Jean-Marie Le Clézio - The Flood

‘Well, sure. What d’you expect with the Lottery?’

‘But — but what do you think about, sitting there like that all day?’

The man coughed.

‘Oh, I’ve got plenty to occupy me. You’d be surprised how quickly the time passes. I think about whatever I please, or sometimes I’ll listen to the radio. I’ve got a little transistor set in my pocket. Here, have a look.’

The man brought out a small black and red object. He turned a knob, and music blared out of it. He held the set against his ear for two or three seconds, then switched it off and shoved it back in the pocket of his lumber-jacket.

‘I’m very fond of music,’ he said. ‘And there are always people who enjoy a bit of a chat when they buy their paper. Sometimes my wife comes and keeps me company. I count my takings, too. It all helps.’

‘All the same, there must be days when you get fed up with the whole business.’

‘Well, yes, when it gets really cold I’d rather be at home. But if I stayed away too often, someone’d pinch my beat.’

‘Is it hard to get one?’

‘Too true it’s hard. First you have to get a permit. They don’t go handing them out to just anyone. And that’s not all, either. After you’ve wangled your permit you have to buy yourself a beat. Costs the earth, I don’t mind telling you. When I’ve had enough of the game I’ll sell my beat to someone else. The only trouble is, if you’re away, some other bastard always moves in.’

‘Suppose you’re sick?’

‘That’s just a risk you have to take. But most times it’s another regular, see? They’re not the sort to set themselves up in a corner without knowing who it belongs to.’

‘Doesn’t it ever happen?’

‘Sure, it happens, but not often. Besides, it’s nearly always a tramp or a beggar. They go looking for trouble. Luckily for us, we’ve all got permits, so we just whistle up a cop and get our beat back.’

‘And you say you’ve been here four years?’

‘You mean on this beat?’

‘That’s right.’

‘No, no, only a year here so far. It’s a good beat, this one. People pass by on their way to the station, so trade’s pretty brisk. No, before this I was further down-town. I sold up there and took over this place. But I had to fight for it. At the beginning we had those wide Paris newsboys here, a regular gang of them. You know the ones, they all wear blue blouses and peaked caps. Get in everywhere nowadays, they do. They’ve got those sort of small mobile kiosks, and just sit by them all day long. Well, they soon saw I’d got myself a good beat, and they tried to intimidate me. But I wasn’t having any, I stood firm. I may be blind but I’ve got my head screwed on the right way. Got the best of them in the end, too, put the union boys on to them, and after that they left me alone. But it was pretty tough. They’re young, they can hold down jobs — why don’t they let the old folks be? If there was anything else I could do I shouldn’t stay here long, I promise you.’

‘And is it a long time since — I mean, that you’ve been, well, like that?’

‘Like that? Oh, my eyes, you mean.’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, it happened ten, fifteen years ago.’

‘How?’

‘At work. A petroleum explosion. But that’s all old history now. The doctors told me they’d try to save at least the one eye. Had three operations, but it didn’t come off.’

‘What did it do to you?’

‘How d’you mean, what did it do to me?’

‘I mean what effect did it have on you, not being able to see any more, and all that?’

The man reflected for a moment.

‘Well, it shook me all right, that’s true enough, But you soon get used to it, you know. It’s pretty good hell at first, I don’t mind admitting — you bump into everything, and hurt yourself, and you’re always scared of falling. But you get acclimatized soon enough. You know, when you get down to it, being blind isn’t so very different from waking up during a power cut. You sort yourself out fast enough, it doesn’t take long to get organized. It’s all right in your own home. But outside on the street—’ He broke off.

‘On the street, yes?’

‘Yes, well, on the street it’s quite a different matter. I don’t mind admitting, I’m not too fond of having to get back home by myself, even now. I’m always scared that there’ll be some manhole left open on the pavement, and I’ll tumble down it. But if I’m with my wife, then it’s all right, I’m not frightened.’

‘And you — you don’t regret not being able to see—’

‘See what?’

‘No, I meant, do you ever regret not being able to see any more, period?’

‘Well, I don’t know, there’s got to be a good reason for wanting to, hasn’t there? Of course, when I hear a pretty young girl go by, there are times when it gets me down a bit — but there aren’t all that many things that are worth the trouble, indeed there aren’t.’

A middle-aged woman came up and bought a paper. The man felt the coin and dropped it, with a clink of metal, into an old tin can beside him. Then he resumed his motionless vigil, head held very straight, hands thrust into the pockets of his lumberjacket.

‘What’s your name?’ Besson asked.

‘Bayard,’ the man said, and then, after a momentary hesitation: ‘What’s yours?’

‘Besson,’ said Besson.

There was another silence. Besson fished a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket.

‘Do you smoke?’ he asked.

‘Are they dark tobacco?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’d be very glad of one.’

Besson held out the packet: the man’s hand reached up, groped, found the cigarette-packet and clutched hold of it. The fingers of his other hand fumbled in the aperture and extracted a cigarette.

‘I’ll light it for you,’ Besson said.

‘No, give me the matches.’

The man struck a match, and held the flame under the tip of the cigarette.

‘I prefer to do that for myself,’ he said. He blew out a cloud of smoke, and returned cigarettes and matches to Besson.

‘It must be difficult,’ Besson said.

‘What? Lighting a cigarette?’

‘Not just that — everything. The slightest action. Even the slightest action must be difficult when you can’t see what you’re doing.’ Besson lit his own cigarette.

‘All right,’ the man went on, ‘eyes are useful things, I’ll give you that. But you can get along without them. There’s a whole heap of things people should be able to do blindfold. I find out where objects are by touching them. I only need to come up against any obstacle twice, and after that I’ve got it taped. I know where it is, and what sort of thing it is. I don’t forget it. Living in darkness sharpens your memory, and that’s the truth.’

‘Don’t you have a stick, for walking?’

‘Yes, in the street. But today I know my wife’s coming for me in an hour’s time, so — no need of the stick.’

‘How do you tell the time?’

‘Oh, that’s easy. Look.’ He held out his wrist. ‘You see? I had a watch specially fitted up. My own idea. They’ve removed the glass and replaced it with a hinged lid. When I want to know the time, I just lift the lid and touch the hands. Good idea, don’t you think?’

‘Very much so.’

‘I used not to have a watch at first. It was so annoying. I had to ask people the time when they bought a paper. Or else I turned on the radio, and made a guess at it from the programme that was on at the time. But the watch is far more reliable.’

‘And it — it doesn’t worry you not being able to tell when it’s night?’

The man inhaled. ‘When it’s night?’

‘Yes. It’s all the same to you. You never know whether it’s night or day.’