Then, one by one, the Arabs were led away; almost everyone fell silent when the first one left.
The little old woman pressed herself against the bars and at the same moment a jailer tapped her son’s shoulder.
He called,
“Au revoir, Mother,” and, slipping her hand between the bars, she gave him a small, slow wave with it.
No sooner was she gone than a man, hat in hand, took her place.
A prisoner was led up to the empty place beside me, and the two started a brisk exchange of remarks—not loud, however, as the room had become relatively quiet.
Someone came and called away the man on my right, and his wife shouted at him—she didn’t seem to realize it was no longer necessary to shout—“Now, mind you look after yourself, dear, and don’t do anything rash!”
My turn came next.
Marie threw me a kiss.
I looked back as I walked away.
She hadn’t moved; her face was still pressed to the rails, her lips still parted in that tense, twisted smile.
Soon after this I had a letter from her.
And it was then that the things I’ve never liked to talk about began.
Not that they were particularly terrible; I’ve no wish to exaggerate and I suffered less than others.
Still, there was one thing in those early days that was really irksome: my habit of thinking like a free man.
For instance, I would suddenly be seized with a desire to go down to the beach for a swim.
And merely to have imagined the sound of ripples at my feet, the smooth feel of the water on my body as I struck out, and the wonderful sensation of relief it gave brought home still more cruelly the narrowness of my cell.
Still, that phase lasted a few months only.
Afterward, I had prisoner’s thoughts.
I waited for the daily walk in the courtyard or a visit from my lawyer.
As for the rest of the time, I managed quite well, really.
I’ve often thought that had I been compelled to live in the trunk of a dead tree, with nothing to do but gaze up at the patch of sky just overhead, I’d have got used to it by degrees.
I’d have learned to watch for the passing of birds or drifting clouds, as I had come to watch for my lawyer’s odd neckties, or, in another world, to wait patiently till Sunday for a spell of love-making with Marie.
Well, here, anyhow, I wasn’t penned in a hollow tree trunk.
There were others in the world worse off than I.
I remembered it had been one of Mother’s pet ideas—she was always voicing it—that in the long run one gets used to anything.
Usually, however, I didn’t think things out so far.
Those first months were trying, of course; but the very effort I had to make helped me through them.
For instance, I was plagued by the desire for a woman—which was natural enough, considering my age.
I never thought of Marie especially.
I was obsessed by thoughts of this woman or that, of all the ones I’d had, all the circumstances under which I’d loved them; so much so that the cell grew crowded with their faces, ghosts of my old passions.
That unsettled me, no doubt; but, at least, it served to kill time.
I gradually became quite friendly with the chief jailer, who went the rounds with the kitchen hands at mealtimes.
It was he who brought up the subject of women.
“That’s what the men here grumble about most,” he told me.
I said I felt like that myself. “There’s something unfair about it,” I added, “like hitting a man when he’s down.”
“But that’s the whole point of it,” he said; “that’s why you fellows are kept in prison.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Liberty,” he said, “means that.
You’re being deprived of your liberty.”
It had never before struck me in that light, but I saw his point.
“That’s true,” I said.
“Otherwise it wouldn’t be a punishment.”
The jailer nodded.
“Yes, you’re different, you can use your brains.
The others can’t.
Still, those fellows find a way out; they do it by themselves.”
With which remark the jailer left my cell. Next day I did like the others.
The lack of cigarettes, too, was a trial.
When I was brought to the prison, they took away my belt, my shoelaces, and the contents of my pockets, including my cigarettes.