Thus, after several months, his place of exile has become a world. His bents of habit have marked the way his body and his bearing hang together, his former bents smoothed out to the point of almost disappearing. He catches himself one evening reacting as if he had always lived here; disconcerted, must call upon his memories to drive off this idea.
What's in play is repetition, a slow immersion, the relegation to very limited trips, the impossibility of stepping back, off putting oneself at a distance, blocked in upon this territory and virtually immobilised, taking inventory of it by night most of the time.
Prohibited to overstep the city limits and its immediate outskirts, without first obtaining a special pass, he found out the regulation is in effect for all this country's citizens as well, he converses with them rather often while moving about from one floor to the other, in brief snatches, with the men especially, with the women it's risky, all relations being forbidden, a high price to pay.
The home front as hardened as the front, finally, on alert, each civilian attached to his work station as if physically bound, machine or office, the police keep watch, people hardly chat, watch their words, or watch themselves between words, never speak without first glancing around.
"Be Silent, the Enemy Is Listening," is read everywhere on the city walls. And also: "Wheels Must Roll Quietly for Victory," as if they hadn't been already requisitioned so very many years ago.
[Disconnection, Ollier, C.]
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