Behind a blood-red cloud, and haloed with garish radiance, the sun’s disc slowly swung up: Besson did not actually see it, but he could sense the circular shape, and felt the first rays of direct light strike home on his eyelids. The brightness spread swiftly over the earth’s visible surface, flushing the last shadow-bound objects from their hiding places: match-ends lying on the pavement, scratches in the paintwork of the iron balustrade, folds in clothes, hairs on the back of the hand, the reticulating branches of shrubs, the skeletal nerve-pattern on dead leaves. Though still hidden behind a curtain of mist, the sun was none the less there, huge and terrifying, pursuing its solitary course through a sea of radiant air. All darkness had vanished now. Despite the occasional fitful breeze, a kind of warmth began to disseminate itself everywhere, spreading over the earth and penetrating the substance of things.
Eyes wide open, Besson gazed at the area dominated by the sun: it was like an abyss, a silent maelstrom sunk into the heavens. Everything, absolutely everything moved centripetally towards it: even the mind, with its caravans of thoughts and ideas, was irresistibly attracted by this dazzling focal point. To struggle against it was out of the question: you had no time to put up any defence, before you knew what had happened you were its slave. Down, down you went, deaf to all sounds, quite helpless, caught on the earth’s lift-platform, sinking to some unknown destination, while behind its screen of scarlet clouds that colourless sphere mounted royally towards the zenith.
Little by little, as the sun gradually detached itself from the barrier of the horizon, each large patch of red was reabsorbed, gave place to the ordinary light of day. Blues became permanent, orange and yellow elements darkened, and one by one the sparks of reflected light went out till they were all gone. Finally, these colour-changes more or less came to a halt, except for the brief occasional appearance of violet and purple streaks drifting over the sea, or when some cloud parted asunder and a great cone of yellow light gleamed through the torn gap, its base picking out a chain of mountains, its whole length laced with rainbow spume and a scribble of slanting rain.
By now there were plenty of people hurrying along the pavement behind Besson. The town was waking up. Men’s footsteps clacked noisily past, then faded in the distance. There was a muted hum of car-engines, and seagulls swooped overhead, with their shrill yap-yap-yap. At one point all the street-lamps were suddenly extinguished but this made no difference to the general picture. The rows of blue star-points went out, one after the other, till the entire town was visible, solid, opaque, an integral part of the day now beginning.
Besson lit a cigarette at this point, and then set off through the back streets, away from the sea. In a leisurely fashion he began to make his way up towards the centre of town again. In one corner by a shop he came on an automatic vending machine. He put in a coin, pressed a button, and got a small waxed-paper cup full of scalding coffee, which he drank in two or three mouthfuls.
Further on, he passed a big covered-in square, where the market was held. Besson walked in down the nearest alley, and let himself drift with the general movement of the crowd. On either side were stalls laden with crates of fruit and vegetables, and at each a big fat woman, greasy hair tied up under a headscarf, bawling her wares at the top of her voice. Despite the early hour, the place was a hive of activity. People kept elbowing each other aside, shoving through the crowd, shouting interruptions. From every corner of the market came the stallkeepers’ unremitting sales-talk, and the tinkle of coins being dropped into tin mugs. Bare, fat, heavily muscled arms plunged into the crates, shovelling up runner beans, potatoes, endives, tomatoes, peppers. Oranges sat each in their little nest of crumpled paper, apples tumbled down on top of one another, their green skins often marked with big rotten bruises. Over everything there hung a faint yet rich odour of earth, leaves, pulp, juice. About a yard and a half off the ground every smell, whether from vegetables or fruit, merged into one indistinguishable whole, a composite smell that permeated the entire place. Through all this movement and bustle Besson advanced like an automaton. Several times fat women stallkeepers, standing behind their piles of merchandise, hailed him in high screeching tones, like so many squawking chickens: ‘Lovely potatoes, lovely potatoes, this way, this way …’ ‘Come on, mister, try the runners, fresh this morning …’ ‘Fine apples, specially picked, beautiful apples, fresh every one of ’em, two hundred the kilo, lovely fresh apples …’ ‘Come on now, walk up, walk up, walk up….’
Down the alleys between the stalls the crowd ebbed and flowed, wandered in all directions, trampling over old cabbage leaves and scraps of newspaper. Old men with string bags stood examining the vegetables or counting through the wads of filthy notes in their wallets. Women went to and fro dragging children after them by one hand, or stopped, stooping down, to cram their purchases into their shopping-bags. A pregnant girl in a flowered maternity smock wandered slowly along the row of stalls: she had dirty frizzed-out hair that the wind perpetually blew forward into her face. A little further on was a group of men in berets, sitting on upturned empty crates, smoking and gossiping. From time to time, in some corner of the alley, a mangy mongrel could be seen licking its paws. Large numbers of ragged old down-and-outs, backs bent, went round picking up the rotten vegetables that had been thrown out of the crates, and greedily stuffing them into their gunny-sacks. There was one very ancient and very dignified-looking little man, with a slightly nervous air, who tittuped along in front of the stalls, from time to time snatching a potato or pear with a quick, clumsy gesture, and instantly popping it away into his sack. When he saw Besson watching him, he turned his head away, more nervous than ever, and began to stare up at the roof of the market with a kind of terrified and angry determination. He remained in this pose for several seconds, not budging an inch, and then resumed his peregrination past the stalls, with a comic air of would-be unconcern.
Besson walked from one end of the covered market to the other. After he was out in the street again — and despite the fresh air and busy traffic — the sickening smell of early vegetables and fruit pursued him for a long way.
Later, much later, when the whole town was awake, Besson walked round to his parents’ house. On the way he met someone he had known previously, when he was working at the private school. They stopped and chatted for a moment on the kerb. Besson would have liked to continue the conversation for much longer, since this he found an admirable way of passing the time; but the other person was apparently in a hurry, and after exchanging a few banalities they parted.
A little further on, while crossing a square, Besson caught sight of the river. It was quite a large river, that ran in a straight line through the centre of the town, passing beneath a series of bridges and esplanades. The closer he got to the riverside quais, the louder grew that dull monotonous roar he could hear, with increased volume and more deeply resonant note. It was like haze made audible: what in fact produced it was water rasping over wide-spreading the shingle bottom. A vivid sound, this, alive with gurgles and ripples and a booming undertone which hinted at reserves of power; a sound that mingled with the general hubbub in the streets and flowed down unceasingly toward the sea. Besson was intrigued by the noise; he walked over to the railing and took a good look at the river.