Ambiguous Adventure Read Free Page A

burden he was afraid to carry, but in the manner of a diadem which was too cumbersome and too much in evidence. It was in the manner of an injustice also. He desired nobility, to be sure, but a nobility more discreet, more authentic: not something acquired without effort, but hard-won, and more spiritual than material. He had humiliated and mortified himself, as a means of exercise, and also to show plainly that he insisted on being placed at the same level as all his co-disciples. But nothing had come of this. It seemed, on the contrary, that his comrades bore him a grudge for what, in relation to themselves, they were not far from regarding as the pinnacle of pride. Not a day passed that someone did not remark on the nobility of his bearing or the elegance of his deportment, in spite of the rags in which he was clothed. It even happened that they held a grievance against him for his natural gestures of generosity, and his very frankness. The more he stoodguard over himself, the more he was denounced. He was exasperated with it all.
    At least his companions in the group had refrained up to the present from making disagreeable remarks. He was silently grateful to them for that, although he had no illusions as to what some of them actually thought. He knew that Demba, notably, was envious of him. This peasant’s son, patient and stubborn, harbored the ambition of a sturdy and uncompromising adolescent. “But at least,” Samba Diallo was thinking, “Demba has known how to keep quiet up to now. Why should he seek a quarrel with me this morning?”
    “Tell me, boys, which one among the other group leaders ought I to follow? Since I am receiving my dismissal from Samba Diallo, I should limit the resultant damage by making a good choice. Let us see …”
    “Be quiet, Demba; I beg of you, be quiet,” Samba Diallo cried.
    “Let us see,” Demba continued imperturbably. “It is sure, at any rate, that my new leader will not be able to get the best of Samba Diallo in the art of imprecation. For take notice,” he went on, always addressing the group, “your prince is not only a prince of the blood. Nothing is lacking to him. He is also a prince of the mind and spirit. What is more, the great teacher himself knows it. You have remarked that? He has a weakness for Samba Diallo.”
    “You are lying! Be still, Demba—you know very well that you are lying! The teacher cannot have any preference for me, and—”
    He broke off and shrugged his shoulders.
    He was a few steps away from Demba. The two boys were almost of the same height, but while SambaDiallo—who was now impatiently shifting from one foot to the other—was all long and sinewy lines, Demba was rather inclined to stoutness; he was now standing calm and motionless.
    Samba Diallo slowly turned around, walked again to the portal, and went out. In the little street he felt behind him the slow movement of his companions, who were following.
    “He has all the qualities, except only one: he is not courageous.”
    Samba Diallo stopped short, set his wooden bowl on the ground, and went back to Demba.
    “I’m not going to fight with you, Dembel,” he said.
    “No!” the other boy screamed. “Don’t call me Dembel. I want no familiarity.”
    “So be it, Demba. But I do not want to fight. Go or stay, but let us not talk any more about it.”
    As he spoke, Samba Diallo was standing guard over himself, bent on mastering that vibration which was coursing through his body, and on dissipating that odor of brush fire which was tickling his nostrils.
    “Go or stay,” he repeated slowly, as if he were speaking in a dream.
    Once more he turned his back on Demba and walked away. At this moment his foot struck an obstacle, like a trap set for him. He fell full length on the ground. Someone—he never knew who—had tripped him up.
    When he got up, none of those who were there had stirred, but he saw no other person than the one who, before him and still motionless, bore an