Around nine o'clock, or rather twenty-one hundred hours, I had succeeded in stealing away from my hosts, interrupting an improvised debate during dinner on "the writer's bad conscience." Did I have a bad conscience? As a writer or as a man? Difficult to say... Both, perhaps... Vasile was in some kind of mood with me, more or less. To tell the truth, I could not blame him for his attitude. During the previous week, he had organized on my behalf appointments with publishers, a debate on contemporary French literature with French teachers and students in the arts centre of S--- and I had kept on avoiding him.

I walked quickly in the direction of the infamous square. Several women were milling about in the fresh September air. None sought to retain me. Finally, I caught a glimpse of Marika. My heart skipped a beat. She rushed towards me, grabbed my hand tightly : "I was sure you'd come!" she said simply. I was grateful she didn't come up to me like to any other customer...