352
SAMUEL BECKETT
It
is indeed cold, said Mercier.
Where do our feet think they're taking us? said Camier.
They would seem to be heading for the canal, said Mercier.
Already? said Camier.
Perhaps we shall be tempted, said Mercier, to strike out along the
towpath and follow it till boredom doth ensue. Before us, beckoning
us on, without our having to lift our eyes, the dying tints we love so
well.
Speak for yourself, said Camier.
The very water, said Mercier, will linger livid, which is not to be
despised either. And then the whim, who knows, may take us to throw
ourselves in.
The little bridges slip by, said Camier, ever fewer and farther be–
tween. We pore over the locks, trying
to
understand. From the barges
made fast to the bank waft the watermen's voices, bidding us good–
night. Their day is done, they smoke a last pipe before turning in.
Every man for himself, said Mercier, and God for one and all.
The town lies far behind, said Camier. Little by little· night over–
takes us, blueblack. We splash through puddles left by the rain. It is no
longer possible to advance. Retreat is equally out of the question.
He added, some moments later:
What are you musing on, Mercier?
On the horror of existence, confusedly, said Mercier.
What about a drink? said Camier.
I thought we had agreed to abstain, said Mercier, except in the
event of accident, or indisposition. Does not that figure among our
many conventions?
I don't call drink, said Camier, a quick nip to put some life in us.
They stopped at the first pub.
No bikes here, said the publican.
Perhaps after all he was a mere hireling.
And now? said Camier.
We might chain it
to
a lamppost, said Mercier.
That would give us more freedom, said Camier. He added, Of
movement.
In the end they fell back on a railing. It came to the same.
And now? said Mercier.
Back to no bikes? said Camier.
Never! said Mercier.
