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people’s shit. It cleanses him like a thorough wash, all that barbarism splurged in fresh ink across the headlines.
    But this evening, he’s unable to read, his mind is completely taken up by Baton. He keeps going back to him, he can’t help it. Slumped quietly on the sofa, he doesn’t watch TV; he wants no distractions . He’d like to chase away his gloomy thoughts. Why not put an end to it now, to save time? In the bathroom, reach for the barbiturates. Just for a laugh, put an end to it. It would be so easy, crush some in Baton’s bowl, swallow the rest and fall asleep lying on the floor, the two of them.
    He contemplates it. The moment passes. He dozes off. We’ll see tomorrow.

    Before, the dog used to sleep in his basket, but for the last few days he’s been resting in Victor’s bed. They fall asleep snuggled up together. They’re tired after their evening walk and they drop off at once. At nights, the dog sometimes has trouble breathing , his bronchial tubes are blocked with God-knows -what, a rather unsavoury viscous liquid. Victor soothes him as best he can, to appease his dog’s anxieties. They cradle each other to get through the night. You could say that they depend on each other. Neither dominates, there is a sort of balance that sustains them. Insofar as it is possible given that one is a man and the other a dog.
    Baton isn’t domesticated, he’s not a servant, he’s simply learned to live at the man’s pace and to be a companion to him in his solitude. Without each other, they’d be wiped off the map. Fate’s a fine thing, thinks Victor.
    Baton slept badly that night; Victor, beside him, was aware of him. Even so, they woke up very late. Victor smokes in bed. He opens his eyes, a cigarette between his lips. Inhaling the smoke makes him feel alive again, sullies him a little as soon as he wakes up. The dog rouses himself. He lays his head on Victor’s stomach, his ears drooping and his eyelids caked with a yellow discharge. A new day to face.

    Victor washes. The dog watches him scrub his naked body with a purple flannel. Baton lies with his head on the tiled floor, soaking up the splashes like a hairy bathmat. Victor towels himself and gets dressed. The dog doesn’t wash himself any more, there’s no one for him to charm now, no one to look at, not even any puddles of piss to sniff. Baton no longer pokes his muzzle into things, because it died before he did.
    Your body falls apart, disintegrates. And eventually it’s unable to carry you.

    They have a bite to eat and then go out for their morning walk. All the people they meet in the streets are on their way to work. They sell their labour power to the highest bidder. Their hair is combed, their shoes polished. Victor hasn’t made that kind of effort for a long time. He washes, he gets dressed, that’s already plenty. Freed from the office paper chains. No more Post-it notes stuck on his head, staples in his brain or ink on his hands. No more travel card. Now he buys a ticket when he has to go somewhere. They rarely leavethe neighbourhood. What’s the point? asks Victor. It’s true, what’s the point of rushing around all the time, looking for whatever it is that’s missing? The same misery as here except it’s somewhere else. Women ignoring you, kids shoving you, cars beeping you. A little bit of urban misery, whichever neighbourhood you’re in, whichever side of the river. So that’s enough, we’ll go out as little as possible since the world’s not interested in us, because it bruises us and scalds us. Only to give Baton some fresh air, let him crap on the pavements , which, frankly, don’t deserve any better. If only he could cover them in shit! That would be a laugh, slimy green shit oozing all over the pavements . It would dirty their shoes, it would stick to their soles, they’d slither around in it, they’d wallow in it, they’d all be covered in shit from head to foot. They’d cut a fine figure with Baton’s shit