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there were the cargo ships that filled her with yearning for who knows what. This happened only on the rare occasion. Most of the time she walked out of her gloomy office into the fading light, and noted that every day at the same hour, it was exactly the same hour. Nothing could be done about the great clock that marked time within time. Yes, to my exasperation, the same hour. Well, so what? So nothing! Speaking for myself, the author of this human character, I cannot stand repetition: routine divides me from potential novelties within my reach.
    Speaking of novelties, one day the girl saw a man in a snack-bar who was so amazingly good-looking that she would have loved to take him home. It would be like— like possessing a large emerald — emerald — emerald displayed in a jewel box. Forbidden to touch. The ring on his finger suggested that he was married. How could one marry — marry — marry a man who was only meant to be seen — seen — seen, she stammered in her mind. She would die of shame were she to eat in his presence, for he was much too good-looking by far.
    It occurred to her that she would like to rest her back for just a day. She knew that if she spoke to her boss, he would refuse to believe that her ribs were aching. So she had recourse to a lie that sounded much more convincing than the truth: she informed her boss that she would be unable to turn up for work the following day because she had to have a tooth extracted that might be troublesome. The lie worked. Sometimes only a lie can save you. The following day, therefore, when the four weary Marias set off for work, she could enjoy at long last the greatest privilege of all: solitude. She had the room all to herself. The girl could scarcely believe that all this space was hers to enjoy. It was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. Overcome with joy at her good fortune, the girl danced with reckless abandon. Her aunt would never have tolerated this behaviour. She danced and waltzed round the room for solitude made her: f-r-e-e! She took full advantage of this well-earned solitude, of the transistor radio which she played at full volume, of the room's spaciousness once vacated by the four Marias. She begged some instant coffee as a special favour from the landlady, then as an additional favour, she also asked for some boiling water. As she drank, licking her lips between each sip, she studied her own enjoyment in the mirror. To confront herself was a pleasure that she had never before experienced. I have never been so happy in my whole life, she thought. She owed nothing to anyone, and no one owed her anything. She even indulged in the luxury of feeling a little weary — a weariness quite unlike the usual weariness.
    I am a little suspicious of this sudden ease with which the girl is asking favours. Perhaps she needed special conditions in order to become appealing. Why hadn't she always behaved like this? Even looking at herself in the mirror was no longer quite so alarming: she was contented but how it ached.
    — Ah, merry month of May, abandon me no more! (Bang) she exclaimed inwardly the following morning, the seventh of May, she who never exclaimed anything. Probably because she had finally been given something. Given to her by herself, but nevertheless given.
    On the morning of the seventh of May, an unforeseen ecstasy gripped her tiny body. The bright, open light from the streets penetrated her opacity. May, the month of bridal veils floating in clouds of white.
    What follows is merely an attempt to reproduce three pages which I had already written. My cook, seeing them lying around, threw them into the wastepaper-basket to my utter despair — let the souls in Purgatory assist me to bear the almost unbearable, for the living are not much good to me. This tentative reconstruction is nothing like my original version of the girl's meeting with her future boy friend. Abashed, I shall try to relate the story of the story. But if anyone asks me