certain points of the story.
“Why did they call him Putty?” I tried asking him.
The janitor smiled in the dark, or so it seemed.
“Because he used to eat the putty!” he replied. “At that time, the panes of glass in the windows were fixed into the frame with putty. When a broken pane had to be changed, or when it rattled a bit because the putty had gone dry and was falling out, the glazier came and fixed it. He pulled out a ball of putty from his leather bag, broke it into smaller pieces and spread it carefully along the frame with a spatula so that the glass was firm. But the putty soon disappeared. The glazier was continually being called out to put in new putty, otherwise the glass would rattle and there was always the risk of it breaking when the windows were being opened and closed. It never had time to dry. When it was still fresh, you could always see little fingerprints on the surface that had been smoothed out by the knife, because the children enjoyed taking out pieces to make little balls or other things. But he, no, he used to take it and eat it. That’s why they called him Putty!”
He laughed a little. In the darkness I could just about see the upper plate of his dentures hanging slightly loose from his gums.
“Did anyone come to meet him, when he left?” I suddenly asked.
He paused for a moment, thinking.
“Sometimes an animal used to come to meet him.”
“An animal? What animal?”
“It looked like a dog, but I don’t know whether it was a dog … It sat there in front of the entrance, on the other side of the road, waiting for him. I used to see it when I opened the door, there, perfectly still, with its ears sticking up, watching closely. When they began coming out, its head would move back and forth all the time so as to spot him among the other children. They went off together, him and that kind of dog, walking side by side, in silence.
“But no one else ever came to meet him? Only an animal?” I asked again, too loudly perhaps.
He remained silent for a few moments.
“Sometimes there was also a person who came to meet him …”
“Oh yes? A person? And who was that?”
I wasn’t sure whether he replied, I couldn’t hear. He seemed to turn toward me and to gaze at me with wide-open eyes, lifting both of his hands to his head, in the dark.
We were probably walking down the stairs because, every now and then, there was no ground beneath my feet, between one step and another.
We eventually arrived at the small door at the rear. The janitor opened it. I could hear him saying goodbye, with his kindly voice, inthe thickest darkness. Before leaving, I had the feeling that he stroked me on the back of my neck, from behind, high up, with his large hand, in the dark.
As I was returning home in the car, deep in the night, on one curve a large insect was squashed against the windshield. I saw it thrown from its meandering course, blinded by the headlights, a moment before it collided against the wall of the car racing through the dark. Then the trail of its innards that oozed yellow over the glass.
24
“Who knows if the sky has another sky above it?” I ask myself as I sit looking out from the precipice. “The sky that I can see from here at least, from this gorge, above this group of houses and abandoned ruins. Who knows if the light itself isn’t inside another light? And what kind of light is it, if it’s a light you can’t see? Even if you can’t see the light, what else can you see? Who knows if the matter the universe is made of, at least the little we’re able to perceive in the sea of dark matter and energy, isn’t inside another infinitely larger matter, and the dark matter and energy aren’t also inside an infinitely larger darkness? Who knows if the curvature of space and time, if there is a curvature, if there is space, if there is time, aren’t also themselves inside a larger curvature, a larger space, a larger time, that comes first, that hasn’t yet
“Why did they call him Putty?” I tried asking him.
The janitor smiled in the dark, or so it seemed.
“Because he used to eat the putty!” he replied. “At that time, the panes of glass in the windows were fixed into the frame with putty. When a broken pane had to be changed, or when it rattled a bit because the putty had gone dry and was falling out, the glazier came and fixed it. He pulled out a ball of putty from his leather bag, broke it into smaller pieces and spread it carefully along the frame with a spatula so that the glass was firm. But the putty soon disappeared. The glazier was continually being called out to put in new putty, otherwise the glass would rattle and there was always the risk of it breaking when the windows were being opened and closed. It never had time to dry. When it was still fresh, you could always see little fingerprints on the surface that had been smoothed out by the knife, because the children enjoyed taking out pieces to make little balls or other things. But he, no, he used to take it and eat it. That’s why they called him Putty!”
He laughed a little. In the darkness I could just about see the upper plate of his dentures hanging slightly loose from his gums.
“Did anyone come to meet him, when he left?” I suddenly asked.
He paused for a moment, thinking.
“Sometimes an animal used to come to meet him.”
“An animal? What animal?”
“It looked like a dog, but I don’t know whether it was a dog … It sat there in front of the entrance, on the other side of the road, waiting for him. I used to see it when I opened the door, there, perfectly still, with its ears sticking up, watching closely. When they began coming out, its head would move back and forth all the time so as to spot him among the other children. They went off together, him and that kind of dog, walking side by side, in silence.
“But no one else ever came to meet him? Only an animal?” I asked again, too loudly perhaps.
He remained silent for a few moments.
“Sometimes there was also a person who came to meet him …”
“Oh yes? A person? And who was that?”
I wasn’t sure whether he replied, I couldn’t hear. He seemed to turn toward me and to gaze at me with wide-open eyes, lifting both of his hands to his head, in the dark.
We were probably walking down the stairs because, every now and then, there was no ground beneath my feet, between one step and another.
We eventually arrived at the small door at the rear. The janitor opened it. I could hear him saying goodbye, with his kindly voice, inthe thickest darkness. Before leaving, I had the feeling that he stroked me on the back of my neck, from behind, high up, with his large hand, in the dark.
As I was returning home in the car, deep in the night, on one curve a large insect was squashed against the windshield. I saw it thrown from its meandering course, blinded by the headlights, a moment before it collided against the wall of the car racing through the dark. Then the trail of its innards that oozed yellow over the glass.
24
“Who knows if the sky has another sky above it?” I ask myself as I sit looking out from the precipice. “The sky that I can see from here at least, from this gorge, above this group of houses and abandoned ruins. Who knows if the light itself isn’t inside another light? And what kind of light is it, if it’s a light you can’t see? Even if you can’t see the light, what else can you see? Who knows if the matter the universe is made of, at least the little we’re able to perceive in the sea of dark matter and energy, isn’t inside another infinitely larger matter, and the dark matter and energy aren’t also inside an infinitely larger darkness? Who knows if the curvature of space and time, if there is a curvature, if there is space, if there is time, aren’t also themselves inside a larger curvature, a larger space, a larger time, that comes first, that hasn’t yet
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