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while, perhaps a whole hour. A little old man came up and occupied the other end of my bench; as he sat down he drew a heavy sigh after his walk and said, “Ay-ay-ay-ay-ay me!”
    As soon as I heard his voice, it was as though a wind swept through my head. I let shoes remain shoes, and it now seemed to me that the confused state of mind I had just experienced belonged to a time long past, perhaps a year or two ago, and was slowly getting erased from my memory. I set about observing the old fellow.
    What concern was he of mine, this little man? None, none at all! Except that he was holding a newspaper in his hand, an old issue with the ad page up front in which something seemed to be wrapped up. I became curious and couldn’t take my eyes off that paper; I had the insane idea that it might be an unusual newspaper, in a class by itself; my curiosity increased and I began to move back and forth on the bench. It might contain documents, dangerous records stolen from some archive! The thought of some secret treaty, a plot, hovered before me.
    The man sat still, thinking. Why didn’t he carry his paper the way every other person did, with its name on the outside? What sort of tricks was he up to? It didn’t look like he would ever let go of his parcel, not for anything in the world, he might even be afraid to entrust it to his own pocket. I could bet my life there was more in this matter of the parcel than met the eye.
    I gazed straight ahead of me. The very fact that it was so impossible to penetrate this mysterious affair made me beside myself with curiosity. I searched my pockets for something I could give the man in order to start a conversation with him; I got hold of my shaving book but put it away again. Suddenly I took it into my head to be utterly shameless, patted my empty breast pocket and said, “May I offer you a cigarette?”
    No thanks, the man didn’t smoke, he’d had to quit to spare his eyes—he was nearly blind. “But many thanks anyway!”
    Had his eyes been ailing for a long time? Then he couldn’t even read maybe? Not even the papers?
    Not even the papers, he was sorry to say.
    The man looked at me. Those sick eyes were each covered with a film which gave them a glazed look; they appeared whitish and made a repellent impression.
    â€œYou’re a stranger here?” he said.
    â€œYes.” Couldn’t he even read the name of the paper he was holding in his hand?
    â€œHardly.” Anyway, he had heard right away that I was a stranger, something in my accent had told him. It took so little, his hearing was very good; at night when everybody was asleep he could hear the people in the next room breathing. . . . “What I wanted to ask was, where do you live?”
    A lie appeared full-fledged in my head on the spur of the moment. I lied automatically, without meaning to and with no ulterior motive, and replied, “At 2 St. Olaf Place.”
    â€œReally?” The man knew every stone in St. Olaf Place. There was a fountain, some street lamps, a couple of trees, he remembered it all. . . . “What number do you live at?”
    Wanting to make an end of it, I got up, driven to extremities by my idea about the newspaper. The secret had to be cleared up, no matter the cost.
    â€œIf you can’t read that paper, then why—”
    â€œAt number 2, did you say?” the man went on, without paying any attention to my restlessness. “At one time I used to know every person in number 2. What’s the name of your landlord?”
    I hit upon a name in a hurry to get rid of him, a name made up on the spot, and spat it out to stop my tormentor.
    â€œHappolati,” I said.
    â€œHappolati, yes,” the man nodded, without losing a syllable of this difficult name.
    I looked at him with amazement; he appeared very serious, with a thoughtful air. No sooner had I uttered this stupid name that had popped into my head than the man was