was rocks.”
“The devil put them there.”
“Yes, Dol.”
“Really! You see, the devil used to live down there, on Taby Island. Well, one day a little girl who was a saint took a boat and after rowing for three days and three nights she arrived at
the island. Very beautiful.”
“The island or the saint?”
“The little girl.”
“Ah.”
“She was so beautiful that when the devil saw her he was scared to death. He tried to chase her away, but she didn’t budge. She just stayed there looking at him. Until one day the
devil really couldn’t stood it any longer . . .”
“Couldn’t
stand
it.”
“Couldn’t stand it any longer and, howling, he ran and ran, into the sea, until he disappeared and no one ever saw him again.”
“And the rocks, where do they come in?”
“They come in because for every step that the devil made as he ran away, a rock came out of the sea. Everywhere he set foot—bingo!—up popped a rock. And they’re still
there today. They are the devil’s footsteps.”
“A good story.”
“Yes.”
“Can you see anything?”
“No.”
Silence.
“Are we going to stay here all day?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“I liked it better when I used to come for you in the evening with the boat.”
“Keep your mind on the job, Dol.”
“Y OU COULD WRITE a poem for them, Father Pluche.” “Are you saying that seagulls pray?”
“Certainly. Especially when they are about to die.”
“And do you never pray, Bartleboom?”
Bartleboom adjusted the woolen hat on his head.
“I used to pray, once. Then I made a calculation. In eight years I had taken the liberty of asking the Almighty for two things. Result: my sister died and I have still to meet the woman I
shall marry. Now I pray much less.”
“I do not think that . . .”
“Numbers speak clearly, Father Pluche. The rest is poetry.”
“Quite. If only we were a little more . . .”
“Don’t make things difficult, Father Pluche. The question is a simple one. Do you really believe that God exists?”
“Well, now,
exists
strikes me as a slightly excessive term, but I believe he is there, that’s it, in a world all of his own,
he is
there.
”
“And what difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference, all right, Bartleboom, and how. Take for example this story of the seventh room . . . yes, the story of that man at the inn who never leaves his room, and all
that.”
“So?”
“No one has ever seen him. He eats, it would seem. But it could easily be a trick. He might not exist. Made up by Dira. But for us, in any case,
he would be there.
In the evening
the lights are lit in that room, every so often sounds are heard, you yourself, I have seen you slow down when you pass that room, you try to see, to hear something . . . For us that man
is
there.
”
“But it’s not true, and then again he’s mad, that one, he’s a . . .”
“He’s not mad, Bartleboom. Dira says he is a gentleman, a real gentleman. She says he has a secret, that’s all, but he is a completely normal person.”
“And you believe that?”
“I don’t know who he is, I don’t know if he
exists,
but I know that he’s there. For me he’s there. And he is a frightened man.”
“Frightened?”
Bartleboom shakes his head.
“Frightened of what?”
“D ON ’ T YOU GO down to the beach?”
“No.”
“You don’t take a walk, you don’t write, you don’t make pictures, you don’t talk, you don’t ask questions. You are waiting, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why don’t you do what you have to do, and get it over with?”
Adams looks up at that little girl who speaks with a woman’s voice when she wants to, and at that moment she wants to.
“I have seen inns like this one in a thousand different parts of the world. Or perhaps I have seen this inn in a thousand different parts of the world. The same solitude, the same colors,
the same fragrances, the same silence. People come here and time stops. For some it
“The devil put them there.”
“Yes, Dol.”
“Really! You see, the devil used to live down there, on Taby Island. Well, one day a little girl who was a saint took a boat and after rowing for three days and three nights she arrived at
the island. Very beautiful.”
“The island or the saint?”
“The little girl.”
“Ah.”
“She was so beautiful that when the devil saw her he was scared to death. He tried to chase her away, but she didn’t budge. She just stayed there looking at him. Until one day the
devil really couldn’t stood it any longer . . .”
“Couldn’t
stand
it.”
“Couldn’t stand it any longer and, howling, he ran and ran, into the sea, until he disappeared and no one ever saw him again.”
“And the rocks, where do they come in?”
“They come in because for every step that the devil made as he ran away, a rock came out of the sea. Everywhere he set foot—bingo!—up popped a rock. And they’re still
there today. They are the devil’s footsteps.”
“A good story.”
“Yes.”
“Can you see anything?”
“No.”
Silence.
“Are we going to stay here all day?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“I liked it better when I used to come for you in the evening with the boat.”
“Keep your mind on the job, Dol.”
“Y OU COULD WRITE a poem for them, Father Pluche.” “Are you saying that seagulls pray?”
“Certainly. Especially when they are about to die.”
“And do you never pray, Bartleboom?”
Bartleboom adjusted the woolen hat on his head.
“I used to pray, once. Then I made a calculation. In eight years I had taken the liberty of asking the Almighty for two things. Result: my sister died and I have still to meet the woman I
shall marry. Now I pray much less.”
“I do not think that . . .”
“Numbers speak clearly, Father Pluche. The rest is poetry.”
“Quite. If only we were a little more . . .”
“Don’t make things difficult, Father Pluche. The question is a simple one. Do you really believe that God exists?”
“Well, now,
exists
strikes me as a slightly excessive term, but I believe he is there, that’s it, in a world all of his own,
he is
there.
”
“And what difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference, all right, Bartleboom, and how. Take for example this story of the seventh room . . . yes, the story of that man at the inn who never leaves his room, and all
that.”
“So?”
“No one has ever seen him. He eats, it would seem. But it could easily be a trick. He might not exist. Made up by Dira. But for us, in any case,
he would be there.
In the evening
the lights are lit in that room, every so often sounds are heard, you yourself, I have seen you slow down when you pass that room, you try to see, to hear something . . . For us that man
is
there.
”
“But it’s not true, and then again he’s mad, that one, he’s a . . .”
“He’s not mad, Bartleboom. Dira says he is a gentleman, a real gentleman. She says he has a secret, that’s all, but he is a completely normal person.”
“And you believe that?”
“I don’t know who he is, I don’t know if he
exists,
but I know that he’s there. For me he’s there. And he is a frightened man.”
“Frightened?”
Bartleboom shakes his head.
“Frightened of what?”
“D ON ’ T YOU GO down to the beach?”
“No.”
“You don’t take a walk, you don’t write, you don’t make pictures, you don’t talk, you don’t ask questions. You are waiting, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why don’t you do what you have to do, and get it over with?”
Adams looks up at that little girl who speaks with a woman’s voice when she wants to, and at that moment she wants to.
“I have seen inns like this one in a thousand different parts of the world. Or perhaps I have seen this inn in a thousand different parts of the world. The same solitude, the same colors,
the same fragrances, the same silence. People come here and time stops. For some it
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