The Shelter

I

Firmin's bedroom was completely dark. He was curled up in a ball. It was his favorite position. If he spread out his full length, his feet would stick out of the single bed. He stretched amply before sitting on the edge of the bed and putting on the slippers waiting for him on the parquet floor. A pair in a rough moumoute whose white had turned to gray. The sole was so thin that Firmin could feel the coolness of the ground under the soles of his feet. The day barely shone through the opaque curtains. He didn't know what time it was, nor did he try to find out.

As usual, he got up to go straight to the bathroom. An automatic path in the dark. A ritual journey through the living room. He never lost his balance, and, without reflection, guessed every hazard that even a long, lean stature like his would not have the agility to avoid without the prowess of memory. After walking through his bedroom door, he stepped over the wires of the telephone placed on a small pedestal table to his left, continued along the back of the faded sofa, bypassing the clock which he did not look at. He finally spun to the right and walked along his huge library, letting his hand trace the edge of one of the shelves until his hand met the bathroom doorknob. He opened the door and mechanically found the light switch. He went over to the sink and splashed his face with cold water before gazing at himself in the mirror. The tawny bathroom light danced across the long blonde locks of his hair. He looked old despite being in his 30s. The outline of his hazel eyes were hollowed out with dark circles. He stroked his bearded jaw slowly, mimicking a reflection. He looked down at the digital watch he wore on his wrist: 8:50 p.m. He stepped out of the bathroom to begin the next step in his daily cycle.

II

Firmin had only one passion: reading. This is how he got all his knowledge. His library was the mirror of all that quenches the thirst of lonely heads. From classic literature to low-level literature, he enjoyed every story. He lived his life vicariously, fantasized about the complexity of human interactions to the extent of his incapacity. For twenty years he had not left his house. It was that of his parents, long deceased. The brutal loss of his parents when he was very young shocked him so deeply that the sudden destruction of his family cocoon left him with a traumatic fear of others. He had no friends, had never made any. However, he was fond of family doctor, Dr. Platten. He gave Firmin his diagnosis of anthropophobia, relieving him from the weight of the difference. He was a charming man, with black hair dotted with silver spots, a nose very present in the middle of his face which gave him the look of an affectionate parrot. Firmin kept in the living room a yellowed photograph of the doctor, which he hastened to greet with a nod or a smile as soon as he met his gaze each time he passed it. But this sporadic and superficial relationship was far from satisfying..

He felt safe in the living room, which is where he spent most of his time. The room consisted of three large windows which would let in the light gracefully if the curtains were open. An old beige sofa, and an armchair of the same color sat almost in the middle of the room, between which, was a light wood coffee table covered with notebooks, loose sheets, and books opened on extracts selected by Firmin. All of this was arranged on a large red carpet, the borders of which were frayed from the inexorable passing of time. Firmin was most proud of his library. It covered the only windowless wall, and all of its shelves erupted their contents. A large high table that could seat up to six people stood on the other side. He often lost himself contemplating it and imagining it surrounded by life.

III

Every evening, Firmin set the table for two. He laid the cutlery with the thoroughness of a critic, according to the codes and customs of specialized magazines, etiquette manuals, cookbooks, novels, poems and essays. He loved the softness of the light diffused by the bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling. A clean presentation was of major importance to him. He would always put two stemmed glasses and a good bottle of wine from the cellar on the coffee table after clearing its clutter. His mother collected the best crus. According to magazines, the apéritif was sacred, more decisive than the meal itself. This is where it all played out. The guest had to feel confident, relaxed, in order to make the evening a success. He alternated from the sofa to the armchair, then from the armchair to the sofa, and made the dialogue bounce between him and himself. His goal was to create two personalities who united in a spontaneous alchemy, free from shyness and paranoia. He had previously written down and memorized topics of conversation, good manners, opportune moments to laugh or shed a tear. He replicated the behaviors of his favorite literary heroes.

It was agreed to entertain the guest for a while before slipping into the kitchen. Firmin then pretended to look at his watch, 8:50 p.m. With a smile, he would let his imaginary guest hang out curiously in front of the library, as he retired to prepare the meal. Planning the menu was no easy task: he knew very well that one must consider different diets or portion sizes. He was also aware of the need to harmonize flavors to create a delicious dish, without going overboard. Simplicity was the key to a refined dinner. He had a fascination with the concept of apéritif dînatoire. He was sure that his habitual recipe matched it and met all the rules for a successful dinner. First, he would heat up a black bean soup, decorate the surface with fresh cilantro leaves, and serve it in a bowl, slightly chipped but charming nonetheless. To accompany his dish, he would toast white bread which he would cut into thin strips and present on individual planches.

IV

The telephone rang in the living room. He jumped with tremor. The tin can that he was going to empty into the pan slipped from his hands. The black bean sauce spilled onto the yellowish tiled floor as the can ricocheted off the kitchen island, rolled, and finished its run on the living room parquet. Firmin glanced quickly at his watch. 8:50 p.m. Again. Toujours. His heart began to pound loudly in his ears to the rhythm of the telephone melody which continued to ring. Leaving the mess as it was, he walked over to the device. Droplets of sweat were rolling down his temples. He lifted the phone to his ear and kept it there for a few minutes…

Firmin gently put the handset back on its cradle. He took off his worn slippers and put on an almost new pair of sneakers that were hanged around there, near the exit door. They were too small. His toes were squeezed together, their sides cut under the pressure of his toenails. The discomfort didn't matter. He took a deep breath. He grabbed the doorknob and opened the door. The orange ashy light blinded him.

Firmin walked slowly, cautiously, between the dry wrinkles of the earth. The black corpses of the pine trees cast slender shadows on the path. The heat made them tremble slightly, like a dance of death. He was sweating under the weight of the ruinous sky. Firmin scanned the horizon. The wind was dead. The birds were no longer singing. Only the cockroaches running between his feet disturbed the deadly silence.