Dirty Snow by Georges Simenon

Author:Georges Simenon
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 1590170431
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 2011-09-23T10:00:00+00:00

4

IT WAS the eighteenth day. He was holding out. He would keep on holding out. He had discovered that everything depended on holding out, and that if he did he would get the better of them. Was it really a question of getting the better of them? That was another problem he would have to solve eventually. He had thought a great deal—too much. Thinking, too, was dangerous. He must stick to a strict discipline. When he thought he’d get the better of them, it simply meant that he’d get out. And the term “get out” wasn’t limited to the place he was in now.

It was amazing how, outside, words were used without anyone paying any attention to what they meant. He certainly wasn’t well educated, but then there were lots like him—in fact, most poeple were like him—and now he realized that he had always been satisfied with words that were just approximations.

This question of the meaning of words had lasted him two days. Maybe it would come back to him later.

In any case, it was the eighteenth day, that was an absolute certainty. He made sure this certainty was absolute. He had chosen an almost untouched piece of wall where he scratched a line with his thumbnail every morning. It was harder than you’d think. Not to draw the line, even though the nail was already worn down. But to draw only one. To be sure you had drawn it. The wall was covered with plaster, which made the operation easier. But it hadn’t been easy to find a clean spot, because of all the others who’d been there before him.

And it was impossible to be too careful—this was another of his discoveries—because here you tended to doubt, and he realized that anyone who doubted was lost.

He would solve the problem all alone, provided he observed his rules and kept from dreaming. You became very strict about certain matters. For example, the last morning he had spent outside, he hadn’t known the date. He’d known it without knowing it. He wasn’t sure. The result was, though he knew for certain he had spent eighteen days here, he couldn’t swear to the exact date of his arrival.

That was how you lived.

Today was probably the seventh of January. Maybe the eighth. Before that he lacked clear points of reference. As to the time he had been here, there were his scratches.

If he held out, if he didn’t let himself go, if he concentrated enough—without, however, concentrating too hard—it wouldn’t be long before he understood, and everything would be over. That reminded him of a dream he’d had several times. There were many dreams, but the one that mattered most was the flying one. He would rise into the air. Not outside, in a garden or on the street, but always in a room, always in the presence of witnesses who didn’t know how to fly. He would say to them, “Look how easy it is!”

He would put his two hands flat against the air and press.

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