Yann Martel - The High Mountains of Portugal

Tomás is assailed by doubt. Is his own quest “a reach for pregnancy”? He imagines that Gaspar would be taken by Father Ulisses’ gift, given his childish sensibility, but he doubts Dora would approve. That has always tormented him, that in the service of frank truth, he would do something that would upset her. But the treasure exists! He is only bringing to light what is already there. He pleads with Dora in his mind, begs for her forgiveness. It is an elevation of all creation, my love. No, no, there is no desecration. But he knows Dora would not believe him, that he would lose the argument. He still does not dare to halt the machine, so he weeps and drives at the same time.

Outside the village of Atalaia, he finally stops. He climbs on a mudguard to assess the damage done to the roof of the machine. The sight is dispiriting. There is an enormous dent caused by the thrown chest. And the whip, expertly deployed, has done its own extensive damage. The bright burgundy paint of the roof is veined with cracks. Great chips of it are ready to come off. When he looks inside the cabin, he sees that the cedar panels of the ceiling have split and jut out, like broken bones.

He walks into Atalaia, looking for moto-naphtha. He finds a small shop that sells a bit of everything. After he lists the various sobriquets of the fuel, the shop owner nods her head and produces a small bottle. He asks for more. The shop owner is surprised. But what! An automobile doesn’t run on mere cupfuls of sustenance. An automobile is an insatiable fiend. He gets all she has: two bottles.

Back at the automobile, as he is feeding the hungry beast the bottles of moto-naphtha he has gathered so far, he casually inspects an empty bottle’s label. He starts. A lice and flea product! Guaranteed to kill all vermin and their eggs in a pitiless fashion, the label claims. Apply liberally. Do not ingest. KEEP AWAY FROM FLAMES.

Could the shop owners and apothecaries not have asked him why he needed so many bottles of the foul liquid? What he bought as fuel for the machine, they sold as a parasite killer. They thought he was a tornado of vermin, with a civilization of lice, fleas, and whatnot dancing upon his head. No wonder they looked at him askance. He holds still. But of course. Of course. There is no other explanation. The shop owners and apothecaries are right. He is itchy all over, in a manner that is absolutely maddening, precisely because he is a tornado of vermin, with a civilization of lice, fleas, and whatnot dancing upon his head.

He looks at his other hand. The bottle he is holding upside down has just gurgled itself empty. It was his last bottle. How many did he have? Fifteen or so. He’s had bottles of the stuff practically since the beginning of his trip, clinking away in the cabin, besides a whole barrel of it. Now he has none of it, or none that he can get to. He grabs the tank’s small round opening as if he could stretch it out. He can’t. Between his suffering and its relief — a bathtub of it — there lies a narrow doorway that will not open.

He wonders, Who touched me? Who touched my clothes? Who passed on the infestation? The point of contact must have been either in Póvoa de Santa Iria or Ponte de Sor. In both places he rubbed shoulders — indeed, he rubbed against entire bodies — while rescuing the machine from the surrounding masses.

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.