shoes. Behind them, an enormous mother, in a brown silk dress, and the father, a

rather frail little man I know by sight. He had on a straw hat and a bow tie and

was carrying a walking stick. Seeing him with his wife, I understood why people

in the neighborhood said he was distinguished. A little later the local boys

went by, hair greased back, red ties, tight-fitting jackets, wi�h em­ broidered

pocket handkerchiefs and square-toed shoes. I thought they must be heading to

the movies in town. That was why they were leaving so early and hurrying toward

the streetcar, laughing loudly.

 

After them, the street slowly emptied out. The matinees had all started, I

guess. The only ones left were the shopkeepers and the cats. The sky was clear

but dull above the fig trees lining the street. On the sidewalk across the way

the tobacconist brought out a chair, set it in front of his door, and straddled

it, resting his arms on the back. The streetcars, packed a few minutes before,

were almost empty. In the little cafe Chez Pierrot, next door to the

tobacconist's, the waiter was sweeping up the sawdust in the deserted restaurant

inside. It was Sunday all right.

 

I turned my chair around and set it down like the tobacconist's because I found

that it was more comfortable that way. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, went

inside to get a piece of chocolate, and went back to the window to eat it. Soon

after that, the sky grew dark and I thought we were in for a summer storm.

Gradually, though, itcleared up again. But the passing clouds had left a hint of

rain hanging over the street, which made it look darker. I sat there for a long

time and watched the sky. At five o'clock some streetcars pulled up, clanging