The table was covered with bottles, coffee cups and dirty plates. The flies were buzzing over the remnants of the food. The cigarettes were overflowing from the ashtray, the chairs and armchairs were all awry. There was a reek of smoke. The door of my room was ajar. The old man was asleep fully dressed on my sister’s bed. One arm hanging loose. His mouth open. Every now and then he brushed away a fly that crawled on his face. Papa had flopped down on my bed with his head against the wall. Mama was sleeping curled up on the sofa. She had covered herself with the white quilt. All you could see was her black hair, a bit of forehead and a bare foot. The front door was open. A warm gentle draught rustled the newspaper on the chest of drawers. The cock crowed. I opened the fridge. I got out the milk, filled a glass and went out on the balcony. I sat down on the steps to look at the dawn. It was bright orange, dirtied by a gelatinous, purplish mass that stretched like cotton across the horizon, but higher up the sky was clean and black and a few stars were still alight.
