sight and
remain undiscovered.
In fact, the adrenalin rush arising from the risky
situations in which he could find himself gave him a
degree of pleasure, giving him the sensation that even a
vital necessitywas transformed into an adventure... Take
washing, by way of example. He had now spent nearly
three weeks in the house without washing. Formerly,
whether at work or at home, he took a daily shower;
here it was unthinkable. Yet he still had to find a way of
keeping clean; his entire body was itching, to the point
where some nights he could scarcely sleep.
The central heating system only had radiators on the
ground and first floors. Still, the second floor remained
more or less warm thanks to the fact that warm air rises;
by the third floor the air was cooler, and in the attic it
was freezing. He decided to wash himself in one of the
downstairs toilets. That night, as every night, he obtained his supper from the kitchen, took it up to his room,
then descended the flight of stairs to the bathroom in
the north wing (done out in black marble, coated in
lime scale). He stripped off, got into the bathtub, wet
the sponge, and rubbed himself from top to toe. The
water was icy, and he'd been unable to find a bar of soap
anywhere, but once he'd finished, he felt much better:
shivering but renewed.
He wiped out the bath using the sponge, then put
it back where he had found it, dressed and went back
up to his room. A minute later, as he was eating, he
realized that he hadn't the faintest idea what day it was.
He simply hadn't kept daily tally. This realization left
him feeling somewhat lost. As of that night, he vowed to
keep track of the days. He had murdered the foreman
on Tuesday 26th - or was it the 27th? - September. He
estimated he had spent at least twenty days in the house,
which made it now around the 13th or 14th October.
The next day, he stole a pencil and a sheet of paper, to
keep a record.
He ate a chicken leg, a roll and a tomato, before
flinging himself onto his back on the bed, arms akimbo
under the coverlet. Without emotion, he considered
the fact that three days after killing the foreman, he
should have been in receipt of his fortnight's wage
packet (also of the fact that on the same day he had left
his Rolex hanging from a nail in the work hut) when he
was suddenly aware of a noise in the room. He froze to
the spot.
For an instant, he considered the possibility he might
have moved one of his legs without being conscious of
doing so, and it was therefore him making a noise. But
then he swiftly noticed that the sounds were coming
from over by the door. He became alarmed, still frozen in position. Perhaps there was someone on the other
side of the door. He heard the sound again. It sounded
most like the noise made by someone turning the pages
of a book, one after another. Most probably Senor or
Senora Blinder had come upstairs to look for a book, or
an old notebook, in the loft and, whichever of the two
it was, had paused there to leaf through the book just
outside his door. He decided to get up and listen more
closely: it was something inside his room.
It must have been two or three in the morning. He
opened the blinds a crack and by the street lights
he could see a rat, running to hide underneath the
cupboard. Maria stopped stock-still, his hand on the
blind, thinking. How had it got in? Maybe he hadn't
properly shut the door when he went to get washed,
and the rat had found a way into the room. He closed
the blind, opened the door ajar, knelt down beside the
cupboard, and gently patted the floor with the palm of
his hand. But the rat didn't make a move until Maria
rolled up his pair of trousers and, as if he were wielding
a whip, directed a couple of blows to the bottom of the
cupboard.
Then the rat emerged from its hiding place, running
everywhere as hard as it could, but it didn't head for
the door; it made a couple of laps round the bed,
remain undiscovered.
In fact, the adrenalin rush arising from the risky
situations in which he could find himself gave him a
degree of pleasure, giving him the sensation that even a
vital necessitywas transformed into an adventure... Take
washing, by way of example. He had now spent nearly
three weeks in the house without washing. Formerly,
whether at work or at home, he took a daily shower;
here it was unthinkable. Yet he still had to find a way of
keeping clean; his entire body was itching, to the point
where some nights he could scarcely sleep.
The central heating system only had radiators on the
ground and first floors. Still, the second floor remained
more or less warm thanks to the fact that warm air rises;
by the third floor the air was cooler, and in the attic it
was freezing. He decided to wash himself in one of the
downstairs toilets. That night, as every night, he obtained his supper from the kitchen, took it up to his room,
then descended the flight of stairs to the bathroom in
the north wing (done out in black marble, coated in
lime scale). He stripped off, got into the bathtub, wet
the sponge, and rubbed himself from top to toe. The
water was icy, and he'd been unable to find a bar of soap
anywhere, but once he'd finished, he felt much better:
shivering but renewed.
He wiped out the bath using the sponge, then put
it back where he had found it, dressed and went back
up to his room. A minute later, as he was eating, he
realized that he hadn't the faintest idea what day it was.
He simply hadn't kept daily tally. This realization left
him feeling somewhat lost. As of that night, he vowed to
keep track of the days. He had murdered the foreman
on Tuesday 26th - or was it the 27th? - September. He
estimated he had spent at least twenty days in the house,
which made it now around the 13th or 14th October.
The next day, he stole a pencil and a sheet of paper, to
keep a record.
He ate a chicken leg, a roll and a tomato, before
flinging himself onto his back on the bed, arms akimbo
under the coverlet. Without emotion, he considered
the fact that three days after killing the foreman, he
should have been in receipt of his fortnight's wage
packet (also of the fact that on the same day he had left
his Rolex hanging from a nail in the work hut) when he
was suddenly aware of a noise in the room. He froze to
the spot.
For an instant, he considered the possibility he might
have moved one of his legs without being conscious of
doing so, and it was therefore him making a noise. But
then he swiftly noticed that the sounds were coming
from over by the door. He became alarmed, still frozen in position. Perhaps there was someone on the other
side of the door. He heard the sound again. It sounded
most like the noise made by someone turning the pages
of a book, one after another. Most probably Senor or
Senora Blinder had come upstairs to look for a book, or
an old notebook, in the loft and, whichever of the two
it was, had paused there to leaf through the book just
outside his door. He decided to get up and listen more
closely: it was something inside his room.
It must have been two or three in the morning. He
opened the blinds a crack and by the street lights
he could see a rat, running to hide underneath the
cupboard. Maria stopped stock-still, his hand on the
blind, thinking. How had it got in? Maybe he hadn't
properly shut the door when he went to get washed,
and the rat had found a way into the room. He closed
the blind, opened the door ajar, knelt down beside the
cupboard, and gently patted the floor with the palm of
his hand. But the rat didn't make a move until Maria
rolled up his pair of trousers and, as if he were wielding
a whip, directed a couple of blows to the bottom of the
cupboard.
Then the rat emerged from its hiding place, running
everywhere as hard as it could, but it didn't head for
the door; it made a couple of laps round the bed,
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