He's the one who shakes Martin much later, the train has stopped, lights on the platform, end of the line, the few travellers hasten toward the exit, eleven o'clock, nobody in the waiting room, no ticket collector, the station seems isolated far from the city, Donauworth down below perhaps, the forest nearby, Mathieu leads him along, they go up a muddy path, no more snow here, very sharp cold.
They leave the path and climb between the trees, halt in a wind-sheltered hollow, Mathieu takes some bread out of his bag, boiled sweet potatoes, they eat a few of them, a bit of bread, Martin thinks that they've finally gotten there, they must have covered approximately sixty miles, better than nothing, how to sleep in a cold such as this, there's no more sleep at present.
Silence in the forest, starry sky, the pale light reassures him, tomorrow they'll go down to the station, ask for tickets to the next stop, everything will go smoothly, no reason not to, a dearth of policemen, with other things to do then conduct trains.
Thinks in vain about the school, the factory, the city, unable to fix them in thought, they drift, between full and empty content, have no more meaning, the eighteen months spent there fall short of language, neutralised sensations, traces confiscated, repressed, stolen on the sky.
Memory on the run, bereaved awakening.
[Disconnection, Ollier, C.]
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