Sometimes I catch myself saying those words in the street, as if hearing someone else’s voice. A toneless voice. Names come back to me, certain faces, certain details. No one left to talk with about it. One or two witnesses must still be alive. But they’ve probably forgotten the whole thing. And in the end, I wonder if there really were any witnesses. No, it wasn’t a dream. The proof is that I still have this black notebook full of my jottings. I need precise words in this haze, so I look in the dictionary. “Note: A short piece of writing that is used to help someone remember something.” The pages of my notebook contain a succession of names, phone numbers, appointments, and also short texts that might have something to do with literature. But what category should they be listed under? Private journal? Fragments of a memoir? And also hundreds of classified ads copied down from newspapers. Lost dogs. Furnished apartments. Help wanted and offered. Psychics. Among those masses of notes, some have stronger resonance than others.
