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isn't at Burgos but at Saragossa, I think? Yet there may possibly
join, if I am permitted, the group of students and professors who
be one at Burgos. The Pilgrims kiss her, don't they? the one at
take an annual cruise to the Near East. I should like to make some
Saragossa, I mean. And isn't there the print of her foot on a
new acquaintances," he says unctuously. "To speak frankly, I would
stone? in a hole where the mothers push their children?"
also like something unexpected to happen to me, something new,
Stiffly he pushes an imaginary child with his hands. You'd
adventures."
think he was refusing the gifts of Artaxerxes.
He has lowered his voice and his face has taken on a roguish
"Ah, manners and customs, Monsieur, they are . . . they are
look.
curious."
"What sort of adventures?" I ask him, astonished.
A little breathless, he points his great ass's jawbone at me. He
"All sorts, Monsieur. Getting on the wrong train. Stopping
smells of tobacco and stagnant water. His fine, roving eyes shine
in an unknown city. Losing your briefcase, being arrested by
like globes of fire and his sparse hair forms a steaming halo on
mistake, spending the night in prison. Monsieur, I believed the
his skull. Under this skull, Samoyeds, Nyam-Nyams, 34
word adventure could be defined: an event out of the ordinary
35
without being necessarily extraordinary. People speak of the
on me and wanted to stab me with an enormous knife. But I hit
magic of adventures. Does this expression seem correct to you? I
him just below the temple . . . then he began shouting in Arabic
would like to ask you a question, Monsieur."
and a swarm of lousy beggars came up and chased us all the way
"What is it?"
to Souk Attarin. Well, you can call that by any name you like, in
He blushes and smiles.
any case, it was an event which happened to ME.
"Possibly it is indiscreet!"
It is completely dark and I can't tell whether my pipe is lit. A
"Ask me, anyway."
trolley passes: red light on the ceiling. Then a heavy truck which
He leans towards me, his eyes half-closed, and asks:
makes the house tremble. It must be six o'clock.
"Have you had many adventures, Monsieur?"
I have never had adventures. Things have happened to me,
"A few," I answer mechanically, throwing myself back to
events, incidents, anything you like. But no adventures. It isn't a
avoid his tainted breath. Yes. I said that mechanically, without
question of words; I am beginning to understand. There is
thinking. In fact, I am generally proud of having had so many
something to which I clung more than all the rest without com-
adventures. But today, I had barely pronounced the words than I
pletely realizing it. It wasn't love. Heaven forbid, not glory,
was seized with contrition; it seems as though I am lying, that I
not money. It was . . . I had imagined that at certain times my life
have never had the slightest adventure in my life, or rather, that
could take on a rare and precious quality. There was no need for
I don't even know what the word means any more. At the same
extraordinary circumstances: all I asked for was a little precision.
time, I am weighed down by the same discouragement I had in
There is nothing brilliant about my life now: but from time to
Hanoi four years ago when Mercier pressed me to join him and
time, for example, when they play music in the cafes, I look
I stared at a Khmer statuette without answering. And the IDEA is
back and tell myself: in old days, in London, Meknes, Tokyo, I
there, this great white mass which so disgusted me then: I hadn't
have known great moments, I have had adventures. Now I am
seen it for four years.
deprived of this. I have suddenly learned, without any apparent
"Could I ask you . . ." the Self-Taught Man begins . . .
reason, that I have been lying to myself for ten years. And naturally,
By Jove! To tell him one of those famous tales. But I won't
everything they tell about in books can happen in real life, but
say another word on the subject.
not in the same way. It is to this way of happening that I clung
"There," I say, bending down over his narrow shoulders,
so tightly.
putting my finger on a photograph, "there, that's Santillana, the
The beginnings would have had to be real beginnings. Alas!
prettiest town in Spain."
Now I see so clearly what I wanted. Real beginnings are like a
"The Santillana of Gil Bias? I didn't believe it existed. Ah,
fanfare of trumpets, like the first notes of a jazz tune, cutting
Monsieur, how profitable your conversation is. One can tell
short tedium, making for continuity: then you say about these
you've travelled."
evenings within evenings: "I was out for a walk, it was an evening
I put out the Self-Taught Man after filling his pockets with
in May." You walk, the moon has just risen, you feel lazy, vacant, a
post cards, prints and photos. He left enchanted and I switched
little empty. And then suddenly you think: "Something has
off the light. I am alone now. Not quite alone. Hovering in front of
happened." No matter what: a slight rustling in the shadow, a thin
me is still this idea. It has rolled itself into a ball, it stays there
silhouette crossing the street. But this paltry event is not like the
like a large cat; it explains nothing, it does not move, and contents
others: suddenly you see that it is the beginning of a great shape
itself with saying no. No, I haven't had any adventures.
whose outlines are lost in mist and you tell yourself, "Something is
I fill my pipe, light it and stretch out on the bed, throwing a
beginning."
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