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or intrigued to see a man on his own and not a couple, as he had surmised from a distance.
    What was happening was preposterous. No one had ever been imprisoned like this inside his own car, by his own car. There must be some way or other of getting out. Certainly not by force. Perhaps in a garage. But how would he explain it? Should he call the police? And then what? People would gather round, everyone staring, while an officer grabbed him by an arm and asked those present to help him, but in vain, because the back of the seat was gently clasping him in its embrace. Journalists and photographers would soon rush to the scene and photographs would appear in all the newspapers next day, showing him trapped inside his car and looking as mortified as a shorn animal out in the rain. There had to be another solution. He switched off the engine and without interrupting the gesture threw himself violently outwards as if launching a surprise attack. With no result. He knocked his head and his left hand and the pain made him feel quite dizzy, while a sudden and uncontrollable desire to urinate released an endless flow of warm liquid that ran down between his legs on to the floor of the car. No sooner did he feel this happening than he began to sob quietly, moaning in his misery, and there he remained until a mangy dog emerged from the rain and came up to the car door to bark at him without much conviction.
    He slowly went into gear with the heavy movements of some subterranean nightmare and proceeded along the narrow track trying hard not to think, not to allow the situation to prey on his mind. He was vaguely aware that he must find someone to help him. But who? He was reluctant to alarm his wife, but what else could he do. Perhaps she might be able to come up with a solution. At least he would not feel so wretchedly alone.
    He drove back into the city, observing the traffic signals and moving as little as possible in his seat, as if anxious to appease the powers holding him there. Several hours went by and the light was fading. He saw three petrol-pumps but the car did not react. All three displayed a placard announcing: ‘Out of Petrol’. Once he entered the city he began to see cars abandoned in the oddest places and displaying red triangles in the back window, a sign which on other occasions would have meant a breakdown, but which now nearly always meant out of petrol. Twice he came across groups of men pushing vehicles on to the pavements, with wild gestures of exasperation beneath the rain which was still falling.
    When he finally reached the street where he lived he had to think how he could summon his wife. He stopped the car in front of the door, disorientated, almost on the brink of another nervous crisis. He waited for the miracle to happen whereby his wife would come down in answer to his silent plea for help. He waited for some time before an inquisitive lad from the neighbourhood approached whom he was able to persuade with the promise of a reward to go up to the third floor and tell the lady who lived there that her husband was waiting below in the car. That she should come at once for it was very urgent. The boy went and came down again, said the lady was coming and ran off having earned his reward.
    His wife came down in her house attire, having forgotten even to bring an umbrella, and now she was standing there in the doorway, undecided, involuntarily turning her eyes towards a dead rat at the edge of the pavement, a limp rat with bristling hairs; hesitant about crossing the pavement in the rain, somewhat annoyed with her husband who had made her come down needlessly when he could so easily have come up himself to tell her what he wanted. But when she saw her husband gesticulating inside the car, she took fright and ran to him. She reached out for the door-handle, anxious to escape the rain, and when she finally opened the door, she confronted her husband’s open hand pushing her away without actually touching her.