They shut the door, saying “Later.”
Klang and footsteps.
I contemplate the bowl which contemplates me. A glaze of greenish
grease seals the mystery of its content, I induce two fingers to
penetrate the seal. They bring me up a flat sliver of cabbage and a
large, hard, thoughtful, solemn, uncooked bean. To pour the water off
(it is warmish and sticky) without committing a nuisance is to lift the
cover off _Ça Pue_. I did.
Thus leaving beans and cabbage-slivers. Which I ate hurryingly, fearing
a ventral misgiving.
I pass a lot of time cursing myself about the pencil, looking at my
walls, my unique interior.
Suddenly I realize the indisputable grip of nature’s humorous hand. One
evidently stands on _Ça Pue_ in such cases. Having finished, panting
with stink, I tumble on the bed and consider my next move.
The straw will do. Ouch, but it’s Dirty.—Several hours elapse….
Steps and fumble. Klang. Repetition of promise to Monsieur Savy, etc.
Turnkeyish and turnkeyish. Identical expression. One body collapses
sufficiently to deposit a hunk of bread and a piece of water.
“Give your bowl.”