VI

I wanted to see the village. The wisteria trunk in front of my empty house bore three incisions that my mother had carved. The men were leaving for work, and I looked them in the face. Never before that morning had I gazed so intently at the faces of the people from my village. The men didn’t look at me, the women did, but I couldn’t discern if the women looked at me with pity or revulsion. The men had dismissed my face from those things that were visible. Old faces, young faces, all of them bear life experiences, as if histories were written on them. Suddenly I could hear a hammer striking the anvil. It was coming from the opposite direction. The last faces were those of three children. I left the village by the stables and headed toward the Pont de Fusta, where three little boys were fighting with sticks. I stopped. Two of them were running about, but one knew how to dodge the blows without moving and strike the others. The one delivering blows had a long, narrow face with little eyes and a low forehead. The other two had round faces, large ears, and desperate eyes. I started across the bridge, but I came to a halt when I reached the center. The day was limpid, the sky and water young, the dark mountains sharply outlined against the sky. The day was so clear I could almost count the trees on the farthest mountains. I retraced my steps. The little boys were still fighting. When they saw I was returning, they stopped fighting for a moment, and I covered my eyes with my arm. One of the round-faced boys came and stood by me, and when I began to walk, he did too. Soon he left me because I was moving slowly. He trudged in front of me, but stayed close by. From time to time he twisted round, searching for my feet, and when he had seen them, he would turn his back to me. At the horse enclosure, I stopped to contemplate Maraldina, the Muntanyes Morades, and Senyor’s mountain with the still green ivy. It was tiring to look that far away. In my pocket I carried the awl my mother had used to pierce my ears when I was little. You can have everything you want, but accompanied by pain, until you learn not to want anything. I had found it in the box where my wife kept the ropes. I paused to look at the grazing horses, their coats shiny, eyes entranced. I turned back round and the little boy was standing firmly in front of me, his head up, staring at me. The sun was falling on the esplanade of Pedres Baixes. Behind Pedres Altes it was all grey, everything was lost in the greyness where the watchmen lived with the tiny horses whose tails reached the ground. The little boy continued on his way in front of me, but he turned round from time to time, until we parted at the end of the horse enclosure. When I looked he was far away, and I could barely make out the dead tree on Maraldina because of the curve in the Festa esplanade. When I reached the bend in the river, I searched for the place where I had crossed the first time. I remembered a shrub on the left, but it has disappeared. I knew the shrub was there that day because at first I had planned to leave my clothes beside it rather than by the tree. Many trees were now scattered about the area. Close to the water, I found a spot I didn’t remember: long and narrow, covered with large, very white pebbles. Where had I crossed? Memory plays tricks on us. The man who killed the serpent had died at the bend in the river, trampled by his horse; I didn’t know it the first time I swam across. He and his horse had been one and the same as they chased the serpent; then they became two. I was looking for some small sign, whatever it was that could help me find where I had crossed. I strolled up and down, occasionally placing my arm in front of my eyes because the light was getting stronger and I couldn’t bear the glare. I undressed and sat naked, my back against a tree, feeling the support. To my left, in front of the marsh, lay the mud-flower pond. To my right, at a distance, the canes by the esplanade. The morning was dead, the canes swaying, and in the daylight the green water was almost colorless. Water got in my eyes. Soon the blacksmith’s house would be ready, as well as everyone else’s; the horses would neigh on moonlit nights and the blacksmith’s son would respond and the man would be . . . Water got in my eyes; the river was very broad in that spot. Calm, but very broad. Shiny flecks on the sun-splashed water, darkly mottled where there was no sun. When I got out, I sat down to rest. I would have wished for things to come, but things did not come. The grasses were breathing, enjoying the moment; I was breathing only from exhaustion, having swum the breadth of the river.