the spider

by jean-claude étranger

alain was sad. he was lying n his little bed in his barren attic room watching the spider on the ceiling. he thought of it as “the” spider, but was it? was it really “the” same spider every time. or a different one every time? or two ort three or four spiders taking turns? alain had not been so tormented by a question since he had, in a previous lifetime, had to decide between being a trotskyite, a bukharinite, or an anarchist… or even earlier, in the schoolyard back in his village, when he had to choose between declaring his affections for jeanette, or cecilie… how long ago it was! how sad life was! the windowpane was filthy. how he wished it would rain! alain turned his attention back on the spider… there was never more than one spider at a time… yes! that was the key to the riddle! suddenly there was a knock on the door. a knock on the door! who could it be? alain had insulted and fought with all his old friends. and any that he might have missed would be justifiably wary of him, lest he try to borrow a few francs… and did anyone even know or care where he was? the knocking came again. how tedious… come in! alain cried as loudly as he was able. the lock on the door is broken! the door opened, and a disgustingly bourgeois looking individual whom alain did not recognize at all entered. who might you be? alain asked without lifting his hesd from his meager pillow. alain! do you not recognize me? i am guillaume, your old childhood friend. i never had a friend named guillaume. there must be some mistake. no, no, alain, i spoke with your friends at the café vert.. claude, jean-paul, emilie, the monk… they are worried about you… terribly worried… worried that they can no longer drink my blood… get out, you fool, i do not know them or you! but, alain,,, the visitor repeated. out! out! alain managed to raise himself on one elbow to shout at his visitor. what is this noise? the concierge, madame duval, had rushed up the stairs and entered the room. i have warned you before, monsieur alain, that we can not have any noise … you assured me that you had no friends… and i do not! i apologize, madame, but this fellow is an impostor, come to rob me, or to convert me to theosophy... have him thrown out, and if he returns do not let him in again… alain sank back on his narrow bed. have him thrown out? do not let him in? i am not the ministry of works, monsieur, or the follies, that i can employ a platoon of bodyguards to keep people out… i run a poor roomng house, for poor but quiet people. i understand, alain answered in a whisper . it will not happen again, i assure you… the visitor twirled his bourgeois hat in his hand. i will leave, madame, he addressed the concierge, i see my poor friend is not himself this afternoon… guillaume and madame duval departed, leaving the unlockable door closed behind them. alain looked back up at his ceiling, completely prostrated by his ordeal. the spider was gone. but wait! what was that? was it a drop of rain on the window? alain listened. no. there was no rain. stil no rain. how sad life was. and how unnecessary!