times before dropping it into the wastepaper basket as if it were the wax wrapper from some tasteless baguette.
When an arm of sunlight stretched through the glass roof of the station and engulfed her, Saboné smiled, but his mouth showed no trace of it.
At several minutes to twelve, a short, well-dressed man approachedthe woman, but he did not sit down. They began to chat, and Saboné wondered what the man wanted, or whether he was an old acquaintance relaying some story that had filled the void between their last meeting.
In the same way a sudden noise outside his room would release Saboné momentarily from his dreams, the short man clenched a fist and struck the woman squarely on the nose. He straightened his tie and looked as though he wanted to say something, but people were suddenly standing up, so he walked away quickly and quietly. The woman did not make a sound, but fought to control the stream of blood with a lacy handkerchief, which was soon crimson. People stared. An old man called for a gendarme.
Saboné began to shake. If he left the ticket office, the door was fixed so that he would not be able to get back in. If he asked her into the ticket box, there was a danger that someone would see and he would be dismissed—and Saboné had never been dismissed from anything, nor had he ever spoken in anger or raised his voice.
When the bleeding stopped, her eyes were swollen from crying and her nose was the color of a plum.
At fifteen minutes to one, with the handkerchief still pressed to her face, she stood up and left the station. Saboné strained to catch every last glimpse of her before she turned a corner and was gone. From the bundle she carried, she appeared to be a common girl, and Saboné wondered if she were even able to read.
Despite the demands of an old woman with an ear trumpet who wanted to know if she could leave Paris for a month but come back atthe same time, Saboné reached under his desk and fished the sketch of the woman from the wastepaper basket. Without any flicker of emotion, he slipped it into his pocket as though it were evidence of the crime he had committed but had no memory of.
He explained to the old woman that she could leave on a train that departed Paris at eight minutes to two, but that it was impossible to return at the same time.
“Impossible!” she affirmed to the queue of people behind her, as though she had always suspected it.
By the time the girl in the shopwindow occupied a place in most of Saboné’s daydreams, it had been two weeks since the violent incident, and the memory of it was like the memory of a dream—but it was heavier than a dream and had somehow anchored itself to Saboné. He would often think he saw her at the station. Perhaps by drawing her he had bound their shadows together—like two nights without a day between them.
When passing the girl in the shopwindow on the rue du Docteur Blanche became something Saboné looked forward to—even more so than sketching pigeons or eating supper beside the fountain—he grew afraid and found an alternative walk to the station through the city gardens. He didn’t want to lose himself completely. Without her staring down at him from the window every morning and night, he could get some time to decide what to do. But Saboné began to wake at irregular hours of the night and think of her, like certain flowers in the park, flowers that will only bloom in darkness.
Saboné had one friend—a man who lived in the apartment below. His name was Oncle, and he was so large that he barely fit through the double doors of his own apartment. Saboné had never seen him venture beyond the fountain. Oncle would sob bitterly in the night as though his girth hid a swirling ocean of shame.
Saboné and Oncle exchanged cards at Christmas and often left notes for one another to acknowledge changes in the weather.
Oncle wore loose, shiny gowns and velvet carpet slippers with a gold “O” stitched on to each one. His only
When an arm of sunlight stretched through the glass roof of the station and engulfed her, Saboné smiled, but his mouth showed no trace of it.
At several minutes to twelve, a short, well-dressed man approachedthe woman, but he did not sit down. They began to chat, and Saboné wondered what the man wanted, or whether he was an old acquaintance relaying some story that had filled the void between their last meeting.
In the same way a sudden noise outside his room would release Saboné momentarily from his dreams, the short man clenched a fist and struck the woman squarely on the nose. He straightened his tie and looked as though he wanted to say something, but people were suddenly standing up, so he walked away quickly and quietly. The woman did not make a sound, but fought to control the stream of blood with a lacy handkerchief, which was soon crimson. People stared. An old man called for a gendarme.
Saboné began to shake. If he left the ticket office, the door was fixed so that he would not be able to get back in. If he asked her into the ticket box, there was a danger that someone would see and he would be dismissed—and Saboné had never been dismissed from anything, nor had he ever spoken in anger or raised his voice.
When the bleeding stopped, her eyes were swollen from crying and her nose was the color of a plum.
At fifteen minutes to one, with the handkerchief still pressed to her face, she stood up and left the station. Saboné strained to catch every last glimpse of her before she turned a corner and was gone. From the bundle she carried, she appeared to be a common girl, and Saboné wondered if she were even able to read.
Despite the demands of an old woman with an ear trumpet who wanted to know if she could leave Paris for a month but come back atthe same time, Saboné reached under his desk and fished the sketch of the woman from the wastepaper basket. Without any flicker of emotion, he slipped it into his pocket as though it were evidence of the crime he had committed but had no memory of.
He explained to the old woman that she could leave on a train that departed Paris at eight minutes to two, but that it was impossible to return at the same time.
“Impossible!” she affirmed to the queue of people behind her, as though she had always suspected it.
By the time the girl in the shopwindow occupied a place in most of Saboné’s daydreams, it had been two weeks since the violent incident, and the memory of it was like the memory of a dream—but it was heavier than a dream and had somehow anchored itself to Saboné. He would often think he saw her at the station. Perhaps by drawing her he had bound their shadows together—like two nights without a day between them.
When passing the girl in the shopwindow on the rue du Docteur Blanche became something Saboné looked forward to—even more so than sketching pigeons or eating supper beside the fountain—he grew afraid and found an alternative walk to the station through the city gardens. He didn’t want to lose himself completely. Without her staring down at him from the window every morning and night, he could get some time to decide what to do. But Saboné began to wake at irregular hours of the night and think of her, like certain flowers in the park, flowers that will only bloom in darkness.
Saboné had one friend—a man who lived in the apartment below. His name was Oncle, and he was so large that he barely fit through the double doors of his own apartment. Saboné had never seen him venture beyond the fountain. Oncle would sob bitterly in the night as though his girth hid a swirling ocean of shame.
Saboné and Oncle exchanged cards at Christmas and often left notes for one another to acknowledge changes in the weather.
Oncle wore loose, shiny gowns and velvet carpet slippers with a gold “O” stitched on to each one. His only
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