Serag had heard that men worked, but these were only stories that one told. He had never believed them completely. He himself had never seen a man work, outside of those futile and ridiculous employments which for him had absolutely no value. However, for a long time he had felt the desire to see one of those men who worked arduously with their hands, and who carried the stigmata of painful labour. But it was very difficult for him to do this; he knew of no practical way of meeting them. Ever since he had looked for work, he had tried in vain to find them. At home his family considered him a fool and a dangerous maniac. When he spoke to them of his wish to work, they all showed incredulous faces, not only because of his decision, but rather from a lack of understanding. This passed their comprehension. Serag didn’t know whom to ask for help. All the people he knew devoted themselves to various fruitless, insignificant tasks which had nothing in common with true work. Those among them who perhaps participated in some rough and painful labour never showed it. They always seemed to hide this pain within themselves, like a shame or a remorse. Serag had had unbelievable difficulties with this problem. With all his soul he wanted to approach some men at their work so that he might know what it meant.
But was this enraged child a worker? Certainly he had neither the walk nor the appearance of one. If all the men who worked drove themselves like this, life would no longer he possible. And only to chase birds! What then when he worked in a factory! For Serag could only conceive of serious work in the inspiring atmosphere of machinery in action. He had a completely romantic idea of the operation of a factory. He was awed by the grandeur of work accomplished in common by thousands of men. But for this, all jobs seemed to him completely insignificant — equivalent, almost, to doing nothing. However, whatever the child was doing did not even correspond to these phantom professions. Serag tried to decide in which category of workers he belonged. But the child’s behavior escaped all classification; his efforts seemed to go beyond the limits of human endurance. He no doubt obeyed some obscure design; he belonged to a sort of desperate and fallen humanity, more tenacious in its battle for subsistence. Serag had never seen anything like it. He found his whole conception of the world shaken.
He was seized by a deadly apprehension and asked himself how all this would end. Was there no one to stop the child? He could no longer hold his rigid position; his numbed legs had grown heavy, like a mass of lead. He had cramps in his stomach. He clenched his teeth so as not to cry out, leaned his head toward the ground and felt he was going to vomit. He closed his eyes, reopened them painfully, yawned, made a gesture of enormous weariness, then let himself fall, exhausted, on the edge of the bank. A moment later, he took a piece of bread from his pocket and began to chew it. He had just remembered that he had eaten nothing since he had risen.
A green and white car passed on the highway, honking repeatedly, as if sending out a message of distress. The noise resounded in the countryside, dying out slowly and leaving an impression of uneasiness. Serag watched the child shoot his last rock with a feeling of deliverance. What would he do now?
The child hesitated a long moment, giddy and breathless. Then with the back of his hand he wiped the snot that dripped from his nose, sniffed noisily, raised the front of his rags and minutely examined his sex; then he leaned his back against the trunk of the sycamore. He seemed beaten by his frenzy which had ended in nothing. Suddenly he saw Serag and a gleam of surprise kindled in his eyes and illumined his face streaming with dirty sweat. He was drained of all his rage; he only felt the curiosity of hunger, pitiful and greedy. All his attention was now concentrated on the piece of bread that Serag chewed without interest, his eyes half closed with sleep. It was as if the child had discovered some marvelous world. He advanced a few steps, hypnotized by the piece of bread, and stopped in the middle of the path, his legs spread, his mouth open, trembling under his rags.
A huge cloud detached itself, exposing the discolored sun. All the countryside was bathed in a humid, cold light which created enormous distances, as if the earth had suddenly withdrawn its horizons. Serag trembled, blinked his eyes; the light of day bothered him and irritated his nerves. He had noticed the child’s gaze, but pretended not to see him, and continued to eat his bread in the resigned attitude of one condemned to death. At each moment he felt sleep reach out inexorably for him. He let himself fall back, leaned on his elbows and finally abandoned himself to sleep. He felt no more fear; he simply wished to go to sleep. He closed his eyes and lay like a shipwreck on the wet grass and fell asleep.
This only lasted a second. He quickly regained consciousness, sensing the child’s presence and the fierce demand of his stare. Brusquely he decided to get up and leave; this halt had only succeeded in making him more lethargic. As usual, he was roaming in this vicinity to observe the factory under construction. The factory was still several hundred meters further on, isolated in the open country. Serag no longer desired to go there; he was tired from all these emotions and found himself more feeble and discouraged than ever. He hesitated, thinking of returning to the house, when the child moved and manifested his presence by a plaintive groan. There was no longer a way to avoid him.
“Hello, little one!”
Serag had called out without thinking, as if to give himself a hold on a vague and depressing reality. The child came running, crossed the path with a few rapid leaps, his rags fluttering like wings. Serag saw him suddenly before him, miserable and pale, holding his slingshot in one hand, the other hand empty, impatient.
“Do you want a piece?”
The child held out his hand without answering. He seemed defiant, his incredible eyes fixed on Serag. No doubt he had long ago lost all trust and was waiting for some frightful trap. Serag broke the bread and gave him the biggest piece.
“You’ve been hunting a long time?”
The child’s mouth was already full. He replied, as if he wanted to get away:
“Yes, for a long time. What of it?”
Serag now saw him from too near not to be struck by his jaundiced color, his scowl, his air of deep craftiness. He had big loose ears, and his shaven head was covered with running sores. A scar cut across the corner of his upper lip, contorting his face in a horrible smirk. Under his rags one could see his slender body and supple limbs, scaly with the dirt of the roads. This was truly a terrible being, come from a world of combat and despair. Now Serag understood the anguish that he created around him. It was not simply due to his misery, nor to his expression of a precocious criminal. No, this anguish was the message of a hostile and troubled universe, lost, ages before, of which he was only the pale and unconscious reflection. He gave the impression of a pitiful trapped animal, destined for the worst fate, and constantly the victim of latent dangers. What dangers? This was just what Serag had wanted to learn: the obscure mystery which enveloped the hard life of men.