he has been vainly trying to reconstruct all night…
“Good morning,” the drunk says with his jubilant smile.
“Good morning,” Wallas answers. “Will you give me a cup of black coffee, please?”
A little later, while he is drinking his coffee at a table, the drunk comes over and tries to start a conversation. Wallas finally asks him:
“How did that riddle of yours go yesterday? What animal…”
The drunk, delighted, sits down opposite him and searches his memory. What animal…Suddenly his face lights up; he rinks and begins enunciating with an infinitely sly expression:
“What animal is black, has six legs, and flies?”
“No,” Wallas says, “it was something else.”
A wipe of the rag. The manager shrugs. Some people actually lave time to waste.
But he mistrusts the friendly manners his lodger puts on so willingly. A man who dresses like that doesn’t take a room and lien spend the whole night out. And why did that man from the police station want to talk to him last night?
“I’m the manager.”
“Oh, it was you! You’re the one who told an inspector that lonsense about some fictitious son of Professor Dupont?”
“I didn’t say anything like that. I said that sometimes young people came in here, they’re all ages-some young enough to ^e Dupont’s sons…”
“Did you say he had a son?”
“I don’t even know whether he had any!”
“All right, let me speak to the manager.”
“I’m the manager.”
“Oh, it was you! You’re the one who told that nonsense about the fictitious son of Professor Dupont?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Did you say he had a son?”
“I don’t even know whether he had any. All I said was that young people of all ages came in here.”
“You’re the one who told that nonsense, or was it the manager?”
“I’m the manager.”
“You’re the one, young people nonsense, professor at the bar?”
“I’m the manager!”
“All right. Let me certainly have a son, a long time age fictitious young died so strangely…”
“I’m the manager. I’m the manager. The manager. I’m the manager…the manager…the manager…”
In the troubled water of the aquarium, furtive shadows pass. The manager is motionless at his post. His massive body lean: on his outspread arms; his hands grip the edge of the bar; his head hangs down, almost threatening, the mouth somewhat twisted, the gaze blank. Around him the familiar specters dance their waltz, like moths circling a lampshade and bumping into it, like dust in the sun, like little boats lost at sea, lulling to the sea’s rhythm their delicate cargo, the old casks, the dead fish, the rigging and tackle, the buoys, the stale bread, the knives and the men.
