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parks, he’d throw sticks for Baton and they’d have a bit of fun, to escape the crushing burden of solitude. When there are two of you, it’s more practical. You’ve got an excuse, you’re taking the dog out, letting him do his thing, he needs to crap. People don’t look at you the way they do when you’re on your own. He’s taking his dog for a walk, it’s perfectly normal, it’s midnight, he must have a wife waiting for him at home watching TV. A dog gives you an excuse to live as you please, going out in the middle of the night so as not to be stuck at home. It makes you look composed, it stops people trampling on you with their dirty looks.
    Victor chewed all that over in his mind. It’s calming to keep turning over old thoughts. It soothes your anxiety, you have the feeling that nothing’s changed, that Baton’s not going to die and that you’re walking as usual, the two of you, around République. This little ritual filled Victorwith happiness. Women he’d written off a long time ago. They’re all the same, only good for sucking your money out of you like marrow and then running off with a sailing instructor once the bone’s sucked dry. They were very cruel and very predictable. All he needed was the occasional bit of flesh, a nice blow job so he could go to sleep with a smile on his face. You get by on your own, you make up stories – you squeeze the juice with the right hand, for health reasons, to make yourself feel a bit better. It’s more practical – women give you grief, they call the tune, they make you do things you’d never have imagined. When all’s said and done, you end up on your own anyway. They say it’s because you drink too much, because you don’t pay them enough attention, but from the start, they knew they’d be leaving once there was nothing left to take. That’s what they’re like, they suck you to put you to sleep, thought Victor. And then they take everything from you, your pride with it. They discard you, like a donkey. Women, vipers, men, traitors or arseholes. There’s no one but Baton.
    But you can’t escape humanity. It’s always there, like a gaping wound that will never heal. It sweats, it drips. Sir, you’re going to lose your leg. It’s gangrenous , it’s eating your bones. You scratch the pusalong your shin. You’ll see, it won’t be easy. You have to watch out, it won’t go away. You have to live with it – try to get rid of it and you’ll starve to death. It’s your fate. It’s sad, the only way out is to die.
    Victor isn’t bitter, he’s just resigned. He wanted too much, he wasn’t given enough. The game’s over, he’s retiring. He won’t outlive his dog. What does it matter, he’s done his time, he’s seen what he wanted to see, he’s tasted joys and sorrows. Baton’s time has come, his too, it’s no big deal. They’ll go to sleep together, it will be beautiful, it will be simple. Farewell, sorrow.

    There isn’t much in Victor’s apartment. He’s never liked furniture. Just loads of leaflets piled up as if they were necessary. He doesn’t know why he keeps them, he just does it out of habit.
    Victor eats little – rice, pasta and beer. He has a routine that developed naturally, a soup plate for him and a little bowl for Baton. He sits reading the newspaper. The bit he likes best is the news in brief. It’s comforting to read about others’ misfortunes – women kept prisoner in basements, men having sex with little boys. When he thinks aboutit, Victor can’t see why he finds it so fascinating, but he can’t resist – blood, tears, rice and beer. They’re not ordinary stories, they turn your stomach, they make your gut churn like a fiery curry. Rapes, murders, horrors of all kinds, a baby eaten by rats – that’s what he likes to see going on in the world. A nameless brutality that sets his heart pounding as opposed to being pounded. For a while, he is outside himself, he purifies himself from within with other