The pickup truck drove down the dirt road, leaving a trail of nuts and bolts behind it. Artemio coughed, struggling to see where he was headed. A cloud of dust filled the cabin: the driver’s window had no glass. Every time the wheel fell into a pothole, Artemio’s head hit the roof and soon he had a headache. When he saw the dark mass on the side of the road, he drove past it, thinking it was a dead dog. It was not until much later that he began to wonder, hit the brakes and turned back.

 

The man lying in the dust wore a helmet with a crest and a short pleated tunic that was once white but was now soiled, ripped and speckled with blood from the cuts of thistles in his legs. On the ground near him were a wooden spear with a metal tip and a heavy round shield. He was snoring and his breath smelled of alcohol.

 

Artemio did not try to wake him up. He sat on a rock and scratched his head for a long time. Perhaps the stranger had been on his way back from a costume party when highwaymen had robbed him, beaten him up and taken his car. It was not a plausible explana¬tion: not only had there been no sightings of highwaymen for over a century, but also it happened to be August. Artemio had never heard of a carnival in summer. While he observed the sleeping man in the hope that he would wake up and reveal his secret himself, he could not but admire his armour. His helmet was made of hammered bronze, was shaped so that it covered the neck and most of the face and had a crest of white horsehair. Artemio bent down next to the shield. It was so heavy that he had to use both hands to lift it. As soon as he turned it over, he let out a cry: its face was decorated with a Gorgon head. The shield landed in the dirt with a dull sound, raising a cloud of dust. Artemio had seen enough. It was time to wake up the man and demand an explanation.

 

But it was impossible. The stranger was so drunk and so stupefied from the heat of August that even after Artemio had poured over him the whole jerrycan of water he always carried to top up the leaking radiator, he did not open his eyes. If he let him lie there the man was liable to die of sunstroke, Artemio thought. He raised his head and contemplated the horizon that was broken only by the crests of the hills, like jagged glass in a smashed window. Thorn bushes grew on the hills. Through the plain, where once had run a noisy river, was now a dry channel. As a child Artemio had been told how God was still working here when the Sabbath had come and He had to pack up His chisel, His shovel and His divine pickaxe and go home. It was there the Almighty had intended to create a true heaven on Earth, but rather than paradise the place would forever seem like a construction site.

 

Artemio liked it. He liked the sun and the moon, which he doubted whether he would be able to see if he lived elsewhere, he liked the peacefulness of his village and the emptiness of the plain, and he liked that he knew everyone who lived all round and he could tell whom to respect and whom to fear. Whenever a plane traced a trail of vapour in the sky, he craned his neck and looked at it with bafflement, but it never crossed his mind to follow it. He was happy.

 

A hawk flew over his head and let out a cry. Artemio decided there was only one thing he could do: take the man back to the village. He spat in his palms, rolled the shield to his truck and lifted it with an effort that made his back hurt. He threw the spear next to it and went to fetch the sleeping man. He, at least, was lighter than he appeared to be. Artemio laid him on the floor of his pickup truck that smelled of rubbish, hoping the stranger would not mind, considering the circumstances.

 

The truck was the property of the municipality. Artemio was only employed to dispose of the village waste. Until recently he had simply scattered this at random across the plain. Then he had discovered a narrow ravine, and had begun to drive there to dump in the rubbish. He was on his way back to the village from just such a mission when he had chanced upon the drunken man.

 

He shut the tailboard and sat at the wheel. While he drove back to the village, he wondered what Magda would say when he showed her his strange find. Every few minutes he turned his head and had a peek at the back through the window, as if he could not believe that the man lying on the floor next to a shield and a spear was really there. But he was, and he was not making the slightest move unless the truck took a sharp bend or hit one of the potholes, which had never been filled no matter how many election promises the mayor had given.

 

As soon as he entered the village, he headed for the coffee shop, blowing the horn of the truck as he went. It was the hour of the afternoon rest and the small village drifted on in silence. Only a few dogs paid him attention, lifting their muzzles and giving him an indifferent look. Artemio stopped in front of the coffee shop and pulled the handbrake. While driving he had been excited and cheerful, but now his palms began to sweat and he had to take deep breaths in order not to faint. With as much dread as anticipation, he looked at the door of the coffee shop where Magda worked as a waitress. She was the love of his life. He had loved her for six years and eight months, yet she had no idea of his secret. Several times Artemio had come to the coffee shop with the intention of declaring his feelings, but the only words that came out were orders for a cup of coffee or a shot of brandy.

 

He checked behind his shoulder. The stranger in the tunic was sleeping with his hands crossed over his lap. Artemio then looked himself in the mirror, flattened his hair, buttoned up his shirt and, with a deep breath, jumped out of the truck.

 

It was cool inside the coffee shop. Magda was sweeping the floor. The canary in the cage on the wall was awake but was not singing. It was listening to the humming of the refrigerator at the back. Artemio took a seat and prepared to reveal the news. ‘Ever since we bought that freezer the bird has turned mute,’ the woman said. ‘It has fallen in love with the fan of its motor.’ Artemio said nothing. Magda bent down and swept the dust into the dustpan. When she stood straight again, she looked at her only client and smiled. ‘And how are you today, Artemio?’ Artemio swallowed. He stared at the dustpan, half expecting to see his heart among the dirt. Slowly, his courage and determination drained away. ‘Can I have a gaseosa, please?’ he asked.

 

Magda brought him his drink and continued her work. They were both silent until Magda forgot Artemio was even there and he forgot there was a man in the back of his truck. It was only when the first evening customer walked in and announced that a man was sleeping in the back of the refuse truck that Artemio remembered his discovery. ‘You won’t believe your eyes,’ he said. ‘I don’t need my eyes,’ the other costumer said. ‘My nose says he stinks of alcohol.’