PARTISAN REVIEW
351
The day of toil is ended, said Camier, a kind of ink rises in the east
and floods the sky.
The bell rang, announcing closing time.
I sense vague shadowy shapes, said Camier, they come and go
with muffled cries.
I too have the feeling, said Mercier, we have not gone unobserved
since morning.
Are we by any chance alone now? said Camier.
I see no one, said Mercier.
Let us then go together, said Camier.
They left the shelter.
The sack, said Mercier.
The umbrella, said Camier.
The raincoat, said Mercier.
It
I have, said Camier.
Is there nothing else? said Mercier.
I see nothing else, said Camier.
I'll get them, said Mercier, you mind the bicycle.
It
was a woman's bicycle, without free wheel unfortunately. To
brake one pedalled backward.
The ranger, his bunch of keys in his hand, watched them recede.
Mercier held the handlebar, Camier the saddle. The pedals rose and
fell.
He cursed them on their way.
II
In the show windows the lights came on, went out, according to
the show. Through the slippery streets the crowd pressed on as towards
some unquestioned goal. A strange well-being, wroth and weary, filled
the air. Close the eyes and not a voice is heard, only the onward pant–
ing of the feel. In this throng silence they advanced as best they could,
at the edge of the sidewalk, Mercier in front, his hand on the han–
dlebar, Camier behind, his hand on the saddle, and the bicycle slith–
ered in the gutter by their side.
You hinder me more than you help me, said Mercier.
I'm not trying
to
help you, said Camier, I'm trying to help myself.
Then all is well, said Mercier.
I'm cold, said Camier.
It
was indeed cold.
