I am absorbed in myself most of the time. Sometimes I don't see things around me. I think about myself all the time. What I'm going to do now; how in God's name I'm going to survive.

Plans and fantasies take up most of my waking time. I have all day to think about the future, to plot it out, to dream it, to imagine everything.

The past has happened: it is grey and empty like the narrow streets of San Sebastian at four in the afternoon with the shops all closed and their shutters pulled down. The future is wide open.

I did not go to look at the paintings in the square that day. I felt too well-dressed, too conspicuous. I turned instead into the bar and ordered a coffee. The waiter brought it over to me and I asked for a croissant, but he didn't understand and I had to go up to the bar and point at what I wanted. I had already noticed the man who was standing at the bar. He was wearing a red pullover and brown corduroy trousers; his shirt was open at the neck.

I noticed that every so often he would glance over at me. There was a manic look about him. His dark eyes were close together and

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