‘Sit down, it’s time to eat.’
The man pointed to a spot near his feet, and the boy did as he was told. For a while, the goatherd continued flicking the wheel of his rope lighter and unsuccessfully blowing on the wick. The boy watched in silence, mouth half-open, astonished at the old man’s inepitude, for sometimes he missed the wheel altogether or failed to strike it hard enough. The boy’s hands began moving of their own accord because he had often used such a lighter himself.
When the old man finally managed to light the cigarette and take his first few puffs, he rested his free hand on the ground and relaxed his shoulders as if he had just completed a very necessary task. He pursed his lips and whistled, and the dog got up and ran to the place where the goats were already beginning to stir. The dog immediately rounded up a group of brown goats and brought them over to where the man was sitting. Without even getting up, the man used his crook to hook a goat round one of its hind legs and drag it towards him. Then, keeping a firm grip on the animal with one hand, he pushed the blanket aside and drew in his legs. The boy watched this manoeuvre, surprised at the old man’s sudden show of agility, given that only a moment before, it had taken him an age simply to light a cigarette. When the goatherd had the rear end of the goat in front of him, he placed a metal saucepan underneath its udders. The first drops fell, tinkling, into the pan. When he had enough milk, he gave the goat a slap and it skittered off to rejoin its fellows. Then he held out the pan to the boy, but when the boy didn’t move, he set it down on the ground and continued smoking his cigarette.
They sat in silence, gnawing on wedges of greasy cheese, strips of dried meat and a little stale bread. The goatherd took long swigs from his wineskin, and the boy wondered when the man would ask who he was and what he was doing there. He was afraid that news of his disappearance might also have reached this part of the plain, because he was all too aware that, however arduous his adventure had proved up until now, he was still not that far from the village. At one point, it occurred to him that the old man’s welcome could be a trick to hold him there while he waited for the search party or even for the bailiff himself to arrive. In that case, he knew exactly what he would do. He would run back to the clump of prickly pears and crouch down among them. The horses would paw the ground around the cactus spines, but would not dare to come near. If the search party wanted to take him home, they would have to drag him out. They would have to risk tearing their shirts and getting scratched or else, still mounted, riddle him with bullets and then, finally, kill the only witness.
When the old man had finished his breakfast, he reached into a pannier and brought out a crumpled sheet of newspaper. He used this to wrap up some food and then offered the package to the boy, who sat staring back at him. When the goatherd grew tired of holding out his arm, he did as he had with the saucepan of milk, and put the package down on the ground. He stowed the rest of the food in the pannier and again asked the boy to help him up. The boy went over and it was only then that he became aware of the mixture of aromas emanating from the man’s body: the sickly aura of wine that hung around his head and mouth and the stench of dried sweat given off by his leathery skin. When the man stood up, he wasn’t much taller than the boy. His trousers were tied around the waist with a piece of string, and his boots looked as if they were made of cardboard. After helping him to his feet, the boy took a few steps back and stood watching the man, who was becoming more agile with each passing minute. The boy was again surprised by the ease with which he bent down to retrieve the blanket and fold it up. With the blanket over his arm, the old man whistled to the dog, which sprang to its feet and ran off to where the other goats were grazing.
The old man went over to the pyramid-shack and reached in through an opening in the branches that served as an entrance. He returned carrying a cork stool and a metal bucket. He took down the milk churn from where it hung on the wall and carried everything over to a small square enclosure. The dog had gathered the goats together and, by dint of barking and snapping at their heels, was herding them towards his master. When they had all arrived, the man removed one post from the corner of the corral fence, creating an opening through which he shooed in the goats. When they were all inside, he replaced the pole and joined it to its neighbour with the thick wire loop attached to one of them. Crammed in together, the goats were bleating furiously and trying to clamber on top of each other, resembling nothing so much as a pot of boiling stew.
The goatherd placed the bucket next to the section of fence that had served as a gate. The bucket was as wide at the bottom as it was at the top, and reminded the boy of the one they used at home to empty the latrine. The old man made sure the base was firmly embedded in the dusty ground, then from inside the bucket he took an adze and three rusty rods. He cleaned the mud off the blunt side of the blade and began hammering the rods into the ground very close to the outer edge of the bucket. When he had finished, he checked again to make sure that the bucket, like an encrusted jewel, would not move. He placed the stool so that it was facing the bucket and sat down. The boy had observed these comings and goings as if he were witnessing some vision of Our Lady. Open-mouthed, eyes lowered. The only part of his anatomy that moved was his head, which turned from side to side as he followed the goatherd’s every manoeuvre.
Sitting on the stool, the old man again lifted one of the posts in the fence to create a narrow opening. He reached in and grabbed a goat by its leg, dragged it out and positioned it with its rear end over the bucket. He then grasped the animal’s teats and began milking. While he was working, he gazed up at the sky, as if checking for signs of rain. Echoing the old man’s movements from afar, the boy also scanned the sky. Above their heads, the heavens were growing brighter, the glow slowly dousing the last and brightest stars. The sun, still lingering behind the hills in the east, would soon appear. Not a trace of cloud in the sky.
The boy looked back at the goatherd, who now had his head almost pressed against the animal’s rear end and was briskly squeezing and pulling at the teats. The old man seemed nervous. When the goat, grown restless, kicked at the bucket and tried to run away, the old man tethered her back legs to two of the rods, only untethering her when he had finished milking. The goat then fled over to the poplars, where she reassured herself by nibbling the tips of the lowest branches.
One by one, all the goats came to the milking pail. As the boy watched it filling up, he wondered what the goatherd could possibly do with so much milk in the middle of that wilderness. When he’d finished, the old man got up and carried the bucket over to the churn, poured the milk into it and put the lid on. That was when he turned and spoke to the boy.
‘You know, it’s all the same to me if you’ve run away or if you’re simply lost.’
The remark caught the boy unawares, and he shrank back. There was a long silence.
‘Some men will be coming soon to collect the milk.’