which is merely a narrow hallway; a portico leads to the front steps and beyond, to the pebbly lane crossing the garden, to the left of the dust-covered palm tree. Is night beginning? Will it soon draw to a close? Determining the time is no simple matter: the wristwatch is on the night table, within reach, but the light is not strong enough to allow the hands to be discerned, yet is too intense for the phosphorescent clockface to stand out. The solution consists in getting close to the window, watch in hand—thus in pulling back the sheet and crawling to the foot of the bed, a complicated and daunting procedure. The heat is so heavy that the slightest movement sets off a fresh flow of sweat, and the sheets are already soaked through.

When he got up to close the window—because of the lizards scurrying over the lattice work of the mosquito net, making the mesh rustle under their claws—the whole room was plunged into darkness. Meanwhile, the moon rose behind the mountain, lighting up the hill. It is most probably this brightness which made him reopen his eyes. The light and noise, no matter how faint, disturb his sleep. With the window closed, the howls of the dogs and jackals still penetrate the room, coming from the hollow of the olive grove or the foothills of the mountain, answering each other endlessly; at times the answer is long in coming, but comes it does without fail—haunting, uniform.

Right cheek pressed against the pillow, and the iron bed so low, he has the impression of lying at floor-level. Every time he opens his eyes, he spots the wall map which is reduced, at this hour, to the schematic outline of a plant, of an animal or a dwarf tree: a lush ball on the left, another sparer one on the right, linked to the former by an almost horizontal network of fibers.

But this makes short shrift of a night’s rest. How to fall back to sleep under such conditions? It is better to turn over on your left side, nose against the wall. It is the only way he has of escaping the light, since he cannot prevent it from coming in: the blinds do not close. They informed him of this as soon as he arrived: the first one has broken blades, and the second is clinging to the wall by only a single hinge—he verified this himself during his tour of the house.

With his shift in position he experiences the same short-lived relief, a soothing sensation which fades very quickly. The window is shut, the air inert, the heat damp and unremitting. He would gladly throw the sheets off, but for the few mosquitoes which a while ago successfully edged their way in and are now hovering about in the vicinity of the bed. All the same, by enclosing himself, he made up for the defects in the mosquito net: the movable frame, badly fit together, is off kilter by nearly an inch; several links of the mesh have been snipped or torn open. But this satisfaction is fleeting. Caution would dictate methodically checking every path of entry: the chinks between the badly fitted tiles, the gaps under the doors, the condition of the roughcast, the inner covering of the closet, not to mention the great weak point of the system—the fireplace. The first precaution to take would be to have blocked off for the duration of the torrid season. For all that, this room is exposed to every kind of surprise and, when all is said, in its present state does not offer the slightest protection.

He has nevertheless been notified, on several occasions. of the minor hazards, spiders being among them. They described various species to him: those with black bodies and long hairy legs, others with a yellowish hue, very dangerous. The majority were supposedly harmless. But the very idea of touching their legs with this lips or his eyelids was enough to terrify him—as was the thought that they could remain motionless for hours at a time, clinging to the ceiling, before dropping themselves down onto the sheets. With the reptiles, the problem was more complex, more controversial. How many stories had he been told, and some of them were beyond question, others suspect . . .