Difficult Loves (10 page)

Now they were out of the glades and undergrowth and entering thick green woods, untouched by fire; the ground was covered with dry pine needles. The armed man had remained

behind; perhaps he had taken another route. Then, very cautiously, his tongue between his teeth, the unarmed man hurried his pace, pushing deeper into the thick woods, flinging himself down slopes, among the pine trees. He was escaping, he suddenly realized. He had a moment of panic; but he realized also that he'd got too far away now and that the other must have noticed he was trying to escape and was sure to be following him. The only thing to do was go on running, for things might be ugly if he came within the other's range again after trying to escape.

He turned at the sound of a footstep above him; a few yards away the armed man was coming toward him with his calm, indifferent pace. His gun was in his hand. He said, "There must be a short cut this way," and gestured the other to go ahead of him.

Everything then went back to the way it was before: an ambiguous world, where things might go completely wrong or completely right; the wood thickening instead of thinning out, this man who'd almost let him escape without a word.

He asked, "Does it go on forever, this wood?"

"Just around the hillside and there we are," said the other. "Bear up, you'll be home by tonight."

"Are they sure to let me go, just like that? I mean, won't they keep me there as a hostage, for instance?"

"We aren't Germans; we don't take hostages. At the most they might take your boots as hostages: we're all nearly barefoot."

The man began to grumble as if his boots were the one thing he was frightened of losing, but at heart he was pleased; every detail of his future, good or bad, helped to restore a slight feeling of confidence.

"Well," said the armed man. "Since you hold by your boots so much, let's do this : you put on mine until we get to headquarters, and since mine are all in pieces they won't take them off you. I'll put on yours, and when I come back with you I'll hand them over again."

Even a child would have realized this was just a trick. The armed man wanted his boots; all right, the unarmed man would give him whatever he wanted; he was a man who understood, and felt pleased at getting off so cheaply. "I great
Kamerad,"
he'd say to the German sergeant. "I give them boots and they let me go." Perhaps the sergeant would let him have a pair of knee boots like the ones German soldiers wore.

"Then you don't hold anyone hostage? Not even the secretary and the others?"

"The secretary had three of our comrades taken; the brothers from the mill went on round-ups with the Militia; the schoolmistress went to bed with the men of the Tenth Flotilla."*

The unarmed man halted. He said: "You don't by any chance think I'm a spy, too? You haven't by any chance brought me here to kill me?" And he bared a few teeth as if in a smile.

"If we thought you a spy," said the armed man, "I wouldn't do this." He snapped back the safety catch of the gun. "And this." He put it to his shoulder and made a motion as if about to fire at him.

"There," thought the spy. "He's not firing."

But the other never lowered his gun; he pressed the trigger instead.

"In salvos, it fires in salvos," the spy just had time to think.

* Tenth Motor Torpedo Boat Flotilla (Decima Mas); Fascist Marines.

And when he felt the bullets hitting him like fiery fists that never stopped, the thought still crossed his mind, "He thinks he's killed me, but I'm alive."

He fell face downward and the last shot caught him with a vision of stockinged feet and his boots being pulled off.

So he remained, a corpse in the depth of the woods, his mouth full of pine needles. Two hours later he was already black with ants.

THE CROW COMES LAST

The current was a network of light transparent ripples with the water flowing in the middle. Every now and again silver wings seemed to flutter on the surface, a trout's back glittering before it zigzagged down.

"It's full of trout," said one of the men.

"If we throw a grenade in, they'll all come to the surface with their bellies in the air," said the other; he took a grenade from his belt and began to unscrew the cap.

Then a boy who was watching stepped forward, a mountaineer with an apple face. "Give it to me," he said and took the rifle from one of the men. "What does he want?" said the man and tried to take the rifle away. But the boy was aiming the gun at the water as if looking for a target. "If you fire into the water you'll frighten the fish, that's all," the man tried to say, but he didn't even finish. A trout had surfaced with a flash, and the boy had fired a shot at it as if expecting it at that very spot. And the trout was now floating with its white belly in the air. "O-o-oh!" said the men. The boy reloaded the gun and swung it around; the air was bright and tight; the pine needles on the other bank and the ripples on

the current showed up clearly. Something darted to the surface; another trout. He fired; it was floating, dead. The men looked at the trout and then at him. "He's a good shot, this kid," they said.

The boy swung the muzzle of the gun around again. It was strange, thinking it over, to be so surrounded by air, separated from other things by yards of air. When he aimed the gun, on the other hand, the air was a straight invisible line drawn tight from the mouth of the rifle to the target, to the hawk flying up there in the sky with wings that did not seem to move. When he pressed the trigger, the air was still as empty and transparent as before, but up there, at the other end of the line, the hawk was folding its wings and dropping like a stone. From the open bolt floated the good smell of gunpowder.

They gave him some more cartridges when he asked for them. Lots of men were looking on now from the bank behind him. Why, he thought, could he see the pine cones at the tops of the trees on the other bank and not touch them? Why was there this empty distance between things and himself? Why were the pine cones—which seemed part of him, inside his eyes—so far away instead? Surely it was an illusion when he aimed the gun into the empty distance and touched the trigger and at the same second a pine cone dropped in smithereens? The sense of emptiness felt like a caress—emptiness inside the rifle barrel continuing through the air and filling out when he shot; the pine cone up there, a squirrel, a white stone, a butterfly. "He never misses once, this kid," said the men, and none of them felt like laughing.

"You come with us," said the commander. "If you give me a rifle," replied the boy. "Well, of course." So he went.

He left with two cheeses and a haversack full of apples. The village was a blotch of slate, straw, and cow dung at the bottom of the valley. It was fine to leave, because there were new things to be seen at every turn, trees with cones, birds flying from branches, lichen on stones, all at those false distances, the distances that could be filled by a shot swallowing the air in between. He must not fire, though, they told him: these parts had to be passed in silence, and the cartridges were needed for the war. But at a certain point a hare, frightened by their steps, ran across the path amid waves and shouts from the men. Just as it was vanishing into the thickets, a bullet from the boy stopped it. "Good shot," even the commander said, "but we're not out hunting here. You mustn't fire again even if you see a pheasant." Not an hour passed before more shots rang out from the file of men. "That boy again!" cried the commander furiously and went up to him. The boy was laughing all over his pink-and-white apple face. "Partridges," he said, showing them. "They rose from a thicket." "Partridges or grasshoppers, I told you. Give me that rifle. And if you make me angry again, you go back home." The boy grumbled a bit; it wasn't much fun walking along unarmed; but if he stayed with them there was always a chance of getting the rifle back.

That night they slept in a shepherd's hut. The boy woke up as the first light was showing in the sky, while the others were asleep. He took their best rifle, filled his haversack with cartridges, and took off. The early-morning air was mild and bright. Not far from the hut was a mulberry tree. It was the hour when the jays arrived. There was one; he fired, ran to fetch it, and put it in his haversack. Without moving from the spot he tried another target; a squirrel! Terrified by the

shot, it was running to hide at the top of a chestnut tree. Now it was dead, a big squirrel with a gray tail, which shed tufts of hair when touched. From under the chestnut tree he saw a toadstool, red with white spots, poisonous, in a meadow lower down. He pulverized it with a shot, then went to see if he had really hit it. It was a lovely game going like this from one target to another; perhaps he could go around the world doing it. He saw a big snail on a stone and aimed at its shell; when he got to the place he found only the splintered stone and a little iridescent slime.

So he gradually got farther and farther away from the hut, down among unknown fields. From the stone he saw a lizard on a wall, from the wall a puddle and a frog, from the puddle a signpost on the road with a zigzag on it and below it ... below it were men in uniform coming up with arms at the ready. When they saw that boy with a rifle smiling all over his pink-and-white apple face, they shouted and aimed their guns at him. But the boy had already picked out some gilt buttons on the chest of one of them and fired at a button. He heard the men's shouts and the bullets whistling singly or in bursts over his head; but he was now lying stretched on the ground behind a heap of stones at the roadside, under cover. It was a long heap, and he could move about, peep over at some unexpected point, see the gleam on the barrels of the soldiers' weapons, the gray and glittering parts of their uniforms, shoot at a stripe, a badge. Then he'd drop back to the ground and slide quickly over to another side to fire. After a bit he heard bursts from behind him firing over his head and hitting the soldiers; these were his comrades coming to reinforce him with machine guns. "If that boy hadn't woken us with his shots ..." they were saying.

Covered by his comrades' fire, the boy could take better aim. Suddenly a bullet grazed one of his cheeks. He turned; a soldier had reached the road above him. He flung himself into a hole under cover, but had fired meanwhile and hit not the soldier but the rifle, by the bolt. He heard the soldier trying to reload, then fling the gun on the ground. The boy looked out then and fired at the soldier, who'd taken to his heels; the bullet tore off a shoulder strap.

He followed. Every now and again the soldier vanished in the wood, then reappeared. The boy nipped off the top of his helmet, then a strap on his belt. Meanwhile they had reached a remote valley where the sound of battle didn't reach. Suddenly the soldier found there were no more woods in front of him, only a glade, with thick bushy slopes. The boy was just coming out of the wood now; in the middle of the glade was a big rock; the soldier just had time to crouch down behind it, with his head between his knees. There for the moment he felt safe; he had some hand grenades with him and the boy could get no nearer, but could only keep the rock covered in case the soldier tried to escape. If only, thought the soldier, he could make a run for the bushes and slide down the thickly covered slope. But that bare space had to be crossed —how long would the boy stay there? And would he never lower that gun?

The soldier decided to make a test; he put his helmet on the point of his bayonet and hoisted it slightly above the rock. A shot rang out and the helmet rolled to the ground, pierced through.

The soldier did not lose heart; it was obviously easy to aim at the edges of the rock, but if he moved quickly it should be impossible to hit him. At that moment a bird winged

quickly across the sky, a pigeon perhaps. One shot and it fell. The soldier dried the sweat on his neck. Another bird passed, a thrush; that fell, too. The soldier swallowed saliva. This must be a place of passage; birds went on flying overhead, all of them different, and the boy went on shooting and bringing them down. An idea came to the soldier: "If he is watching the birds he won't be watching me so much. The second he fires I'll run for it." But perhaps it would be better to make a test first. He took up the helmet again and put it back on the point of his bayonet, ready. Two birds passed together, snipe. The soldier was sorry to waste such a good opportunity for the test, but he did not dare risk it yet. The boy fired at one of the snipe, then the soldier pushed up the helmet, heard the shot and saw the helmet whirl in the air.

Now the soldier felt a taste of lead in his mouth; he scarcely noticed the other bird falling at a new shot. He must not hurry things, anyway; he was safe behind that rock, with his grenades. And why not try and get him with a grenade, while staying under cover? He stretched back on the ground, drew his arm out behind him, taking care not to show himself, gathered up all his strength and threw the grenade. A good effort; it would have gone a long way; but in the middle of its flight a shot exploded it in mid-air. The soldier flung himself on the ground to avoid the shrapnel.

When he raised his head the crow had come. It was wheeling slowly around in the sky above him. Was it a crow? he wondered. Now the boy would be certain to shoot it down. But the shot seemed to be a long time in coming. Perhaps the crow was flying too high? And yet he had hit other birds flying higher and faster. Finally there was a shot; now the crow would fall, but no, it went on flying around in slow impassive

turns. A pine cone fell though, from a tree nearby. Was he beginning to shoot at pine cones now? One by one other pine cones were hit and fell with little thuds. At every shot the soldier looked at the crow; was he falling? No, the black bird was making lower and lower turns above him. Surely it was impossible the boy hadn't seen it? Perhaps the crow did not exist? Perhaps it was a hallucination of his? Perhaps when one is about to die one sees every kind of bird pass; when one sees the crow it means one's time has come. He must warn the boy, who was still going on firing at the pine cones. So the soldier got to his feet and pointed at the black bird. "There's a crow!" he shouted in his own language. The bullet hit him in the middle of an eagle with spread wings embroidered on his tunic.