JOHN FOWLES

The Collector - fragments
 

Dear Minny.
I have been here over a week now, and I miss you very much, and I miss the fresh air and the fresh faces of all those people I so hated on the Tube and the fresh things that happened every hour of every day if only I could have seen them -- their freshness, I mean. The thing I miss most is fresh light. I can't live without light. Artificial light, all the lines lie, it almost makes you long for darkness.
I haven't told you how I tried to escape. I thought about it all night, I couldn't sleep, it was so stuffy, and my tummy's all wrong (he tries his best to cook, but it's hopeless). I pretended something was wrong with the bed, and then I just turned and ran. But I couldn't get the door shut to lock him in and he caught me in the other cellar. I could see daylight through a keyhole.
He thinks of everything. He padlocks the door open. It was worth it. One keyholeful of light in seven days. He foresaw I would try and get out and lock him in.
Then I treated him for three days with a view of my back and my sulky face. I fasted. I slept. When I was sure he wouldn't come in I got up and danced about a bit, and read the art books and drank water. But I didn't touch his food.
And I brought him to terms. His condition was six weeks. A week ago six hours would have been too much. I cried. Brought him down to four weeks. I'm not less horrified at being with him. I've grown to know every inch of this foul little crypt, it's beginning to grow on me like those coats of stones on the worms in rivers. But the four weeks seem less important.
 

Elena Gheorghe

John Fowles
 

Draga Minny,

Sunt aici deja de mai bine de o saptamana si mi-e foarte dor de tine, si mi-e dor de aerul proaspat si de fetele noi ale tuturor acelor oameni din metrou pe care altadata ii uram, si de lucrurile noi care se intamplau in fiecare ceas al fiecarei zile, numai de-as fi putut sa le observ – ma refer la noutatea lor. Lucrul de care mi-e dor cel mai mult este lumina proaspata. Nu pot trai fara lumina. In lumina artificiala, toate liniile sunt inselatoare si aproape ca iti doresti sa fie intuneric.
Nu ti-am spus cum am incercat sa scap. M-am gandit la asta toata noaptea, nu am putut sa dorm, aerul era prea sufocant si nu mi-e bine la stomac (isi da toata silinta sa gateasca cum trebuie, dar e-n zadar). M-am prefacut ca e ceva in neregula cu patul, dupa care m-am intors si am fugit. Dar n-am putut sa inchid usa si sa-l incui acolo si m-a prins in cealalta pivnita. Am putut sa vad lumina zilei prin gaura cheii.
Se gandeste la toate. A pus lacat usii deschise. Dar a meritat. O farama de lumina, cat gaura cheii, in sapte zile. A prevazut faptul ca voi incerca sa ies si sa-l incui inauntru.
Pe urma, timp de trei zile, i-am aratat spatele si fata mea imbufnata. Tineam post. Dormeam. Cand eram sigura ca nu va veni, ma ridicam din pat si dansam putin, citeam din cartile de arta si beam apa. Dar nu m-am atins de mancare.
Si am ajuns la o intelegere cu el. Conditia pe care mi-a impus-o a fost de sase saptamani. Acum o saptamana, sase ore ar fi fost prea mult. Am ripostat. Am reusit sa ajungem la patru saptamani. Gandul de a fi cu el ma inspaimanta la fel de mult. Am ajuns sa cunosc fiecare centimetru din aceasta cripta stramta si scarboasa, incepe sa ma apese precum carcasele de piatra apasa viermii din rauri. Dar cele patru saptamani nu par sa aiba importanta.