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one spurt, the car mounted the pavement, went right up against the lorry, and came out on the other side, as free and agile as an animal on the loose. The damned car had nine lives. Perhaps because of all the upheaval caused by the embargo, with everyone in a panic and services disrupted, the pumps had been filled with a much higher grade of petrol. That would be fun.
    He looked at his watch. Was it worth calling on his client? With luck, he would get there before they closed. If the traffic was not too heavy he would have enough time. But the traffic was heavy. Christmas time, and notwithstanding the shortage of petrol, everyone out on the roads, making life difficult for those who had to get to work. And on coming to a crossroads that was clear, he turned off and decided not to visit his client after all. Better to make some excuse in the office and postpone the call until the afternoon. With so much hesitation, he had made quite a detour from the centre. All that petrol consumed for nothing. But then the tank was full. As he drove down a street he saw more cars queuing in the square below. He smiled with satisfaction and accelerated, determined to sound his hooter as he passed those paralysed motorists who were waiting. But twenty metres further on his car veered to the left by itself and came to a halt at the end of the queue with a gentle sigh. What was happening? He had not intended to queue for petrol. Why had the car stopped when the tank was full? He studied the various dials, checked the steering wheel as if unfamiliar with his own car and, with one further gesture, he pulled the rear-view mirror towards him and looked at his reflection. He could see that he was worried and with good reason. Once again in the rear-view mirror he could see a car coming down the road and clearly heading for the queue. Worried about being trapped there, when his tank was full, he quickly manoeuvred the lever to go backwards. The car resisted and the lever slipped from his grasp. He instantly found himself jammed between his two neighbours. Damn it. What could be wrong with the car? He must take it to the garage. A reverse gear that works one minute but not the next is a real hazard.
    More than twenty minutes passed before he reached the pump. He saw the attendant approach and his voice faltered as he asked him to check the tank. At the same time he tried to get out of this embarrassing situation, quickly putting the car into first gear and trying to drive off. To no avail. The pump-attendant looked at him suspiciously, opened the tank and, after a few seconds, came and charged him for a litre, muttering to himself as he pocketed the money. Next moment the car went into first gear without any effort and advanced, moving smoothly with a low purr. There had to be something not quite right with the car, the gear changes, the engine, something somewhere, damn it. Or could he be losing his touch as a driver? Or even be ill? He had slept so well, had no more worries than usual. Better to forget his clients for the moment, not think about them for the rest of the day and remain in the office. He felt restless. The bodywork of the car was shaking all over, not on the surface but inside the steel parts, and the engine was running with that inaudible sound of lungs breathing in and out, in and out. To his dismay he began to realise that he was mentally tracing out an itinerary that would take him far away from other petrol-pumps, and this was enough to make him apprehensive and fear for his sanity. He started going round in circles, lengthening and shortening the journey, until he arrived in front of his office. He found a parking space and sighed with relief. After switching off the engine, he removed the key and opened the door. But he could not get out.
    He thought he had caught the hem of his raincoat, that his leg had got stuck round the column of the steering wheel, and he tried another movement. He even checked the safety belt to see