When he hurried to sit in the seat the plump woman had vacated, he was only thinking of his tired legs and feeling glad that no one had pushed in front of him as usual. The seat had become empty without warning since, unlike most women, she hadn’t started getting ready for her stop much too early.
The seat felt hot, but it had nothing to do with the blazing heat of the sun which was beating down fiercely on the roof and windows of the bus and flooding its interior.
He had a vision of his mother and sisters trying to air public seats before they sat on them, either by fanning them with their hands to chase away the odours of the previous occupant or by turning over the cushions. Whenever he criticised them for their misgivings, one of them would remark with disgust, ‘Who knows what minute traces are left on the seat from the person before?’
It was a strange warmth, accompanied by a dampness he could feel through his trousers. Seemingly the woman’s thighs had rubbed against the plastic and left it sticky. All at once he remembered the like dark pools of sweat under her armpits; and he thought of their source and of the flesh there, which was without a doubt soft and delicate.
The man shifted around a little and spread himself out on the seat so as to make the heat penetrate and reach along his extremities. Then he brought the palm of his hand up to his nose: it must have picked up the smell of the woman’s perfume when he had inadvertently grabbed hold of the seatback in front of him. He found himself unable to move, even though the bus had reached his stop. He remained lost in thought, wishing that he could have the chance to meet a woman like her, in that prim and proper country.
As the bus sped on, his imagination kept pace. He was only occasionally disturbed by the voices of the other passengers mingling with the songs of the radio. Then a more aggressive voice cut into his thoughts, the sound of someone spoiling for a fight.
‘Aren’t you ashamed, you pimp? Pervert! Degenerate! Heathen!’
The voice came closer. Surely he wasn’t the reason for this savage outburst? Not even the most skilful clairvoyant could guess what he was thinking. But he turned around, curious to see the owner of the voice, which was now close up to his ear. He was met by a violent punch, rocking his head, making his ears sing and his nose pour with blood, and leaving him gasping for breath. The harsh voice shouted again, ordering the bus driver to stop. He didn’t know how he came to be pushed so hard that his face hit the side of the bus, how he was sent rolling down the steps and lay sprawled in the dirt, where the men crowded around him, hitting and kicking him, egged on by the same harsh voice.
‘Don’t you have any sisters? Where’s your shame? How can you disgrace a respectable woman in broad daylight?’
Translated by Catherine Cobham