Just as I am close to the exit, my foot catches against a flagpole; it falls, bringing a whole string of portraits on their long staffs toppling down in a noisy chain reaction. The beam from the flashlight sweeps along the wall and dazzles me. The man at once lowers it toward my feet, as if to apologize for having blinded me. A moment's embarrassed silence gives me the chance to notice the deep groove of a scar, whitened with age, across his brow, and his tears.

"I was just looking for a chair," I stammer, glancing away. "It's absolutely packed downstairs."

The man switches off his flashlight, and in the darkness I hear his words and, in particular, a brief rubbing sound that enables me to guess at his gesture: he is swiftly wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his overcoat.

"Oh, well, if it's a chair you're after, there's all you could want up here. Only be careful, most of them have broken legs. I've got a whole sofa to myself, though there are several springs coming through, I have to admit."

I notice that the room is not totally dark. Two windows stand out in the blackness, illuminated by a streetlight and by the unremitting tornadoes of snow whirling about in the beam of light. I see the silhouette of the man as he makes his way around the wardrobes and disappears into a corner from which comes the shrill creak of springs.

"If they should happen to announce a train is coming, kindly wake me up," he says from his sofa.

And he wishes me a good night. I pull up a chair and settle down amid the scattered portraits, resolved to maintain the pretense to the end, that I had just come in looking for a chair and had not caught sight of his tears.

I pretend so well that I very quickly fall asleep, overcome by that deep slumber of the small hours that follows a sleepless night. It is the pianist who wakes me, his hand on my shoulder, the little flashlight throwing shadows onto the wall cast by tangled chairs, a suitcase, the open lid of the piano.