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N. got undressed, stood in the washtub and poured a bucket of cold water over himself. He gasped, but the sensation of being watched remained on his skin. It didn’t wash off; it was sticky, cloyingly sweet, like jam in a jam tart that has been lying around too long. N. picked up the loofah and began fiercely rubbing his skin.
After that incident, he only sat out on the other veranda, the one with its back to the man with the binoculars, and facing the water. And he drew all the curtains of the rooms facing the front. All rooms, that is, to which he had access; the others lived a life of their own, quietly, modestly, disturbing nothing. N. checked: the man who had been observing him could only see the attic. However, this didn’t cheer him up particularly: the feeling of being watched d
