"No, he never complains. He doesn't even cry. He has considerable strength of character. But he can't go on suffering so much humiliation forever. Withdraw him from school and I will come every evening to give him lessons here. It would be a real pleasure for me to work with such a gifted child."

Lucas says, "Thank you, but it's not up to me. Mathias insists on going to school normally, like the other children. For him, leaving school would mean recognizing his difference, his infirmity."

The teacher says, "I understand. However, he is different, and one day he will have to accept it."

Lucas is silent. The teacher browses through the books on the shelves.

"These premises are very spacious. What would you say to setting out a few tables and chairs to make a reading room for the children? I could bring you some secondhand books, I've got plenty that I don't know what to do with. Then the children whose parents don't own books, and there are lots of them, believe me, could come and read in peace here for an hour or two."

Lucas stares at the teacher. "You think that might improve the relations between Mathias and the other children, don't you? Yes, it's worth a try. It's probably a good idea."

It is ten o'clock at night. Peter rings at Lucas's house. Lucas throws him the front-door key from the window. Peter comes up and enters the room. "Am I disturbing you?"

"Not at all. On the contrary. I was looking for you, but you had disappeared. Even Mathias was worried about you."

Peter says, "That's nice. Is he asleep?"

"He's in his room, but how do I know if he's asleep or doing something else? He wakes up at all hours of the night and starts reading, writing, thinking, studying."

"Can he hear us?"

"He can if he wants to, yes."

"In that case I'd rather you came to my place."

"Fine."

At his house, Peter opens the windows in all the rooms. He collapses into an armchair. "This heat is unbearable. Fix yourself a drink and sit down. I've just come from the station. I've been traveling all day. I had to change trains four times and wait ages for the connections."

Lucas pours a drink. "Where have you been?"

"To my hometown. I was summoned there by the local magistrate concerning Victor. He strangled his sister in a fit of delirium tremens. "

Lucas says, "Poor Victor. Did you see him?"

"Yes, I saw him. He's in an insane asylum."

"How is he?"

"Very well, very calm. His face is a bit puffed up because of the medication he's on. He was happy to see me. He asked about you, and the shop, and the child. He sends his greetings."

"And what did he say about his sister?"

"He said quietly, 'It's done now, we can't change it.' "

Lucas asks, "What will become of him?"

"I don't know. They haven't had the trial yet. I think he'll spend the rest of his days in the asylum. Victor doesn't belong in a prison. I asked if there was anything I could do for him. He said to send him a regular supply of writing materials. 'Paper and pencils are all I need. Here I can finally write my book,' he said."

"Yes, Victor wanted to write a book. He told me when I bought the bookshop. In fact, that's the reason he sold it."

"Yes, and he's already started writing." Peter takes a pile of typewritten sheets from his briefcase. "I read them on the train. Take them home, read them, and bring them back to me. He typed them next to his sister's body. He strangled his sister and then sat at his desk to write. They were found like that, in Victor's room, the sister strangled, stretched out on the bed, Victor typing, drinking brandy, smoking cigars. It was some of his sister's clients who called the police the next day. On the day of the crime, Victor left the house, drew some money from the bank, went to buy some brandy, cigarettes, and cigars. He told the clients who had an appointment for a fitting and were waiting outside the door that his sister was feeling poorly because of the heat and didn't want to be disturbed. The clients, obstinate and no doubt impatient to have their new dresses, came back the next day, knocked at the door, spoke to the neighbors, decided that the whole thing was a bit strange, and finally went to contact the police. The police forced the door open and found Victor blind drunk, quietly typing away at his manuscript. He let himself be led away without resistance, taking the finished sheets along with him. Read them. There are a lot of errors, but they're readable, and very interesting."

Lucas goes home with Victor's manuscript and starts to copy it out into his notebook during the night:

It is August 15; the heat wave has lasted three weeks now. The heat is unbearable indoors as well as outside. You can't get away from it. I don't like the heat, I don't like summer. A wet, cool summer, fine, but these dog days have always made me feel positively ill.

I have just strangled my sister. She is lying on my bed. I have covered her with a sheet. In this heat her body will soon start smelling. No matter. I'll report it later. I've locked the front door, and if anyone knocks I won't answer. I've also closed the windows and pulled the shutters.

I've lived with my sister for almost two years. I sold the bookshop and house I owned in a little town far away near the border. I came to live with my sister in order to write a book. I thought I would be unable to do it in the little town far away because of the solitude that threatened to make me ill and turn me into an alcoholic. I thought that here, with my sister taking care of the housework, the meals, and the clothes, I would lead a healthy, regular life, which would at last allow me to write the book that I've always wanted to write.

Unfortunately, the calm and quiet life I'd anticipated quickly turned into hell on earth.

My sister watched over me, spied on me constantly. Right from my arrival she forbade me to drink or smoke, and whenever I returned from an errand or a walk she would kiss me affectionately, solely, I realized, in order to detect the smell of drink or tobacco on my breath.

I abstained from drink for several months, but I was quite incapable of giving up smoking as well. I smoked in secret like a schoolboy. I would buy a cigar or a pack of cigarettes and go off for a walk in the forest. On the way back I would chew pine needles or suck mints to get rid of the smell. I also smoked at night with the window open, even in winter.

Many times I sat down at my desk with some sheets of paper, but my mind was a complete blank.

What could I write about? Nothing happened in my life, nothing ever had happened in my life or in the world around me. Nothing worth writing about. And my sister disturbed me all the time; she came into my room on the slightest pretext. She brought me tea, dusted the furniture, put away my clean clothes in the wardrobe. She would also lean over my shoulder to see how my writing was coming along. Because of this I had to fill in sheet after sheet, and since I didn't know what to write on them, I copied out excerpts from books, any books. Sometimes my sister would read a phrase over my shoulder that pleased her, and would encourage me with a contented smile.

There was no chance of her seeing through my deceit, for she never read herself; she possibly never read a book in her life. She never had the time-since childhood she has worked from morning till night.

In the evening she made me come into the sitting room. "You've worked enough for one day. Let's chat for a while."

As she talked, she did her sewing, either by hand or on her old pedal-driven sewing machine. She talked about her neighbors, her clients, about dresses and fabrics, about how tired she felt, and all the sacrifices she had made to ensure the success of the work of her brother, me, Victor.