Because of the time and the weather (it was winter) the station was almost empty despite the fact that the 1:00am train for Paris was about to leave. Most people were in the bar or the main waiting room. Soto, for some rason, perhaps he heard voices, went to look in another room, some way off. There he found three young Neo-Nazis and a bundle on the ground. The youths were diligently kicking the bundle. Soto froze on the threshold until he realised that the bundle was moving, he saw first a hand and then an incredibly dirty arm emerging from the rags. The tramp shouted, stop hitting me. It was a woman's voice. But no one was listening, no one except the Chilean writer. Perhaps his eyes filled with tears, tears of self-pity, because something told him he had met his destiny. Now he wouldn't have to choose between Tel Quel and the OuLiPo. For him, life had chosen the crime reports. In any case, he droppped his bag and the books at the door and approached the youths.
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