When I wake up, my mouth is open. My teeth are furry: it would be better to brush them in the evening, but I am never brave enough. Tears have dried at the corners of my eyes. My shoulders do not hurt any more. Some stiff hair covers my forehead. I spread my fingers and push it back. It is no good: like the pages of a new book it springs up and tumbles over my eyes again.
When I bow my head I can feel that my beard has grown: it pricks my neck.
I lie on my back, the back of my neck warm, my eyes open, the sheets up to my chin so that the bed will not get cold again.
The ceiling is stained with damp: it is very close to the roof. In places there are air-bubbles under the wallpaper. My furniture looks like the wares of a junk merchant out on the pavement. The pipe of my little stove is tied up with a rag, like a knee. At the top of the window a blind which no longer works hangs askew.
When I stretch out, I can feel the vertical bedrailings under the soles of my feet, a bit like a tightrope walker .
My clothes, resting heavily over my legs, are flat, warm on one side only. My shoe-laces no longer have any tags.
The room is cold as soon as it rains. You would not think anyone had slept there. Water, streaming down tlle window-panes, eats into the putty and forms a puddle on the ground.
When the sun blazes out, all alone in the sky, it throws its golden light into the middle of the room. The flies make a thousand straight lines on the floor.
Every morning, my neighbour sings wordlessly while she moves her furniture about. Her voice is deadened by the wall. I feel as if I am behind a gramophone. I often meet her on the stairs. She works in a dairy. At nine o'clock she comes to do her housework. Her felt slippers are stained with drops of milk. I like women in slippers: their legs seem more accessible. In summer her breasts and the shoulder-straps of her camisole show through her blouse. I have told her that I love her. She laughed, no doubt because I am not good-looking and am poor. She prefers men in uniform. She has been seen with her hand under the white belt of agarde republicain.
Another room is occupied by an old man. He is seriously ill: he has a cough. There is a lump of rubber at the end of his walking-stick. His shoulder-blades make two projections on his back. A prominent vein runs across his temple, between skin and bone. His jacket does not touch his hips any more: it swings out as if the pockets were empty. The poor man climbs the stairs one by one, holding on to the hand-rail. As soon as I see him I breathe in as deeply as possible so that I can pass him without taking another breath. On Sundays his daughter visits him. She is very smart. Her coat lining looks like the feathers of a parrot. It is so splendid that I wonder if the coat is inside out. As for her hat, it must have cost a lot, because to protect it, she takes a taxi when it is raining. This lady smells of scent, real scent, not one of the cheap varieties. The tenants of my house cannot bear her. They say that instead of leading a life of luxury she would do better to relieve her father's poverty. T
he Lecoin family also lives on my landing. At dawn their alarm-clock
rings. The husband does not like me. I am polite to him all the same. He
holds it against me that I get up late. He comes home at about seven o'clock
every evening, with his working clothes rolled up under his arm and smoking
an English cigarette-which makes people say that labourers are doing very
nicely. He is tall and brawny. It is possible to make use of his strength,
if one pays him compliments. Last year he carried a trunk down for a woman
on the third floor, with some difficulty, it is true, because the lid would
not close. When people speak to him, he stares at them, because he thinks
they are making fun of him. At the hint of a smile he says: 'You see . .
. four years of war . . . The Germans didn't get me . . . You won't get
me today . . . ' One day as he passed me he muttered: 'Lazy bugger!' I went
pale and did not know what to reply. I could not sleep for a week because
I was afraid I had an enemy. I imagined that he was looking for an opportunity
to get at me and was deadly jealous of me. All the same, if Monsieur Lecoin
only knew how I like people who work, how sorry I feel for their way of
life! If he knew what I have to go without to maintain my little independence!
He has two daughters and he beats them-just with his hand-for their own
good. They have sinews at the back of their knees. Their hats are held on
by elastic. I like children, so I greet these two girls when I meet them.
Then they turn round and suddenly, without replying, they run away. Every
Tuesday Madame Lecoin does her washing.