Jean-Marie Le Clézio - The Flood

‘That’s true enough, I’ve no way of telling. But I don’t bother about it. To begin with, my wife knows even if I don’t. She always tells me what the weather’s like, if it’s sunny or overcast. But I don’t really care all that much, come to think of it. When I get home in the evening I’m tired. I go to bed and sleep. I wake up when it’s morning. So in the last resort it makes no difference to me whether it’s day or night.’

‘And you—’

‘Actually, the thing I honestly miss most is not being able to watch the telly. My wife watches in the evening, and I listen. But there are times when I’d really like to see what’s going on.’

‘Do you have any children?’

‘Yes, I’ve got two children, both boys. They’re married now, so I don’t see them all that often. They’re working. I miss reading the paper rather, too — funny thing, me selling them, isn’t it? My wife reads me all the news after lunch, but it’s not the same thing.’

‘Have you never tried learning Braille?’

‘You mean the set-up with all those raised dots?’

‘That’s it.’

‘No. They tried to teach me in hospital. Too damned complicated.’

‘Yes. It must be complicated.’

‘Besides, the papers they do that way aren’t the interesting ones.’

A car went by, very fast, its engine roaring. The blind man jerked a thumb after it and said: ‘Hey, that was a Lancia. I know the sound of its engine. Right?’

‘I don’t know,’ Besson said. ‘It was a red car—’

‘Low-slung?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was a Lancia, I know it was. I can recognize them all now. Just from the sound of their engines.’

‘Do you practise spotting them?’

‘All day long. I very seldom make a mistake.’

He flipped the ash off his cigarette on to the pavement.

‘I listen all day long,’ he said. ‘That’s how I find things out. Look, I bet I can tell you all about yourself, just from your voice.’

‘Really?’

‘That’s right, just by listening to you talk. I can tell you how old you are. Twenty-six, I’d say. Well?’

‘Twenty-seven,’ said Besson.

‘Fair enough, twenty-seven. You’re tall and thin, and you’ve got black hair.’

‘Absolutely right.’

‘You don’t do any kind of manual labour, that’s for sure. Yet you have a loud voice. You must be a lawyer or a teacher, something like that. Am I wrong?’

‘I’m a student,’ Besson said. ‘But you’re right, I have been a teacher.’

‘You see? It’s easy. I listen to people talking, and work out what they’re like just for the fun of it.’

Besson glanced at a group of people approaching them on the pavement.

‘I can go a bit further, too,’ the blind man said. ‘You’re not married, are you? If you were, you wouldn’t waste your time chatting me up like this.’

‘Quite true,’ Besson said.

The man began to laugh. ‘I enjoy trying to work out what people are like,’ he said. ‘It’s all there in the voice. They don’t know how much their voices give them away.’

‘You’re a philosopher,’ Besson said.

At this the blind man gave another laugh. ‘ Me? Well, I don’t know, maybe you’re right. I haven’t read any of those old books, though—’

‘It isn’t worth while reading them, you know,’ Besson said.

‘I’d have liked to have an education. But my parents couldn’t afford it. I had to go out to work as soon as I could.’

‘Education isn’t worth all that much.’

The man pondered this for a moment. ‘You shouldn’t say that. It’s not true, you know — education is worth something. It’s good to acquire knowledge. I wish I could have done it.’

‘What would you like to have known?’

‘Oh, everything. The lot. How to write well, and figure, and think properly. That’s what I’d have liked. But the thing I really wanted was to be a doctor. Understand how to heal people, find out all about drugs, know all the diseases. That’s what I’d have found really interesting. Doctors are good people. Well, not all of them, I know that, but some of them are really decent. When I had my operations, the doctor who looked after me explained the whole business. Of course, I didn’t understand some bits of it. But it interested me just the same. And the doctor saw I was interested, that’s why he told me all about it.’

‘You remind me of someone,’ Besson said.

‘Oh yes?’ said the blind man, ‘and who might that be?’

‘A man who lived a long time ago. He was rather like you.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Nothing, really. He was a philosopher. He lived in a barrel and listened to what was going on around him.’

‘Was he a writer?’

‘No, not even that. He just sat there all day in his barrel, and learnt a whole heap of things. He lived at Corinth, in Greece, a long time ago. He spent his time observing life, and he didn’t give a damn for anything or anybody. He went around barefoot, and slept where he felt like it, in doorways, or even in his barrel. One day he saw a child drinking from cupped hands at a fountain. He said to himself: “The child’s right. He’s taught me I’ve still got something which serves no useful purpose.” So then he broke his bowl.’

‘He must have been a queer sort of fellow,’ said the blind man. ‘Surely he was a bit cracked, though?’

‘Yes, and another time he heard a philosopher saying that man was an animal with two feet and no feathers. So he took a chicken, and plucked all its feathers, and threw it down in front of the philosopher, saying: “Look, there’s your man for you!” ’

‘Bravo,’ said the blind man. ‘That’s the sort of stuff to give ’em. But I bet the other man didn’t appreciate the joke.’

‘I must say I’d be surprised if he had.’ Besson stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe. ‘I have to be going now,’ he added.

The blind man flicked his butt-end into the road. ‘Come back one of these days,’ he said. ‘You can tell me more about this character who lived in a barrel. It sounds as though it might be amusing.’

‘I’ll be back,’ Besson promised. ‘See you.’

‘Goodbye, then,’ the man said.

‘Goodbye,’ said Besson.

Besson emerged from the doorway and took a few steps down the pavement. Then he turned back for a moment and gazed at the hunched-up figure sitting there in the shadows, with the pile of newspapers and the tin can full of coins beside him. He sat quite motionless, hands thrust in the pockets of his lumberjacket. Beneath the blue rainproof cap the face with its pointless lines was in repose, and reflections glinted from those large, opaque, impenetrable glasses. It was true, of course: this was the way he had to live, squatting on a section of pavement that was his unquestioned property, a section of property that he had bought. People might pass to and fro all day long, but he remained at home , in his own place. He had nothing to fear from the hubbub around him, or from people staring at him. His quest was over. He could settle down in his little retreat, his private, well-protected hiding-place; and there, quite unhurriedly, he would begin to play that lengthy game which can only be observed inside one’s own head.

Besson at work — The games — What one sees from a window — The story of Black Oradi — How François Besson triumphed over gravity

ON the fifth day, Besson remained in his room. He sat at his table, not thinking of anything, having previously hung a placard from the outer doorhandle on which he had written, with a red ball-point pen: WORKING PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB. Then he began to examine his surroundings, in front of him and on either side. It was about three in the afternoon. Through the curtainless windows he could see the house opposite, a dirty grey building with its own lace-curtained windows, and a segment of dull, neutral-coloured sky, in which not a single bird could be seen.