Water dripped from the thick clay walls. Frogs, worms, and all sorts of reptiles lived with him at the wet bottom of the pit. An impassive observer might claim that he was wearing his institutional pajamas, but he had to protect his skin from the slippery creatures; his skin hurt, it hurt everywhere, and he also had to be sure that none of these creatures managed to nestle in some part of his body. He made movements as if only the instinct of self-defense had left any memories in his mind. Still, sometimes snakes, spiders, or lizards crawled into his ears or through his nostrils into his brain. They penetrated his mouth and his rectum, and then, he felt, they multiplied. The attendants did not help; he asked them in vain, pleading with them quietly. If very rarely he managed to cough up, vomit, blow out, or evacuate the evil vermin, right away they crawled back in somewhere else.
And when the situation became untenable, when so much bad could not exist without a tiny bit of good, then the desire to be naked, so necessary for his body’s defense, endowed his limbs with a power whose strength was at least as terrible as the pain of his defenseless nakedness had been.
At such times either they trapped him and pumped him with a bigger dose of sedative than usual, or he managed to climb out of the slippery pit unnoticed and leave unnoticed.
If someone had observed Dávid repeatedly circling the pond, keeping to his ever-deepening and quickly fading footprints, in the end raising squelching clumps of clay with his feet to the point of exhaustion, that person could not have said to what temptation the boy was surrendering himself. We can know so little about one another. And Dávid could not have said why the stranger had thrown his boots into the water, why, jumping up from his sitting position, he seemed to be compelled to shed his skin, why he tore off his blue worker’s shirt, why he shoved his pants down to his ankles, why he hopped around, stumbling like that, why he stepped out of them, and then why, once he was naked, the vehement resistance in him subsided.
Underneath the blindingly pale skin, his bare frame showed clearly, pivoting on its joints.
The sight made Dávid forget his negligence; his fear, his aggressive mood, his self-accusation and anger all got stuck in his throat like a piece of bread gone the wrong way. The stranger crouched, keeping his knees together, and, wobbling as he sought his balance, first pulled to himself his worker’s shirt and then his pants. He did this with movements as engrossingly slow and thoughtful as those of a person intent on smoothing out his clothes and laying them on the back of a chair before going to bed. First he fixed the pants. Laying them out before him, he pulled out and straightened the legs. Then he laid the shirt on top of the pants and patted it, and then, not moving from his place, he reached back behind him with one thin arm, scooped up the bread, and rolled it into the clothes. With the bundle in his hand, he stood up.
He could not have been blind, and if he wasn’t he surely saw Dávid on the far shore of the water.
He heaved the bundle over his head, the way we get ready to heave a heavy stone. At the end of a second preparatory swing, he hurled it with all the might of his tense body.
A big dull splash followed, and Dávid involuntarily cried out.
They were about twenty-five meters from each other. At Dávid’s shout, which might even have preceded the splash, their eyes met for the first time. Like two heavy oil stains seeking each other, neither surprise nor excitement disturbed the way their glances blended. The bundle popped to the surface, and while in each other’s attentive eyes they were paying attention to the attentiveness, the shirt and pants floated apart, scattering quickly bursting bubbles around them.
Shirt and pants peeled off each other and lazily, with slow-moving tentacles, sank again.
The bread stayed on the surface for a time.
Even later Dávid could not describe to his grandfather every detail of this strange series of events. With his words, he rearranged the story’s chronology to create the impression that he had neglected ringing the church bell because of a heated battle for the pants and shirt, and therefore that slapping his face had been unfair. With this bold lie he was protecting his secret, which he could not reveal because he had no words with which to share it. And while he hurried behind his agitated grandfather on the shady brick pavement that encircled the house, his grandfather’s blind anger filled him with new and ominous feelings. About the old man being after some sort of bloody revenge, when it was Dávid’s lies that had befogged his judgment.
They both longed for a scapegoat and each of them found one.
He knew exactly what his grandfather wanted to do: to get on his bicycle and, disregarding the spasms of his kidney trouble, ride out to the fields.
There to catch that lunatic by the ear and, if necessary, with a single blow to render him harmless, or to turn him over to the police and take back the pants.
He would never again dare return to that place, which, judging by what had been done to him, was obviously cursed.
But he figured incorrectly, because the pastor was thinking not about the tramp, of whose existence he could not know, but about the retired prison guard who, according to the villagers, spent his days walking around naked on his land.
As it turned out, he did not believe them.
Grandpapa, he whimpered in his agony, in a whiny child’s voice he hadn’t used in years, it’s just a lunatic, he whined as they hurried along the sidewalk.
He wanted to arrest the flow of events — though he also longed for revenge — so that he wouldn’t have to divulge his pagan secrets or admit to lies.
He threw in his own boots and his clothes too, believe me, and probably that’s why he needed my pants. With words like this he tried to get out of his story. He is a madman, believe me, Grandpa, he even threw his bread in the water, he escaped from somewhere.
Mention of the bread caught his grandfather’s attention.
One must be truly a madman or criminal to throw away bread, he thought, but his thick, muscular back did not respond even when he crossed the high threshold of the shed door; reason could not assuage his agitation so quickly. Grabbing the bicycle by its handlebars and seat, with a single motion he lifted it out of the clutter of tools and turned around with it; spades and hoes, shovels and pickaxes thudded and knocked together in the wake of his violent movement.
Dávid stood in the bright opening of the door; the pastor’s wire-rimmed glasses flashed at him sternly from the dimness inside.
Where are your shoes, he asked the boy because he needed time to divert himself from his original goal.
Dávid looked down at his bare feet as if only now discovering the missing sandals; with this, he too meant to gain time, to thwart his grandfather’s revenge.
He didn’t take them. They’re still there.
Which shoes did you have on, the pastor asked sternly.
I wore my sandals today, the boy hastened with the answer.
The pastor rebuked himself unsparingly. Which increased his agitation instead of lessening it. Anyone who at the sight or sound of the slightest trouble lets his mind jump to the most extreme conclusion must face his own criminal character. Nature had endowed the pastor with enormous physical strength, which forced him to be careful with his temper, not to lose it, to nip it in the bud. This habit was not, in the end, alien to his gentle disposition, but it filled him with complacency, and thus did his moral precaution lead him toward the greatest danger lying in wait for him: arrogance. When he yielded to the temptation of complacency, as he frequently did, he committed the mortal sin of arrogance.