He expends himself in a frenzy of scratching.
The sky darkens. It begins to rain and he takes refuge in the automobile. The front window of the automobile becomes so streaked and marbled with drops of water that he has difficulty seeing through them to the road. As the rain grows to a steady downpour, he wonders: His uncle said nothing about the machine’s ability to operate in the rain. He does not trust it to stay on the road. He will wait the rain out.
Dusk and then darkness come on like a miasma. In his sleep, stagecoaches are galloping down on him from all directions. He is cold. His feet protrude over the edge of the driving compartment and the rain soaks them. Itchiness periodically rouses him.
In the morning the rain is still coming down. He is too chilled to want to wash in it. He no more than wets a hand to wipe his face. His only comfort comes from remembering that Father Ulisses was plagued by rain on the island. There, it deluged with such insistence that minds became unhinged. By comparison, what is this mild European drizzle?
On this deserted road, only the odd peasant appears, inevitably stopping for an extended conversation. Some arrive along the road, alone or pulling a donkey, while others come off the land itself, peasant lords working their tiny fiefdoms. None of them seems to mind the rain.
From one peasant to the next, the reaction is the same. They inspect the vehicle’s wheels, finding them dainty and small. They peer at the side mirrors, finding them ingenious. They gaze at the machine’s controls, finding them intimidating. They stare at the machine’s engine, finding it unfathomable. Each deems the whole a marvel.
Only one, a shepherd, seems to have no interest in the contraption. “Can I sit with you for a while?” he asks. “I am cold and wet.”
Already his sheep are surrounding the vehicle, held hostage there by a small dog that races around and yips incessantly. The sheeps’ bleating is constant and grating. Tomás nods to the man, who walks around to the other side of the vehicle and clambers in next to him in the driving compartment.
Tomás wishes that he would speak, but the crusty man says not a word, only gazes ahead. Minutes go by. The silence is framed by the steady hiss of the rain, the bleating of the sheep, and the yipping of the dog.
Finally it is Tomás who speaks. “Let me tell you why I’m travelling. It’s been a difficult journey so far. I’m searching for a lost treasure. I’ve spent a year determining where it might be — and now I know. Or I nearly know. I’m close. When I find it, I’ll take it to the National Museum of Ancient Art in Lisbon, but it would be worthy of a great museum in Paris or London. The thing in question, it’s — well, I can’t tell you what it is, but it’s an impressive object. People will stare at it, their mouths open. It will cause an uproar. With this object I’ll give God His comeuppance for what He did to the ones I love.”
The old rube’s sole response is to glance at him and nod. Otherwise, only the sheep seem to appreciate his momentous confession, with a blast of wavering baahs. The flock is no creamy billow of fluffy sheepdom. These creatures have bony faces, bulging eyes, ragged fleeces, and rear ends caked with excrement.
“Tell me,” he asks the shepherd, “what do you think of animals?”
The shepherd once again glances at him, but this time he speaks. “What animals?”
“Well, these, for example,” Tomás replies. “What do you think of your sheep?”
At length the man says, “They are my living.”
Tomás thinks for a moment. “Yes, your living. You make a profound point there. Without your sheep, you would have no livelihood, you would die. This dependency creates a sort of equality, doesn’t it? Not individually, but collectively. As a group, you and your sheep are at opposite ends of a seesaw, and somewhere in between there is a fulcrum. You must maintain the balance. In that sense, we are no better than they.”
The man says not a word in response. At that moment Tomás is overcome by ravenous itchiness. It’s all over his body now. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to,” he says to the shepherd. He makes his way back along the footboard to the cabin. From the cabin, through the wide window, the back of the shepherd’s head is plainly visible. Thrashing and twisting on the sofa, Tomás battles itchiness, digging hard with his fingernails at his insect tormentors. The gratification is intense. The shepherd never turns around.
To block out the rain, Tomás covers the shattered door window with a blanket, securing the blanket to the frame by closing the door on it. The rain becomes a monotonous drumming on the roof. Amidst the scattered supplies he makes a space for himself on the leather sofa, covers himself with another blanket, and curls up tightly…
He wakes with a start. He has no idea if he has slept five or fifty-five minutes. The rain is still falling. But the shepherd is gone. Peering through the machine’s rain-streaked windows, he can see a hazy grey shape up ahead on the road — it is the flock of sheep. He opens the cabin door and stands on the footboard. The shepherd is in the middle of his flock, looking as if he is walking on a cloud. The dog is flitting about as it did earlier, but Tomás can no longer hear it. The flock moves down the road, then flows off to one side of it, taking a path into the countryside.
Through the rain Tomás watches the flock get smaller and smaller. Just as it begins to disappear beyond a ridge, the shepherd, a black dot now, stops and turns. Is he checking for a lost sheep? Is he looking back at him? Tomás waves vigorously. He can’t tell if the man has noticed his farewell. The black dot vanishes.
He returns to the driving compartment. There is a small package on the passenger seat. Wrapped in cloth are a piece of bread, a chunk of white cheese, and a tiny sealed earthen jar of honey. A Christmas gift? When is Christmas, exactly? Four days away? He realizes he’s losing track of the days. At any rate, what a kindness on the part of the shepherd. He is touched. He eats. It tastes so good! He can’t remember ever having eaten such savoury bread, such flavourful cheese, such delicious honey.
The rain stops and the sky clears. While waiting for the wintry sunshine to dry the road, he lubricates the machine with drops of oil. Then, impatiently, he sets off. When he reaches the edge of the small town of Arez, he enters it on foot. He is pleased to find a proper apothecary.
“I’ll buy your whole stock. I have horses that are badly infested with lice,” he informs the man behind the counter once he has produced the usual small bottle of moto-naphtha.
“You might want to try Hipolito, the blacksmith,” the apothecary says.
“Why would he have any of the stuff?”
“Horses are his concern, including horses badly infested with lice, I would think. And what about your feet?”
“My feet?”
“Yes. What’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing’s wrong with my feet. Why would anything be wrong with them?”
“I saw the way you were walking.”
“My feet are perfectly healthy.”
Walking backwards through the village on his perfectly healthy feet, Tomás finds Hipolito’s smithy down a lane. He is astonished to discover that the blacksmith has an enormous barrel of moto-naphtha. Tomás is dizzy with joy. The supply will not only glut the automobile with fuel but will also soothe his ravaged body.
“My good man, I’ll buy lots of it. I have twelve horses that are badly infested with lice.”
“Oh, you don’t want to use this stuff on horses. That would be doing them a great disservice. It’s very harsh on the skin. You need a powder that you’ll mix with water.”
“Why then do you have so much moto-naphtha? What’s it for?”