No doubt other summers had gone by that way, but I’d never bothered to notice.  What we said back then I neither know nor want to know.  Up and down the steps of assorted ministries, portfolio under the arm at all times, dust and grease in the hair, crumbs in coat pockets, women buying talc for rashes and enamel for their nails, the press of bodies in elevators reeking of sweat and cigarettes, statistics, logarithms, and, now and then, a respite, an opening, and some old seafaring song, all but forgotten. Leaving the office tonight, I suddenly remembered it was summer, and I wandered distractedly through the mute conviviality of Saturday night toward the working class area where I live.  I didn’t take the tram.  I strolled along slowly and thoughtfully, with myself for company.  The houses here are low and spread out.  They don’t block your view of the stars.  From time to time, a geranium in a window, a bit of basil, and those motherly interiors, humble rooms lit by a gas lamp.  Suddenly I remembered my cat, shut up in my room, that would be waiting for me at the door.  I quickened my step.  I went into a small taverna and asked them to wrap some fish bones for me to take home.  But then I remembered that my cat had died at least four months before.  I set the packet down on a ledge and left silently, almost guiltily, yet filled with a great compassion for my grief.  Maybe some other cat would tear open the newspaper and derive pleasure from eating the bones, as if it were my own cat.  For this reason, as soon as I got home I went out into my little yard and cut some roses to put in the vase on my desk. Right then a cat rubbed up against my leg.  I bent down to pet it.  It didn’t run away.  Its fur was white, and soft as down.  I picked it up and held it in my arms, together with the roses, and came back inside.  Tonight I’ll have someone to share my poor meal with.  Besides, it’s summer.  I’m sure of that now, and that there’s a moon.

(translated by Martin McKinsey)