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sign of a
chimerical and unfounded hope, these - more than the village
with its two brief months of animation, to which one might
add the preparations for the summer and the last few faltering
stragglers - constituted the essence of their withdrawal from
the world.
They decided to go as far as the level crossing, a rather
longer walk than usual. When they first came across him, they
must have thought that the situation of the man with the dog
was not unlike their own. `Look, they've cut down the trees
that were there. Remember?' or `Heaven alone knows what
they'll put up here, maybe even a block of flats', or `The
baker's wife told me they're closing down the bakery and
opening up a shop selling souvenirs and knickknacks and sun
cream,' such was the repertoire of banal phrases with which,
day by day, they followed the course of a series of changes
which did not affect them and which afforded such a contrast
with the monastic austerity of their existence, where having
to discard a shirt or a duster posed a threat to the harsh vow of
endurance which they had firmly and staunchly undertaken,
in order to survive.
The rain and the disappearance of the summer visitors
provided everything else that they needed on that occasion;
in other words, they again blessed the day they had moved
there and gave thanks for the beauty of nature, returning in all
her splendour to reign over the place, after two months of
humiliating slavery to the demands of summer.
`Just smell the air: wonderful. All it takes is a few drops of
rain, and look at the difference it makes.'
A prayer of thanks with renewed faith and such sincere
conviction that they scarcely noticed their second encounter
with the dog and the summer straggler, a man dressed in halfmourning, whom they had overtaken earlier going in the
same direction, and who must, therefore, have followed the
same route as themselves, but covering the ground more
quickly and following a parallel path.
They stopped to listen to the song of some starlings, which,
perched on a line of leafy plane trees, were also preparing to
move on. They stood gazing at the sea from the road as it
bends round the promontory, huge, intermittent waves that
broke at their feet with a bow expressing reverence and submission to all those who, like themselves, had managed to rise
above everyday considerations and accept sacrifices at the end
of their lives, concerned only with what does not change.
They had seldom walked so far on an afternoon; it was one
of those days brimming over with trust and confidence, so
necessary for the coming six months of cold. They had often
commented on how those walks strengthened their spirit.
`We'll walk as far as the inn. It still doesn't get dark till late,
there's plenty of time. It's a splendid day.'
The inn was almost a kilometre away. Lately, they had only
gone that far, to sit in the shade drinking a beer or a lemonade,
when someone from the village gave them a lift in their car.
They had walked down the slope of the promontory and
started along the road at the end of which the inn could be
found, round a bend hidden amongst a grove of trees, when
she suddenly stopped, to listen to something which she had
heard indistinctly. `What was that?' she asked, looking up
at the sky? `Didn't you hear something? Didn't you feel
something odd?'
It was like an ordinary flash of lightning which, unaccompanied by thunder, and glimpsed only out of the corner
of the eye, requires confirmation to dispel the uneasy feeling
aroused by something seen but not heard. `I'm not sure ...
there, or perhaps over there. Didn't you see anything?'
`There must be a storm in the distance. The weather is
unsettled. Maybe we should turn back.'
`Let's go as far as the inn.'
They walked on, with frequent glances at the sky,
exchanging those reassuring phrases that optimists always
hope will reach the elements and persuade them to restrain
their stormy
chimerical and unfounded hope, these - more than the village
with its two brief months of animation, to which one might
add the preparations for the summer and the last few faltering
stragglers - constituted the essence of their withdrawal from
the world.
They decided to go as far as the level crossing, a rather
longer walk than usual. When they first came across him, they
must have thought that the situation of the man with the dog
was not unlike their own. `Look, they've cut down the trees
that were there. Remember?' or `Heaven alone knows what
they'll put up here, maybe even a block of flats', or `The
baker's wife told me they're closing down the bakery and
opening up a shop selling souvenirs and knickknacks and sun
cream,' such was the repertoire of banal phrases with which,
day by day, they followed the course of a series of changes
which did not affect them and which afforded such a contrast
with the monastic austerity of their existence, where having
to discard a shirt or a duster posed a threat to the harsh vow of
endurance which they had firmly and staunchly undertaken,
in order to survive.
The rain and the disappearance of the summer visitors
provided everything else that they needed on that occasion;
in other words, they again blessed the day they had moved
there and gave thanks for the beauty of nature, returning in all
her splendour to reign over the place, after two months of
humiliating slavery to the demands of summer.
`Just smell the air: wonderful. All it takes is a few drops of
rain, and look at the difference it makes.'
A prayer of thanks with renewed faith and such sincere
conviction that they scarcely noticed their second encounter
with the dog and the summer straggler, a man dressed in halfmourning, whom they had overtaken earlier going in the
same direction, and who must, therefore, have followed the
same route as themselves, but covering the ground more
quickly and following a parallel path.
They stopped to listen to the song of some starlings, which,
perched on a line of leafy plane trees, were also preparing to
move on. They stood gazing at the sea from the road as it
bends round the promontory, huge, intermittent waves that
broke at their feet with a bow expressing reverence and submission to all those who, like themselves, had managed to rise
above everyday considerations and accept sacrifices at the end
of their lives, concerned only with what does not change.
They had seldom walked so far on an afternoon; it was one
of those days brimming over with trust and confidence, so
necessary for the coming six months of cold. They had often
commented on how those walks strengthened their spirit.
`We'll walk as far as the inn. It still doesn't get dark till late,
there's plenty of time. It's a splendid day.'
The inn was almost a kilometre away. Lately, they had only
gone that far, to sit in the shade drinking a beer or a lemonade,
when someone from the village gave them a lift in their car.
They had walked down the slope of the promontory and
started along the road at the end of which the inn could be
found, round a bend hidden amongst a grove of trees, when
she suddenly stopped, to listen to something which she had
heard indistinctly. `What was that?' she asked, looking up
at the sky? `Didn't you hear something? Didn't you feel
something odd?'
It was like an ordinary flash of lightning which, unaccompanied by thunder, and glimpsed only out of the corner
of the eye, requires confirmation to dispel the uneasy feeling
aroused by something seen but not heard. `I'm not sure ...
there, or perhaps over there. Didn't you see anything?'
`There must be a storm in the distance. The weather is
unsettled. Maybe we should turn back.'
`Let's go as far as the inn.'
They walked on, with frequent glances at the sky,
exchanging those reassuring phrases that optimists always
hope will reach the elements and persuade them to restrain
their stormy
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