“Yes, for it seems you were a little scared after all.”

“Oh! If only I could have felt scared! At least I would have been alive. But the main thing I remember is that I couldn’t even feel fear, or at least not fear as it is commonly understood. It was an inexplicable sensation. I was like a dead man walking, a sleepwalker, a mechanical toy. Sleep itself was another matter. Sleep brought me relief, but not for the usual reason: that sleep is death’s brother. I think I can explain the phenomenon as follows: in eliminating the need for an external soul, sleep gives free rein to the internal one. In my dreams, I would put on my uniform surrounded by family and friends, who would praise my elegant attire, address me as lieutenant; then a family friend would come and promise me a promotion to captain or major, and I would be filled with life again. But when I woke to the cold light of day, that sense of my newly reunified self faded with my dreams—because my internal soul had lost its exclusive power of action, and was once again dependent upon the other, the external soul, which stubbornly refused to return. And it did not return. I would wander about outside to see if there was any sign of life. Sœur Anne, sœur Anne, ne vois-tu rien venir? Nothing, absolutely nothing, just like that old French fairy tale. Only the dust of the road and the grassy hilltops. I would return to the house, at my wits’ end, and lie down on the sofa in the parlor. Tick-tock, tick-tock. I would stand up, pace the room, drum my fingers on the windowpanes, whistle. At one point, I considered writing something, a political article, a novel, an ode, perhaps; I didn’t choose which, but sat down and scribbled a few words and random phrases that I could use to spice up the style. But the style, like Auntie Marcolina, would not come. Sœur Anne, sœur Anne . . . Nothing at all. All I could see was the ink turning blacker and the page whiter.”

“But didn’t you have anything to eat?”

“Not much; just fruit, ground-up cassava, preserves, a few roots roasted on the fire, but I would have endured it all quite cheerfully had it not been for the terrible mental state I was in. I recited verses, speeches, passages in Latin, Gonzaga’s love poems, whole stanzas by Camões, sonnets, a thirty-volume anthology in all. Sometimes I did gymnastic exercises, other times I pinched my legs, but the effect was only a physical sensation of weariness or pain, nothing more. There was only silence, a vast, enormous, infinite silence, only underscored by the eternal tick-tock of the clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock . . .”

“Yes, that would be enough to drive anyone mad.”