To the chair that is found in one of the several partitioned spaces which disfigure the office Tamai ambles now, bust erect, forbidding. The first of sixty cigarettes he enjoys eyes half-shut, peering through the glaze to assess. The diary on his desk he flicks to ascertain no appointment has been made, lights up automatic his second cigarette, seems to merge with his chair. His task today is to sleep nine hours yet retain a semblance of business. It's easier done than said: with thirty years' practice he fears only to be shamed in public, which would be unheard of. He belongs, and can therefore expect every man on the escalator to perform. They will. (1989)
Copyright ©2002 Olivier Serrat |
