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The narrator describes his early days in prison after his arrest. Initially he is placed in a communal cell with several Arab prisoners who laugh and ask about his crime; he replies that he “killed an Arab,” prompting silence. He endures a rough first night on a mat that can be rolled into a pillow, plagued by bugs. After a few days he is moved to a solitary cell with wooden boards, a bucket toilet, a tin washbasin, and a small window overlooking the sea.
One day a guard informs him of a visitor. He navigates a long corridor, stairs, and enters a large visiting room divided by two massive grates. On the prisoner side sit about ten inmates, mostly Arabs, while on the visitor side Marie Cardona stands in a striped dress, surrounded by Moorish women, a thin‑lipped old woman in black, and a loud, gesturing, fat woman. The room is bright, the voices echo loudly, and the narrator feels dizzy.
Marie smiles, calls out to him, and they exchange brief words. Other visitors shout, including the fat woman about a man named Jeanne, and a tall blond man answering. Raymond’s regards are announced. A young man with delicate hands watches an old lady across the grate. Marie urges the narrator to have hope, declares they will marry and swim again, and assures him of acquittal. The conversation is interspersed with the low murmuring of the Arab prisoners below.
As prisoners are taken away one by one, the noise fades. An old woman waves goodbye to her son, another woman replaces her, and a prisoner’s wife whispers a caring farewell. Finally Marie blows a kiss, presses her face to the bars, and leaves.
Back in his cell, the narrator reflects on his inability to adjust to confinement, recalling urges to be on a beach, then describes how he eventually adapts. He recounts making friends with the head guard, who explains that prison is punishment for the loss of freedom. He describes the confiscation of personal items, especially cigarettes, and his early hunger for them. He details coping mechanisms: chewing wood chips, memorizing every object in his cell, counting details, and sleeping up to eighteen hours a day. He finds an old newspaper scrap with a grim Czech murder story, reads it repeatedly, and muses on its moral.
He notes the distortion of time in prison, the blending of days, and his habit of talking to himself, eventually hearing his own voice clearly. He ends with a memory of the nurse’s words at his mother’s funeral: “No, there is no way out, and no one can imagine what nights in prison are like.”