I walked very quickly. Grasshoppers, trusting their weightlessness to exempt them from any pain when they fell, were jumping from the supple support of the grass to the middle of the road where their long legs, used to stubble, were ill at ease.
A dogcart drove by on its high, iron-rimmed wheels, between which a cloud of dust was rising at the spot where the dogs are attached. It had no license plate. It was as free as the air, as the fields, as the life I was about to lead.
A man, alone in an immense field, was reaping wheat. To my right, I could see the houses in the village from which, despite the hot weather, blue wisps of smoke were rising. They were fragile in a sky where they had too much room. You could sense that the slightest puff of wind would disperse them, not immediately, only after having caused them to fold in on themselves. A milestone reminded me that somewhere someone knew the road existed.
I now dreaded the moment I had been longing for a moment ago. I was afraid of catching sight of a member of my family in the distance. I was so hot that each time I passed beneath the shade of an apple tree I did not even realize it.
A butterfly flitted in front of me. It waited for me, not only on the flowers, but on the stones, and when I drew near it flew off—so delicate—without having seen or heard me, to set itself down farther on.
The scents of wood, grasses, ponds everywhere blended above the odorless road.
On a hill, between two trees of the same size, I suddenly saw my parents’ house. The windows were open. I waited to feel some emotion, the joy I had been expecting. Nothing. This emotion, this joy, came up against a thousand thoughts, a thousand memories evoked by the host of insects, the blades of grass, the specks of earth that surrounded me, scattered me, and made it so that for a moment I did not know where I was.
I stopped. I stared hard at the house. It resembled the ones I had seen from the train. Everything was normal. Nothing about it attracted my attention more than any of the others.
Something moved in a window, something like a light-colored cloth with swirls.
I opened my mouth as if to call out. I stretched my hands toward this sign of life. It was neither an animal nor laundry hung out to dry. It was still moving on the second floor, at my parents’ bedroom window. It was my father, my mother.
A shimmering spread across my field of vision. I was suddenly aware that what I had imagined was collapsing, that the words I had prepared would not come out, that traps would be set for me, that I would contradict myself, that I was as alone as I had been in the Paris train station this morning when I left. The distance I traveled had not brought me closer. No one was thinking of me. The one who, after five years of absence, found himself a few steps from his parents was still so far away, so forgotten that everything was going on normally: a piece of cloth was moving in a window, the house was white, the windows open.
Dust was falling on me. I could tell how thick it was from the blades of grass and the branches it covered.
I took a path that skirted the house so as not to arrive by the main door. The clearings, which only partly concealed me, did not allow me to be recognized from the way I walked. The long shadows from the trees accompanied me. When I passed near a swarm of mosquitoes, I looked beneath it to the ground, without thinking.
Birds sang and flapped their wings, ready to fly off again should the branches sag too much beneath their weight. The sun was setting. A buzzing life was being reborn with the first chill of evening. Other insects, those that like the rain, emerged from the cracked earth.
I continued to gaze at the house as I walked. Certain details began to make it familiar to me. A fence separated the yard from the vegetable garden. I recognized the curtains, the bench in front of the ground-floor window, a shovel whose smooth handle was worn thin from use. I saw a brand-new zinc pail that did not seem out of place because it had not been used without me. The trees had not grown taller.
I had only about fifty yards to go. My family would soon be in the dining room. My mother would be preparing supper. My father would be reading in his study. My sisters would be sewing.
I advanced slowly. My pulse, my temples, all my veins were throbbing in unison. Again I pictured the scene I had imagined so many times: the hugs, the tears, my parents’ happiness. It would happen as I had foreseen. There was no reason for me to have been mistaken because, until now, everything was just as usual.
Tears came to my eyes, mixing with the perspiration on my face. Yet they were cooler as they fell.
I would be forgiven for having taken the money, for having made a scene before I left, for having gone five years without writing.
Then, smelling the sweet scent of the grass, it suddenly seemed to me that what I had done was much more serious than I had thought, that I would have to beg them to let me stay, beg them to forget.
Everything I had imagined was fading in the buzzing life all around me that would continue until evening, impervious to my motives and the complexities of my thoughts.
I was now very close to the house. I did not dare enter yet. I had placed my hand on the fence that surrounds our property. A bush from our yard concealed me. Because it belonged to us, and because it seemed to become my accomplice, for an instant I regained my confidence.
I did not have the strength to take another step. I, who had believed everyone would laugh together and feel sorry for me, sensed that I would be unable to utter a single word. I had a dizzy spell. Now, with all my heart, I hoped someone would come out and see me. I would have fainted then. They would have carried me. I would have woken up in a bed with my family at my side, attentive to all my gestures.
But no one came. I heard my sister singing, my mother speaking, but did not see anyone even though the windows were open.
For a second I let go of the fence to test myself, to wipe my forehead from which new perspiration was dripping. I almost fell. I stumbled. With both hands I again grabbed the fence that the rain had turned a greenish color. I wanted to call for help. The memory of what I had done, along with the hope that I would recover, stopped me.
Suddenly my father came out of the house in his shirtsleeves. I saw him clearly. I bent down and spied on him through the leaves where a world of insects was teeming in the coolness. He did not see me. I was no longer his son. I was hiding, watching him intently without his being aware of it, like a burglar. He went into the garden. He was carrying a light, empty basket. He had aged. I was so shaken by this that I was not sad.
Five years ago, even when it was very hot out, he would never remove his jacket, he would hold himself erect and never go into the garden. I was the one who fetched the vegetables.
I wanted to run to him then, throw myself at his feet, beg him to forgive me. But I did not budge.
He passed in front of me again, slowly, turning around at the sound of a rooster crowing. Soon I saw him from behind, stooped over, sadder it seemed because he was going back into the house.
It was too late to follow him, to stop him. My father was leaving me outside.
I could no longer remain like this, hidden. I had to go in.
I forgot everything and, letting go of the fence, I took a step, then two.
I was about to go in. The great moment had arrived. My father, my mother would see me, look at me before they recognized me.
I raised the latch on one of the gates. I was in the yard. I stopped short and stood straight, motionless, my hands needing no support because the ground was level.
No one was in the courtyard. In my blurred vision, the line of the horizon seemed to spin as I looked at it. No tree, no bush concealed me. I was facing the walls of the house, the window, and the slope of the roof at which I had tossed balls as a child.