When Pierre awoke the sun was shining brightly. he threw a glance at the alarm-clock. Only 8 o'clock? Impossible. Ah, he forgot to wind up his clock yesterday evening.
He got up and began to put on his clothes without hurrying. Slowly he looked around the room. What a mess! A typical bachelor's kennel. He should tidy it up some day.
With unsteady step he went to the kitchen to boil the kettle. There was a mess there like in the bedroom. Right in the middle of the table one could admire a splendid heap of potato peels - yesterday he decided to cook a luxurious supper from fried potatoes and herring. There was a broken cup on the floor. Pierre picked up the fragments. Yes, it has been a good cup. To tell the truth it was cracked long time ago but Pierre liked it particularly. Why? Who can say? He could not explain this.
Pierre poured the debris into the trash-bucket. Then swept the peels off the table. Well, now the kitchen looks decently. With a trembling hand Pierre poured coffee and sipped. How disgusting! And what is toast with butter and cheese in the morning... Pierre had not a slightest idea what it was about.
Swallowing tasteless coffee Pierre returned to the room. He must write this damned article he had promised to Jacques. Pierre contributed feature articles, reports and things like that to several magazines, mostly for gossip columns. Usually he worked easily but today he was not in the mood.
Having tortured himself for some minutes he flung the pen away in despair. No, it wasn't the thing. He was sick of all newspapers' gossip. If he could write a book... Yes, the book that would make him famous. Though of course it was not the fame that atracted him.
He finished the coffee and closing his eyes leaned back. It was good to sit in this way and dream. Because in the depth of his soul Pierre despised the profession of journalist. Literature was his real passion. He always envied writers a bit, yes, he confessed to himself. Finally he sighed and opened his eyes. No one can escape from reality. And besides if he was going to write a book, and he really cherished this idea, it should be nothing for him to cook this worthless article. He promised it to Jacques and he was always as good as his word.
He took his pen and thought for some time. Nevertheless he could do nothing. With a great effort he made himself concentrate but alas, this effort gave no fruit.
Suddenly he realised one thing: he could not write badly. Yes, and this is the reason why he had not written a book yet. But if he would write it some day his book would eclipse all the masterpieces of world literature. This thought comforted him. "It's all good, my dear", he said to himself, "but what about your article? You imagine yourself a great writer while you are not able to cook a pitiful article for a gossip column. And to think that you always did it so easily. Well..."
The telephone ring made him shudder. It must be Jacques. Now he'll ask about the article. Pierre took the receiver. "Is it you, Jacques?.. Yes, the article is almost ready... I'm writing the last sentences. What?.. Yes, certainly in an hour... I'll bring it... Well, see you later. So long."
