On the island

On one photograph, turned out to sea, Oskar's right cheek seems to bear a recent scar. But why for Heaven's sake, with such a nasty cut has Oskar stopped here, at the very place on the island that is most exposed to the salt spray, when everyone knows its matchless ability to open up old wounds? After scratching my face (I confess, not nearly as badly as Oskar), I found myself standing where he had stood. After a while, so strong was the presence of the salt that I felt my tiny cut grow inside me with vertiginous power. Soon waves of pain flooded across every sensitive spot in my face, modifying in the process my very perception of them. After five minutes, I really began to feel that a new head had been put in the place of my own, and was amazed that I could be in such pain.

Curieusement, ce dessin ne représente ni Oskar, ni un endroit où il aurait pu se trouver. La suite des traits horizontaux, décroissants et chaotiques qui y figure, pourrait plutôt être interprétée comme une vue d'ensemble de la mer, particulièrement proche du panorama que l'on découvre d'ici.
A moins peut être que le fait de rejoindre une place qu'Oskar venait de quitter, troublât à ce point Lucie Jourdan qu'elle en hachura nerveusement son papier à dessin.

On one photograph of him at this spot, Oskar (who seems to be talking to himself) is wearing a jacket covered with white stains. Their origin might be traced to over Oskar's head, where some overfriendly sea-gulls seem to have gathered. But how could Oskar have put up with these animals' behaviour?
One day, I came across a few gulls at that same spot. After a quarter of an hour, to my great surprise, their uninterrupted cries took on a new tone, and what I heard sounded rather like a word. At first unknown, it became clearer then I heard over and over to the point of obsession: "ba-a-a-stard, ba-a-a-stard".
I had a terrific urge to answer back, but, knowing what dreadful manners gulls have, I refrained from looking up. So then I tried to ignore their obstinate calls and pretend that these were mere cawing sounds, with nothing judgmental about them.

Here, Oskar appears to be wearing a tuxedo that is so creased that he might have had it on nonstop for several days. Around him, it seems to be raining hard. But how could Oskar have put up with such thankless weather in such unsuitable clothing?
One misty day, I went to where he had been, and in less than ten minutes I was drenched to the skin. My soaking wet clothes stuck to my skin and held my body in such a hug that for a second I had the comfortable feeling of being embraced by someone else.

On this spot, Oskar's shadow is so marked that he must has been in the full blaze of the sun. And yet his eyes seem wide open. How then was he not dangerously blinded by the overpowering light?
One afternoon I had stopped right here when I was so fiercely dazzled by a reflection of the sun in the sea that the next moment I had lost my sense of colour and was plunged into such an intense whiteness that no image could fasten on to it. I opened my eyes, and was again caught by the same reflection. After twenty minutes analyzing this phenomenon, I was only able to find my way back by recalling my earlier visits.

I remember coming here one morning when there was a gentle breeze blowing. Generally when I am out walking, I have to struggle to control the comings and goings of the different levels of thought criss-crossing each other in time with my steps, but on this occasion, the wind continually whistling in my ears prevented me from concentrating on anything and blew away my ideas one after the other. In the end I couldn't even remember what I had come for. On my way back, the wind had dropped and I remembered a photograph of Oskar at the same spot. His hair dishevelled in the gusts of wind revealed such a frown on his face that he gave the impression, despite the squall, of having contrived to gather his thoughts at least to some extent and of holding fiercely onto them.

It may just be the poor quality of the picture, but here Oskar seems deathly pale. That would be perfectly understandable, to see the unusually high rock on which he is standing. But why should Oskar have got himself into such a dangerous spot?
When I tried to approach the spot, an uncontrollable fear prevented me from making it at the first try, forcing me to spend over an hour in vain attempts until I overcame my giddiness and managed to get onto Oskar's outcrop. Unfortunately, I was so overjoyed at having made it to where he had been that I forgot my fear and so was unable to experience the emotions he had felt.

As he appears at this point, Oskar would seem to have rolled up his trouser legs. True enough, at low tide here, there is a little time to walk back to dry land. However the sea in the background of the photograph seems so high that Oskar would have had to wait at least three hours.
One day, hoping to cross over in the same way here, I too was surprised by the sea level. To kill time, I began to count under my breath. But after some forty minutes, I reached such an astronomical figure that I became frightened at the mere thought of the number I would be up to when the time came to be crossing over. So in order to get a better grip on things, I decided to pick on some ridiculously high number and start counting backwards. Unfortunately, during the countdown, I became so focussed on what I was doing that by the time I got to zero, I had missed my chance.