Thus, according to his calculations, he had thirty minutes to get through the village. What was bad about the sand was that one wasted strength, not because one's feet sank into it but because there was no resistance. Running was most wasteful of all. Walking with long, careful steps would probably be more effective. And yet, the sand compensated for sucking away one's strength by deadening the sound of footsteps. It was good, at least, that he didn't have to worry about his footsteps being heard.
Well, look where you're walking! It didn't really make any difference whether he fell or not, and he frequently would stumble on the little rises and hollows and sink to his knees. That was all right, but if by chance he were to fall into another sand hole, what in heaven's name would he do then?
It was dark, and the sand stretched forever on in irregular undulations. There were waves within waves, and within the small ones there were many still smaller ridges and hollows. The lights of the village, on which he had made his fix, seldom came into his view, for they were screened off by the crests of the endless undulations. When he could not see the lights, he went on by instinct. His mistakes were always appallingly major. Perhaps it was because his feet turned irresistibly toward the higher places, unconsciously seeking the lights.
Ah! Again he had made a mistake! It was more to the left. If he went on like this he would end up by going straight into the village. Although he had crossed over three small hill-like dunes, the lights did not seem to be getting much nearer. It seemed as if he were circling around in the same place. Perspiration ran into his eyes. He paused and took a deep breath.
He wondered whether the woman was awake yet. He also wondered what kind of reaction she would have when she did awake and realize that he was not there. No, she probably wouldn't realize it right away. She would doubtless suppose he was just relieving himself behind the house. Tonight she would be tired. She would be surprised she had slept until it was dark and would probably be barely able to get herself up. Then, finally, she would remember what had happened between them in the morning from the lingering warmth between her legs, still slightly painful and dry. She would smile bashfully as she groped for the lamp.
But anyway, there was no reason for him to feel any obligation or responsibility for her smile. By his disappearance she would lose only a fragment of her life, one that could be easily replaced by a radio or a mirror.
«You're really a great help,» she had said. «It's so different from when I was alone. I can take it easy in the mornings, and the work is finished at least two hours sooner. I think I'll ask the village association to give me some kind of extra work to do at home. I'll save the money. And someday, maybe I'll be able to buy a radio or a mirror or something.»
(Radio and mirror… radio and mirror…) As if all of human life could be expressed in those two things alone. Radios and mirrors do have a point in common: both can connect one person with another. Maybe they reflect cravings that touch the core of our existence. All right, when he got home he would buy a radio right away and send it off to her. He would put all the money he had into the best transistor on the market.
But he couldn't promise the mirror so easily. A mirror would go bad here. The quicksilver on the back would peel off in half a year; even the surface of the glass would get cloudy with the constant chafing of the sand in the air. Just like the mirror she had now: you looked in it with one eye, and you couldn't see your nose… and if you could see your nose you couldn't see your mouth. No, it didn't matter to him how long it lasted. A mirror was different from a radio; for it to be a means of connection she would first have to have somebody else there to see her. What use would a mirror be to someone who no longer could be seen?
She would be feeling surprised about now. She'd prick up her ears. Wasn't he taking too long about his business? He certainly was… the rascal had been clever enough to get away! Would she set up a howl? he wondered. Would she collapse? Or would her eyes just dim with tears? Whatever she did, it was no longer his responsibility. He was the one who had refused to recognize the necessity for a mirror.
— It's a story I read some place… Leaving home is all the fashion now. I thought it was because of bad living conditions, but that doesn't seem to be the only reason. They mentioned a middle-class farm family that had recently added land to its holdings, bought machinery, and was doing quite well, when the eldest son suddenly left home. He was a quiet, hard-working young man, and his parents were completely puzzled; they didn't know why. In country villages you have social obligations and reputation to think of, so there really must have been a reason for the heir of the family to have left home…
— Yes, certainly. An obligation is an obligation.
— Then, it appears that one of the relatives took th$ trouble to find the young man and hear his story. He wasn't living with a woman, and he didn't seem to be driven by debts or pleasure; there was no single concrete motive. Then whatever was the reason? And what the young man said made absolutely no sense at all. He seemed unable to explain it very well himself, beyond saying he just couldn't stand it any longer.
— There really are foolish people in the world, aren't there!
— But when you think about it, you can understand his feelings. When farmers increase their workable land they have that much more to do. In the final analysis, there's no end to their labor, and they only wind up with more to do. However, the farmer at least has a return on his potatoes and rice. Compared with a farmer's work, shoveling away the sand is like trying to pile up rocks in the River of Hades, where the devils cart them off as fast as you throw them in.
— Well, what happens with the River of Hades in the end?
— Not a thing. It's an infernal punishment precisely because nothing happens.
— Well then, what happened to the son after that?
— He had planned the whole thing in advance and had probably even settled on a job beforehand.
— And then what did he do? — Well, he went and took his job. — And after that?
— Well, after that he probably got his pay on payday, and on Sundays I suppose he put on a clean shirt and went to the movies. — And then…?
— We'll never know unless we put the question to him directly, will we? — And when he saved up some money, he probably bought himself a radio, didn't he…?
At last, he thought, he had finished his climbing, but he had come only halfway. No, that was wrong. It was already flat here. Where had the lights that he had fixed on gone to? He continued walking with a feeling of disbelief. The place where he stood was apparently the ridge of a rather high dune. Why ever couldn't he see the lights from here? A feeling of apprehension paralyzed his legs. Perhaps his previous laziness was the cause of his failure. He slid down the steep slope, heedless of the direction. It was an unexpectedly long ravine, not only deep but wide too. Many lines of rippling sand lay tangled and confused at the bottom; they troubled his judgment. Even so, he couldn't understand at all why the lights of the village were not visible. His margin of error was not more than a half mile on either side of his line of advance. He may have missed his way, but it could not be serious. He wanted to go left, but, perhaps because of his fear of the village, he also felt he should strike out boldly to the right in order to get nearer to the lights. Soon the mist would lift and the stars would come out. The quickest way, in effect, would be to climb up to any elevated place, regardless of where it was, and get the best perspective he could.