The Verge Of An Empire

33

I lie in bed among hot blankets, and sleep is afraid to come to me, because I am afraid to fall asleep. This happens in patients with fever or poisoned by bad food, who are tormented by great heat and nausea. Any attempts to fall asleep are futile, because crazy pictures, fragments of some melodies, slurred phrases are dancing in the inflamed mind. Every now and then the disfigured muzzle of the late Wolfeld flickers, the family of coal miners dances among the nameless tombstones, and people whom I did not personally see, but who have disappeared, lie in a heap on the sidelines. Customs officials, most of them never found, none of the ones de Moranjac suspected of taking bribes. Speaking of him, the high accuser is also here, in my head, in the midst of the excruciating heat. He and his whole family dine at a large table, not noticing the dancing dead and the lups prowling between the graves.

“Monsieur de Moranjac,” I said as I approached, “forgive me for disturbing your meal. I don't