The Loneliness of the Spider

Chapter 9

I put out the cigarette on the pile of butts. I go back to the window. The sky has darkened and the branches of the trees are moving in the wind. A plastic bag full of air is rolling along the sidewalk. It ends up between the legs of two women who are walking along in silence. One of the two, the more robust one, is swinging a stick. Every now and then she turns around and whistles. A lame dog is following them at a distance. Suddenly I feel like going for a walk, hear the sound of dry leaves under my shoes. I grab my overcoat and go down to the street. The glow of the city hides the stars and envelops the roofs of the houses. It"s cold. I lift my lapel and sink my hands into my pockets. There is not a soul around. A half-empty bus goes by. A boy with his forehead resting on the glass stares at me as if I should not feel the weight of his eyes. He slips away, like a gloomy ghost. I cross an intersection and I notice an old man, all wrapped up, sleeping against a wall. He is buried by pieces of cardboard, what’s left of destroyed boxes. He must be a foreigner, maybe from the East. They’re arriving in droves. They beg barefooted, staggering between the cars. He could be dead. In days like this, the drunkards die like flies. I think about going back and giving him a kick in the back. To see if he’s really dead. The sides of my coat slam against my knees. The sound of my heels breaks through the silence. I am the man walking in the night, the mystery that advances.

The phone vibrates. I look at the time. It must be the newsroom.