33
That night, the sail of his sleep was swelled by the winds of time. And it tossed a handful of phoney snowflakes in his direction, and a short man with rather bulging eyes, long hair and a fleshy nose. This person was dressed in a blue jacket and raspberry-coloured trousers hastily tucked into his boots. A black beret crowned his head. He looked like a craftsman or a merchant. He was walking somewhere, dragging a small sled of books behind him with obvious effort. Sometimes snow lay under the slats of the sled, sometimes it glided over tarmac, emitting spine-chilling, grinding sounds as it did so. N. found himself in the path of this man in the beret, so both were forced to stop. N. looked into his face.
“Allow me to introduce myself. Wilhelm Richard Geyer,” the man said reluctantly,
