Sunday afternoons and meet after work for large cold-platter suppers on the noisy rue du Docteur Blanche.
But this desire to meet a young lady—this sentiment, which drew him out to the cafés on the avenues—was accompanied by such an equally powerful feeling of utter insincerity that these desires, which brought welcome respite from his shadow existence, slowly migrated like a flock of rare birds.
His life went back to normal until one day after almost ten years he witnessed a violent incident at the railway station where he worked as a simple clerk. Those desires suddenly returned, and soon enough, Saboné’s eyes burned for the girl who stood in a shopwindow on his walk to work. She was very pretty, and Saboné assumed he had passed her many times before on his early morning walk to the railway station, but for some reason, he had never noticed her.
In addition to this new passion for a girl, Saboné caught himself doing odd things, like talking to birds and removing his hat whenever he passed statues in the gardens.
For days, he held the image of this shopgirl in his mind, carrying it around like an egg until he could get home and escape into sleep where it hatched into a fantasy.
Without constant vigilance, Saboné slipped into daydreams. After his mother died, his daydreams began to include voices, which Saboné concluded were just overheard conversations being replayed by a decadent subconscious.
Some daydreams seemed to want to swallow him up for good. Like wild horses, they would follow him in the day and then wander the plains of his dream life, but always upon him—until he would barely remember his own name.
In his top dresser drawer, Saboné kept the sketches he thought were acceptable. He possessed two in total: one of a door with elaborate rusting hinges, and the other of a cat he had once seen peering up into the street from under a drain.
Every Friday, the girl in the shopwindow would have a new outfit and be standing in a different way.
Saboné often daydreamed while perched in his ticket box at the railway station.
“Monsieur!” the customers would cry, and Saboné would suddenly realize that it was a rainy afternoon and that he was not an Egyptian king, nor had he been sold into slavery by mistake.
The girl in the shopwindow who so preoccupied Saboné’s thoughts was not really a girl because she lacked a human heart. She was made of wood. From a distance, however, she may well have been mistaken for one. And from the way she peered into the street through her glass eyes, Saboné decided that she might as well be a girl, because he believed that girls peered longingly and had secrets.
Saboné’s small apartment room, where he would return each night after dispensing tickets at the station, was not big enough for two, but if she were able to come home with him, he supposed that there was certainly enough room for her to sit down quietly (if she wished to).
Saboné’s face was a gray tower with a child peering from the two black windows for eyes. His was the sort of man who would suddenly stop walking and poke objects with his walking stick.
Before he began to notice the girl in the shopwindow, Saboné experienced a violent incident at the station. He had been up all night dreaming and had awakened exhausted.
All morning, through the cold glass of his ticket window at the station, Saboné was so drowsy that he had barely been able to read the schedule, to which several minor adjustments were to be made owing to expected bad weather. Instead, with dreamy irreverence, the overtired Saboné began to sketch a woman who since buying her ticket had been sitting still not very far from his booth.
Saboné’s hand glided across the paper, making the tiniest lines. Soon, they began to resemble a person, and with only a few strokes more the image began to tremble before him, as though he had tricked some part of her soul into inhabiting the picture. He admired it and then folded it several
But this desire to meet a young lady—this sentiment, which drew him out to the cafés on the avenues—was accompanied by such an equally powerful feeling of utter insincerity that these desires, which brought welcome respite from his shadow existence, slowly migrated like a flock of rare birds.
His life went back to normal until one day after almost ten years he witnessed a violent incident at the railway station where he worked as a simple clerk. Those desires suddenly returned, and soon enough, Saboné’s eyes burned for the girl who stood in a shopwindow on his walk to work. She was very pretty, and Saboné assumed he had passed her many times before on his early morning walk to the railway station, but for some reason, he had never noticed her.
In addition to this new passion for a girl, Saboné caught himself doing odd things, like talking to birds and removing his hat whenever he passed statues in the gardens.
For days, he held the image of this shopgirl in his mind, carrying it around like an egg until he could get home and escape into sleep where it hatched into a fantasy.
Without constant vigilance, Saboné slipped into daydreams. After his mother died, his daydreams began to include voices, which Saboné concluded were just overheard conversations being replayed by a decadent subconscious.
Some daydreams seemed to want to swallow him up for good. Like wild horses, they would follow him in the day and then wander the plains of his dream life, but always upon him—until he would barely remember his own name.
In his top dresser drawer, Saboné kept the sketches he thought were acceptable. He possessed two in total: one of a door with elaborate rusting hinges, and the other of a cat he had once seen peering up into the street from under a drain.
Every Friday, the girl in the shopwindow would have a new outfit and be standing in a different way.
Saboné often daydreamed while perched in his ticket box at the railway station.
“Monsieur!” the customers would cry, and Saboné would suddenly realize that it was a rainy afternoon and that he was not an Egyptian king, nor had he been sold into slavery by mistake.
The girl in the shopwindow who so preoccupied Saboné’s thoughts was not really a girl because she lacked a human heart. She was made of wood. From a distance, however, she may well have been mistaken for one. And from the way she peered into the street through her glass eyes, Saboné decided that she might as well be a girl, because he believed that girls peered longingly and had secrets.
Saboné’s small apartment room, where he would return each night after dispensing tickets at the station, was not big enough for two, but if she were able to come home with him, he supposed that there was certainly enough room for her to sit down quietly (if she wished to).
Saboné’s face was a gray tower with a child peering from the two black windows for eyes. His was the sort of man who would suddenly stop walking and poke objects with his walking stick.
Before he began to notice the girl in the shopwindow, Saboné experienced a violent incident at the station. He had been up all night dreaming and had awakened exhausted.
All morning, through the cold glass of his ticket window at the station, Saboné was so drowsy that he had barely been able to read the schedule, to which several minor adjustments were to be made owing to expected bad weather. Instead, with dreamy irreverence, the overtired Saboné began to sketch a woman who since buying her ticket had been sitting still not very far from his booth.
Saboné’s hand glided across the paper, making the tiniest lines. Soon, they began to resemble a person, and with only a few strokes more the image began to tremble before him, as though he had tricked some part of her soul into inhabiting the picture. He admired it and then folded it several
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