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whether he had put it on without noticing. No. The belt was hanging at his side, a soft, black intestine. How absurd, he thought. I must be ill. If I cannot get out, it’s because I am ill. He could move his arms and legs without any difficulty and bend his trunk with each manoeuvre, look back, lean slightly to the right, towards the glove-box, but his back was attached to his seat. Not firmly, but rather as a limb is attached to the body. He lit a cigarette, and suddenly felt worried about what his boss might say if he were to peer through the window and see him sitting there smoking inside the car and in no hurry to get out. A loud hoot made him close the door he had opened on to the road. When the other car had passed, he slowly opened the door again, threw out his cigarette and, clutching the steering-wheel with both hands, made a brusque and violent movement. Useless. He did not even feel any pain. The back of the seat held him comfortably and kept him there. What on earth was happening? He pulled the rear-view mirror downwards and looked at himself. No visible difference in his expression. Except for a vague anxiety he could barely control. On turning his head towards the pavement on the right, he saw a little girl staring at him, at once intrigued and amused. Then a woman appeared with an overcoat which the little girl slipped into without averting her gaze. And as they walked away the mother began arranging the girl’s collar and hair.
    He took another look in the mirror and understood what he must do. But not there. People were watching, some of them acquaintances. He straightened up the car, hastily reaching out for the handle to close the door, and then sped down the street as fast as possible. He had a goal, a clearly defined objective which made him feel more tranquil, so much so that he allowed himself to smile which gradually alleviated his anguish.
    He had almost passed the petrol-pump before he noticed it. There was a placard announcing ‘Out of Petrol’, and the car moved on without the slightest detour or reducing its speed. He did not want to think about the car. He was smiling again. Leaving the city behind, he reached the suburbs, close to the place he was looking for. He entered a road that was under construction, turned left, then right, until he came to a deserted narrow track with a ditch on either side. It was starting to rain when he stopped the car.
    His idea was simple. All he had to do was to get out of his raincoat by wriggling his arms and body, then slither out like a snake shedding its skin. In the presence of other people he would never have the courage, but there, all alone, with wilderness all around him, and the city remote and hidden by the rain, nothing would be easier. But he was mistaken. Not only was his raincoat stuck to the back of his seat, but also his jacket, his sweater, his shirt, his vest, his skin, his muscles and bones. This is what he was unconsciously thinking ten minutes later as he twisted and turned inside the car, calling out and close to tears. Desperate. He was imprisoned in the car. However much he struggled to get out through the open door where the rain was being driven in by sudden icy gusts of wind, however much he pressed his feet against the protruding speedometer, he could not pull himself out of his seat. Using both hands he held on to the roof and tried to hoist himself up. He might just as well have been trying to lift the universe. He threw himself over the wheel, howling and terrified out of his wits. Before his eyes, the windscreen wipers, which he had involuntarily set in motion in his agitation, went back and forth with the dry sound of a metronome. From afar came the noise of a factory siren. Next moment a man riding a bicycle came round the bend, his head and shoulders covered with a large sheet of black plastic, the rain trickling down as if it were sealskin. The cyclist looked inquisitively inside the car and pedalled on, perhaps disappointed