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was cupping the orange rope wick with the palm of one hand. Then the goatherd made a gesture that the boy would often see him make in the weeks to come. With the tips of thumb and index finger he wiped away the saliva from the corners of his mouth. Then he did the same with just his index finger, as if to smooth aside any hairs from his unruly moustache.
    â€˜Sit down, it’s time to eat.’
    The man pointed to a spot near his feet, and the boy did as he was told. For a while, the goatherd continued flicking the wheel of his rope lighter and unsuccessfully blowing on the wick. The boy watched in silence, mouth half-open, astonished at the old man’s inepitude, for sometimes he missed the wheel altogether or failed to strike it hard enough. The boy’s hands began moving of their own accord because he had often used such a lighter himself.
    When the old man finally managed to light the cigarette and take his first few puffs, he rested his free hand on the ground and relaxed his shoulders as if he had just completed a very necessary task. He pursed his lips and whistled, and the dog got up and ran to the place where the goats were already beginning to stir. The dog immediately rounded up a group of brown goats and brought them over to where the man was sitting. Without even getting up, the man used his crook to hook a goat round one of its hind legs and drag it towards him. Then, keeping a firm grip on the animal with one hand, he pushed the blanket aside and drew in his legs. The boy watched this manoeuvre, surprised at the old man’s sudden show of agility, given that only a moment before, it had taken him an age simply to light a cigarette. When the goatherd had the rear end of the goat in front of him, he placed a metal saucepan underneath its udders. The first drops fell, tinkling, into the pan. When he had enough milk, he gave the goat a slap and it skittered off to rejoin its fellows. Then he held out the pan to the boy, but when the boy didn’t move, he set it down on the ground and continued smoking his cigarette.
    They sat in silence, gnawing on wedges of greasy cheese, strips of dried meat and a little stale bread. The goatherd took long swigs from his wineskin, and the boy wondered when the man would ask who he was and what he was doing there. He was afraid that news of his disappearance might also have reached this part of the plain, because he was all too aware that, however arduous his adventure had proved up until now, he was still not that far from the village. At one point, it occurred to him that the old man’s welcome could be a trick to hold him there while he waited for the search party or even for the bailiff himself to arrive. In that case, he knew exactly what he would do. He would run back to the clump of prickly pears and crouch down among them. The horses would paw the ground around the cactus spines, but would not dare to come near. If the search party wanted to take him home, they would have to drag him out. They would have to risk tearing their shirts and getting scratched or else, still mounted, riddle him with bullets and then, finally, kill the only witness.
    When the old man had finished his breakfast, he reached into a pannier and brought out a crumpled sheet of newspaper. He used this to wrap up some food and then offered the package to the boy, who sat staring back at him. When the goatherd grew tired of holding out his arm, he did as he had with the saucepan of milk, and put the package down on the ground. He stowed the rest of the food in the pannier and again asked the boy to help him up. The boy went over and it was only then that he became aware of the mixture of aromas emanating from the man’s body: the sickly aura of wine that hung around his head and mouth and the stench of dried sweat given off by his leathery skin. When the man stood up, he wasn’t much taller than the boy. His trousers were tied around the waist with a piece of string, and his