frightened.
“Tell me, Samba Diallo,” he ventured, “what is a Diallobé?”
He had spoken for the sake of saying something. The enchantment was shattered. Samba Diallo burst out laughing.
“Ah, they have been talking to you about me.… A Diallobé.… Well, my family, the Dialloubé, belong to the Diallobé people. We come from the banks of a great river. Our country is also called the Diallobé. I am the only one from this country in M. N’Diaye’s class. They take advantage of that to joke about me.”
“If you are a Diallobé, why didn’t you stay in the Diallobé country?”
“And you, why did you leave Pau?”
Jean was embarrassed. But Samba Diallo went on at once:
“This is where I live, it is where I live all the time. It is true that I should have preferred to stay in the country, but my father lives here.”
“He is a big man, your father. He is a bigger man than mine.”
“Yes, he is a very big man.”
While they were talking twilight had fallen. The golden rays had thinned out a little, and the purple had turned to pink. Along their lower edges the clouds had become a frozen blue. The sun had disappeared, but already in the east the moon had risen, and it, too, shed a light. One could see that the ambient light was made up of the paling rose from the sun, the milky whiteness from the moon, and also the peaceful penumbra of a night which was felt to be imminent.
“Excuse me, Jean,” said Samba Diallo. “It is twilight, and I must pray.”
He rose, turned toward the east, lifted his arms, withhis hands open, and slowly let them fall. His voice echoed in the quiet air. Jean did not dare to walk around his companion in order to see his face, but it seemed to him that this voice was no longer his. Samba Diallo remained motionless. Nothing in him was alive except this voice, speaking in the twilight a language which Jean did not understand. Then his long white caftan—turned violet now by the evening light—was swept through by a kind of shiver, which grew more pronounced in measure as the voice was rising. The shiver became a tremor which shook his entire body, and the voice turned to a sob. To the east the sky was like an immense lilac-colored crystal.
Jean did not know how long he remained there, held fascinated by Samba Diallo weeping under the sky. He never knew how much time was consumed by this pathetic and beautiful death of the day. He only regained consciousness of his surroundings when he heard the sound of footsteps not far away. He raised his head and saw the knight of the dalmatic, who came toward him, smiling, and held out his hand to help him get up. Samba Diallo was crouched on the ground, his head lowered, his body still trembling. The knight knelt down, took his son by the shoulders, set him on his feet, and smiled at him. Through his tears Samba Diallo smiled back, a bright smile. With a fold of his boubou the knight wiped the boy’s face, very tenderly.
They conducted Jean, in silence, back to the marl street, then they retraced their steps to go to their own home. In the moonlight the street had the white sheen of lilies. Jean had watched the two figures disappearing in the distance, holding each other by the hand, then, slowly, he had gone back to his own house.
That night, thinking of Samba Diallo, he was overcome by fear. But that happened very late, when everyone had retired and Jean was alone, in his bed. That twilight’s violence and splendor were not the cause of Samba Diallo’s tears. Why had he wept?
For a long time the little boy was haunted by the two faces, of the father and the son. They continued to obsess him, until the moment when he sank into sleep.
* Thursday is the holiday in French schools. Tr.
6
AS SAMBA DIALLO AND HIS FATHER WALKED down the long road the boy remained silent, as did his father also. They walked slowly, each holding the other’s hand. Samba Diallo’s agitation had quieted down. At last he spoke:
“Have you news of the
“Tell me, Samba Diallo,” he ventured, “what is a Diallobé?”
He had spoken for the sake of saying something. The enchantment was shattered. Samba Diallo burst out laughing.
“Ah, they have been talking to you about me.… A Diallobé.… Well, my family, the Dialloubé, belong to the Diallobé people. We come from the banks of a great river. Our country is also called the Diallobé. I am the only one from this country in M. N’Diaye’s class. They take advantage of that to joke about me.”
“If you are a Diallobé, why didn’t you stay in the Diallobé country?”
“And you, why did you leave Pau?”
Jean was embarrassed. But Samba Diallo went on at once:
“This is where I live, it is where I live all the time. It is true that I should have preferred to stay in the country, but my father lives here.”
“He is a big man, your father. He is a bigger man than mine.”
“Yes, he is a very big man.”
While they were talking twilight had fallen. The golden rays had thinned out a little, and the purple had turned to pink. Along their lower edges the clouds had become a frozen blue. The sun had disappeared, but already in the east the moon had risen, and it, too, shed a light. One could see that the ambient light was made up of the paling rose from the sun, the milky whiteness from the moon, and also the peaceful penumbra of a night which was felt to be imminent.
“Excuse me, Jean,” said Samba Diallo. “It is twilight, and I must pray.”
He rose, turned toward the east, lifted his arms, withhis hands open, and slowly let them fall. His voice echoed in the quiet air. Jean did not dare to walk around his companion in order to see his face, but it seemed to him that this voice was no longer his. Samba Diallo remained motionless. Nothing in him was alive except this voice, speaking in the twilight a language which Jean did not understand. Then his long white caftan—turned violet now by the evening light—was swept through by a kind of shiver, which grew more pronounced in measure as the voice was rising. The shiver became a tremor which shook his entire body, and the voice turned to a sob. To the east the sky was like an immense lilac-colored crystal.
Jean did not know how long he remained there, held fascinated by Samba Diallo weeping under the sky. He never knew how much time was consumed by this pathetic and beautiful death of the day. He only regained consciousness of his surroundings when he heard the sound of footsteps not far away. He raised his head and saw the knight of the dalmatic, who came toward him, smiling, and held out his hand to help him get up. Samba Diallo was crouched on the ground, his head lowered, his body still trembling. The knight knelt down, took his son by the shoulders, set him on his feet, and smiled at him. Through his tears Samba Diallo smiled back, a bright smile. With a fold of his boubou the knight wiped the boy’s face, very tenderly.
They conducted Jean, in silence, back to the marl street, then they retraced their steps to go to their own home. In the moonlight the street had the white sheen of lilies. Jean had watched the two figures disappearing in the distance, holding each other by the hand, then, slowly, he had gone back to his own house.
That night, thinking of Samba Diallo, he was overcome by fear. But that happened very late, when everyone had retired and Jean was alone, in his bed. That twilight’s violence and splendor were not the cause of Samba Diallo’s tears. Why had he wept?
For a long time the little boy was haunted by the two faces, of the father and the son. They continued to obsess him, until the moment when he sank into sleep.
* Thursday is the holiday in French schools. Tr.
6
AS SAMBA DIALLO AND HIS FATHER WALKED down the long road the boy remained silent, as did his father also. They walked slowly, each holding the other’s hand. Samba Diallo’s agitation had quieted down. At last he spoke:
“Have you news of the
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