Laziness in the Fertile Valley Read Free Page A

that the child was judging him with deep suspicion.
    “You see,” he continued, “it’s not really my house, it’s my father’s. I only live there. And you, haven’t you a house?”
    “I had one,” said the child. “But someone stole it.”
    “Someone stole it? How? Who stole it from you?”
    “A boy I rented half of it to. We shared it together. But one night when I came back to sleep, I couldn’t find the boy or the box.”
    “The box?” said Serag, astonished. “What box?”
    “The house — it was a wooden box,” said the child. “You didn’t think I owned a real house did you?”
    “I just didn’t understand,” Serag apologized.
    “Anyhow, it was a beautiful box,” said the child regretfully. “I found it near a junkyard. It kept out the cold very well, especially where I set it up. It was better than an apartment, believe me. We had some good times, that boy and me. It was warm there and we smoked butts. Sometimes some of our friends would come by and keep us company.”
    “You all lived inside? It must have been a big box.”
    “No, the others stayed outside. Only the boy and me lived in the box. It was ours.”
    “And you never invited them to stay with you?”
    “Sometimes one of them would take my place for a minute. But he wouldn’t stay long. We threw him out if he didn’t want to go.”
    “Then this boy stole it from you?”
    “Yes, he was a thief and a son of a bitch. I spend my time looking for him. Have you seen him around here?”
    “No, I haven’t seen him. Besides, how would I recognize him?”
    “Oh! he’s easy to recognize,” said the child. “His mother’s the biggest whore in the world.”
    This story left Serag dreaming for a moment. He imagined the child’s adventurous existence with secret joy. To be like him! It wasn’t only the adventure that seduced him, but the vague conviction that beyond this unfettered and nomadic existence was a living and tangible reality he wanted to share. For a long time he had fought to free himself from the apathy that was like an open wound, draining the very blood of his youth. He would have liked to feel overwhelming emotions, to face horrible dangers, to fight with the endurance of a living being. But at the same time he was vaguely frightened by this unknown universe, cursed and suffering. Dark forebodings warned him not to attempt such a trying ordeal. The feeling of his impotence crushed him, always threw him back toward the world of idleness where he vegetated in his family’s house, surrounded by a security more annihilating than death. Never had he dreamed of this liberty of action, this pitiless intensity for life which the child exuded. He had the impression that between himself and the world of this child there was an infinite desert of black slumber.
    The birds had come back to the branches of the sycamore. They seemed happy with their lot and filled the air with sharp calls. From time to time the child glared toward them; he didn’t forgive them for their deception and thought of soon resuming his interrupted work. It was a ruined day for him — again one of those endless days when he searched in vain for his subsistence. But he seemed not to worry, shivering under his rags with a sort of naive aliveness, as if all his woes had no effect on his hardened nature. He crossed his arms on his chest and began to jump joyously.
    Serag stretched weakly, tried to get up, and fell back at once on the grass. He made a second effort and succeeded this time in standing up. He blinked his eyes and spoke to the child:
    “Let’s walk a bit, little one! I ought to go as far as the factory. Would you like to come with me?”
    “Is there a factory near here?”
    “Yes, it’s still under construction. I don’t know what’s wrong, but for months they’ve stopped work there.”
    “Maybe the owner is dead,” said the child.
    “I don’t think so,” said Serag. Then he added in a lugubrious tone: “That would be a great