34. The rain had become a downpour, as though all the rain were going to fall: all. Cars slowed on the drenched roadway; sheaves of dead water rose on each side of the tires. Except for one or two umbrellas fleeing horizontally, the street looked immobile. People had taken refuge outside the post office door and, huddled together on the narrow stoop, were awaiting a lull. I turned around and went to open the clothes cupboard; I pawed through the drawers. Underwear, shirts, pajamas. I was looking for a sweater. Was there no sweater anywhere? I came out of the bedroom and, using my foot to push aside the cans of paint that cluttered the passageway, opened the closet door. Leaning forward into it, I began shoving at crates, opening suitcases, in search of a warm garment.
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