The mountains gradually grow calm. It's Saturday afternoon, the start of a two-day truce among the workers' militias. The muezzin is calling; I've lost count of the five times Muhammad has prescribed for the faithful to face towards Mecca. On this afternoon when I've started to revise some memories of Proust and from my early youth, the refrigerator, next to the kitchen table where I write, is murmuring and I don't mind.