...of the affected

The baker woman is out of sorts, asks for aspirin, aspirin or syrup, has a heartrending cough, the next time, yes certainly, she depresses me, very depressing all those who've remained, and those who've left, what state are they in? Where are they, what are they doing, nobody ever wrote, nor called, no postcards, neither beach nor snow, no New Year's greetings.
The butcher's been back, for some while, deafer than ever, constantly smiles, a mysterious air, places a finger on his lips, goes into the back of the shop, returns with a cutlet wrapped in a beautiful piece of blackish-brown paper as in the old days; promises me one every week, it's well worth a pack of shag, it's a promise.
For the shoes I write on a sheet of paper, as usual, two very simple sentences, in which shoes and cognac counterbalance each other to perfection, economically and grammatically, subject, verb, complement.
Big smile presides over the reading, over his embarrassed expression when he tells me that he doesn't grasp, can't manage to read, that's something new, is he poking fun at me?
No, he still deciphers, articulates the syllables, but the words don't make sense anymore, or a matter of pure decorative charm, design, sound spectacle, futile, he apologises, stupidly.
Disconcerted, I make myself understood with gestures, he says he's going to look, doesn't leave me much hope, displays his slippers, down at the heels, worn through the soles.
I run to the post office and push my paper under Madame Paule's nose. "Oh, you too?" she says. "The pastor came to see me yesterday, very disturbed, bothered, missal in hand, can't manage to read it anymore, it's beyond him, he doesn't understand a word."
We started laughing but really there was nothing funny. Doesn't make a big deal about it, she blames it on his age, is surprised I take everything so tragically, that I make a great fuss.
No mail, obviously, I went home the same way, riding half the time, the other on foot, very perturbed, even anxious, missed the turn at the bottom of the slope.
Ran to the living room, picked up the first book I fell upon, Feneleon, opened it and began reading at random.
Read two pages, three, very normally, nothing changed, with great pleasure even, every sentence kept its weight, its tone, its colour.
Every line kept its meaning, every sign, every element. It's not the same meaning as before, however, before the incidents, it's something different.
Every word means something and this meaning appears distant, obsolete, from another age.
Superfluous perhaps, and refined, luxurious!

[Disconnection, Ollier, C.]