趕集日 Market Day

– 顧裕光 譯 ２010年十二月

大衛·赫伯特·勞倫斯 （D. H. Lawrence, 1885- 1930) 是20世紀重要的文學家，作品包括小說、散文、戲劇、詩歌。最為人熟知、也最具爭議性的，是他的幾部小說：《兒子與情人》（1913)，《戀愛中的女人》 （1920），和《查泰萊夫人的情人》（1928）。
這篇《趕集日》，是勞倫斯旅遊散文集《墨西哥的清晨》（192７）裡的一篇。

這是耶誕節前最後一個星期六。明年可一定有好運道，大家如此揣測。今年就要過去了。一早起風了，吹動著樹葉，朝陽從金色的雲層裡透出來，片刻間灑在中庭牆外的黃花上，灑在搖曳生姿的絣紅色的九重葛上，灑在怒放的艷紅的聖誕紅上。聖誕紅的花大而奪目，紅得不帶一絲污垢。墨西哥人叫它「聖夜」，耶誕夜花。一叢叢深紅花瓣，像是一群紅鳥抖擻羽毛，沐浴在晨風裡。用它來裝點耶誕，不用冬青漿果。耶誕節似乎該用紅花來作前導。

絲蘭樹高過屋頂，它也開花了，垂掛著手臂長的奶黃色鐘形花朵，像是一長串泡沫吹成的葡萄。蠟質的小鈴鐺一般的花朵，被風吹離枝梗，悄沒聲兒地飄落。

咖啡豆也轉紅了。玫瑰色的扶桑花在淡紅色的細嫩枝芽上隨風搖曳。

第二進庭院裡有一棵高瘦的刺槐，樹頂綻放著白色的手指狀的花朵，赤裸裸直逼藍天。這些手指一般的花，隨著樹梢在風中捲動，像是在空蕩的藍天裡畫圈圈。

早上顯得不安寧，雲層低掛，在天空磨蹭。萬物都動蕩不定，既如此，倒該像老鷹一樣出去兜幾個圈兒。

萬物都像是打一個圓心點縈迴：層雲、圍繞谷地的山脈、飛升的塵埃、龐大優美的加比朗白斑鳶、乃至於白樴樹如雪片般飄落的花瓣。連巨大聳立的管風琴仙人掌和燭台仙人掌，都像是緩緩繞著圓心盤旋、逼近。

說不準為什麼我們會採用直線式的思考，自然界可沒有一條直線。何苦奢言「正道」？遲早所有的航道都會橫轉，繞向圓心。太空是弧形的，宇宙是穹蒼裡的穹蒼，從一點到另一點的方法，是沿著必然無可避過的曲線，像是鳶鳥把巨翅末梢提升些許，彷彿是半個橢圓的弧線浮升在空中。如果我能作主，我會選擇順著弧線，繞向圓心。斬斫出來的直線，有違自然法則。

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灰煙像幽靈般地隨著谷地，沿路而來。谷底的乾草地像細嫩皮膚般地在陽光裡閃著黃赭色的微光，橫灑過群山暗影。黯藍色半透明的煙嵐，陰鬱地由駝峰般的山頭沈下。重重皺褶的墨西哥山脈，靜默不語。

遠處瓦亞帕山村的緩坡上，叢叢樹林有如湖泊。這是星期六，像是白色斑點的漢子，隨著健步的黑驢子，從駝峰間的山徑走下，婦人騎坐在驢背籐籃之間，只見她的頭上下點動。星期六，趕集日，所以一大清早，這一群白點般的人，如同田間的沙鷗，白樴樹上綻放的火花，趕起在山谷裡起伏的黃土坡地上。

他們穿著雪白的棉布衫，用印地安人的小碎步，跟著驢子，舉膝前行。女人高坐驢背上巨大的籐籃之間，嬰兒安穩地兜在她棕赭的胸脯前。女孩兒及踝的棉布長裙，沾了塵土，跟著驢子的快步，連奔帶跑。他們或是一家大小，或是成群結隊，或是單獨一人，潮水一般，赤腳無聲走下山來，走向市鎮。鎮上教堂的圓頂突破聳立的綠樹穹空，背對著黃土山坡。

一條筆直大路，出現在山谷和市鎮之間。你不會錯過那股高聳移動的塵煙，超越所有的人，不停步地趕向鎮上。塵煙幽靈般地趕過那串不起眼的黑色的畜牲、和白斑點似的人，往鎮上飛奔。

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山谷裡農村來的莊稼人，和從山巔來的印地安土著，帶著他們的土貨，如朝聖者一般，夾著塵沙，匆匆趕向鎮上。黑耳朵的驢子和快步的男人、婦女和男女孩童，邁著小蹄子遛步而行的驢子，兩個籐籃裝滿番茄和瓠瓜，兩個網籃裝滿氣球形狀的陶壺，兩捆乾淨利落砍下的薪材，香煙一樣紮得整整齊齊，兩個網袋的木炭。驢子騾子，一路走來，載滿的土貨顛打在細腿畜牲身側。一個小驢子空手跟在負重貨的母親身後，一個身著白衣涼鞋的男人，以印地安人輕悄快步跟上，腳步靈巧的女孩兒又跑了起來。

舉步向前，彷彿踏風疾行。牛車在步行者之間慢慢移動，堅實的車輪承載重負。緩行的牛低垂著頭，鼻尖幾乎觸地，牛頭左右搖晃，牛角擺盪像是扭動的蛇，實木枷軛像杓子般深深陷入頸項。向前，走在枯乾草地和高聳碧綠的管風琴仙人掌之間。走過岩石和白樴樹飄落的花朵，走過飛蓬般的野豆叢。漫天塵土，用比誰都快的速度沿路而來，一片混沌，再一次席捲掩沒了渺小的人影。

這些矮小的人是查波泰克族：身材短小，挺胸闊步，精力充沛地在塵土中前進。沈靜矮小，圓滾頭顱的女人赤腳奔走，繫緊繞過雙肩的藍披巾，多半有個嬰兒兜在裡面。男人的白布衫，白得讓大帽子下面的臉消失在黑影中。棉布衫下的黝暗，黑夜般的臉龐，迅捷無聲，以無限精力向市鎮前進。

許多山裡來的賽拉諾印地安人，直挺的肩膀，頭戴著過夜也沒脫下的錐形黑色小氈帽。有些從遠處來的，戴著黑帽，穿著黑色包腳涼鞋，昨天已經走了整天。明天打道回府，他們黑黝黝臉上的眼睛還會是一樣黑亮不馴。他們沒有即定目標，像天上飛鷹，沒有預設路線，閒散如雲。

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市場是個龐大的棚蓋建築，你從鄰街走過，市集裡發出異乎尋常的的鼎沸聲浪。這嘈雜的聲音雖大，你卻或許從沒注意過。這聲音像是世上所有的幽魂，聚在市場的灰暗角落，用啾啾鬼語互話。這聲音彷彿細雨，又像是風吹蕉葉。黝黑的印地安人，熙熙攘壤，壓低了聲音，用輕悄的腳步湧進市場。查波泰克方言的獨特音調，和西班牙話、米西泰克人的側耳細語相互交錯。

這是做買賣，但更要緊的是相聚交往。古老世界的人，發明了兩個理由來自由無拘地聚集：市集與宗教。亙古以來，這兩件寶讓人和平相聚。一把薪材，一方織巾，幾個雞蛋和蕃茄，就足以讓男女老少跋山越嶺而來。你買我賣，以物易物，交流兌換。比銀貨尤為要緊的，是人際的交接。

就為此，小販樂意和你為一兩個銅鈑討價還價。棚蓋市場的中心水池邊是花市：一叢叢紅、白、粉色玫瑰，雜色的康乃馨，罌粟花，飛燕草，嫩綠鵝黃的金盞花，含苞待放的聖母百合，紫羅蘭和幾株勿忘我。沒有熱帶花，只有山裡來的野百合和淡紫紅的蘭花。

「這一把天芥花多少錢？」

「 十五個銅鈑。」

「十個銅鈑。」

「十五。」

你放下櫻桃色的天芥花，走開。婦人倒不在意，這樣短短地交手讓她卯上了勁。

「粉紅的？」

「那紅色的，您？三十個銅鈑。」

「我不要紅的。那雜色的。」

「啊！」婦人抓了一把雜色的康乃馨，仔細地放好。「瞧！要不多些？」

「不要。多少錢？」

「一樣，三十個銅鈑。」

「這麼貴？」

「小姐，一點也不貴。您看這一把就要八個銅鈑。」她指著一小把垂頭喪氣的花。「好吧，二十五個銅鈑。」

「不！二十二。」

「瞧！」她抓起那一小把花，隨手加上三四朵。「這要兩個銀洋哪，小姐。」

這是公平交易。你帶走一叢芬菲的粉紅，賣花婦多了一個人際交接，和一個純然陌生人交會。不同的口音交織，不同的意願交錯。這是生命，銅鈑只是個楔子。

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攤子一路擺開，右手邊是葱翠的蔬菜，左手邊是麵包和甜餅。稍遠是乳酪、奶油、蛋、雞、火雞、肉類，另一頭是當地的毯子、女用披巾、裙子、襯衫、手帕。攤子底是涼鞋和皮貨。

賣披毯的小販窺見你，用烈鳥般地哨聲招呼你，「先生，先生，您瞧！」他奮力甩開一張耀眼的披毯，另一個販子吹更尖銳刺耳的口哨，吸引你去看他的披毯。披毯販子鋪開一地的毯子，點明了是狼門虎穴。你搖搖頭，趕緊脫身。

卻發現陷身在皮貨攤。

「先生，先生，您瞧！精織涼鞋，上等手工。您瞧瞧！」

這個胖皮貨販子跳起來，把一雙皮涼鞋握在胸前。涼鞋是用細條牛皮密織，最新的巴黎款式，但是對當地人而言，這是祖宗的老骨董。你把鞋子拿在手裡端詳，胖皮匠的胖太太在一旁打邊鼓，「上等手工，一點不馬虎！」

皮匠總把太太帶在身邊。

「多少錢？」

「二十塊錢。」

「二十！」你驚訝、憤慨地說。

「你出多少錢？」

你可不願回答，卻把鞋子湊近鼻子。皮匠望著太太，相對大笑。

「真嗆鼻！」你說。

「一點不嗆，先生！」兩人又笑得不可開交。

「可嗆得很！這不是美國皮貨。」

「這可是美國皮貨，您！一點不嗆，先生。一點不嗆。」他連哄帶騙，直到你不再相信自己的鼻子。

「可真嗆哪！」

「你出多少錢？」

「一毛不付，因為鞋子嗆鼻臭。」

你把鼻子湊近，再嗅一次，雖然很明顯地毫無必要。儘管你不願開價，皮匠夫婦樂得看你痛苦萬狀地嗅鞋子。

你搖搖頭，把鞋子放下。

「你願意付多少？」皮匠好興致地再問一遍。

你神情凝重地搖頭，走開。皮匠和太太對視，又不可扼止地笑起來。因為你說它嗆鼻，卻一而再地嗅這雙涼鞋。

鞋子嗆鼻，沒錯。當地人用人糞制革。當迪亞斯(Bernal Díaz)與高帝斯(Cortés)來到墨西哥，他們看到市場上一排排裝滿人糞的陶壺，皮匠仔細一一聞嗅，要挑最好的來開價。這景觀竟讓十五世紀的西班牙人臉紅。甚而如此，我的皮匠和他太太覺得這是最最令人開心的事，看我一聞再聞這雙涼鞋。萬物皆有其嗅，墨西哥涼鞋自不例外，何苦怪罪洋葱有葱臭。

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這一大群磕頭碰腦、靜默無聲的土著，有些是整齊敏捷，大多是衣衫襤褸，從骯髒稀薄的棉布衫裡透出棕赭的膚色。半開化的山地人，戴著錐形黑色小氈帽，骨碌碌地望著人。他們群集在帽攤，左試右試，久久不能決定。油亮青黑、濃厚稠密的頭髮，鳥羽一般地覆過額頭，讓人連想到青黑髮色的佛陀，臍中生蓮。

市集從早開到晚。當地的廉價小客棧，中庭外圍是狹隘的棚舍和窄小的房間，許多遠道而來的人家，睡在這樣的棚欄般的房裡，更多的人家在市場周圍席地而臥。百多隻驢子圈在中庭裡，垂搭著耳朵，以驢子萬古以來的耐心，比其它畜牲更能了解：迂迴長路不管通往何地，都必彎向同一個中心點，今夜打尖的處所。

夜色將臨，灰土路上儘是曖暗人影，無聲地催促空載的驢子和滿載的騾子，轉身歸回鄉野。他們欣然離鎮，望向仙人掌、皺褶的山脈、和村落的樹叢。在某個村子，他們會躺在樹下、或是傍著牆腳，打發一夜，明天就到家了！

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趕集的目的達到了。他們做了買賣，更要緊的，他們有了片時的接觸，觸及生命的向心力。他們曾是人類巨流的一部份，湧向市集，旋渦的中心。在這裡，他們感受到生命的匯聚，他們和遠地來的陌生人接肩磨腫，他們聽到陌生人的語音，他們甚至與異鄉人有所交接問答。

沒有目標，沒有目的，沒有任何一樣事物是恆久不移的，甚至於教堂的尖塔。教堂尖塔微微傾斜，尋求迴旋的弧線。土著被強有力的漩渦捲進市場。強大的外推力又把他們送回大荒。

短暫交會的火花，除此無它。火花也不存。促然的交融，是唯有的珍寶。得到了，又失去了，僅留下一線蛛絲馬跡。

沒錯，襯衫裡的手帕緊緊包著幾個銅鈑，也許還有幾個銀幣。但是它們也會消失，就像夜星在晨空裡消失，它們注定要消失。萬物注定要消失。所有的弧線消失於漩渦中，短暫地重新浮現，終又再度消失。

只有那純然無法觸摸的，才能有所引動。接觸、交流的火花，那是無法圈繫的。一去不回、千古不絕、無法拘留的、交會時綻發的光芒。

就像黃昏時分的星辰，跨在晝夜之間。就像殘照的星辰，介於太陽和月亮之間，不為任一所動。閃爍中天、向晚的星辰，只有在日夜交替時可見，卻比兩者更玄妙。

D. H. LAWRENCE

Market Day

From Mornings in Mexico, 1927, a collection of eight essays

"That is why they like you to bargain, even if it's only the difference of a centavo."

This is the last Saturday before Christmas. The next year will be momentous, one feels. This year is nearly gone. Dawn was windy, shaking the leaves, and the rising sun shone under a gap of yellow cloud. But at once it touched the yellow flowers that rise above the patio wall, and the swaying, glowing magenta of the bougainvillea, and the fierce red outbursts of the poinsettia. The poinsettia is very splendid, the flowers very big, and of a sure stainless red. They call them Noche Buenas, flowers of Christmas Eve. These tufts throw out their scarlet sharply, like red birds ruffling in the wind of dawn as if going to bathe, all their feathers alert. This for Christmas, instead of holly-berries. Christmas seems to need a red herald.

The yucca is tall, higher than the house. It is, too, in flower, hanging an arm's length of soft creamy bells, like a yard-long grape cluster of foam. And the waxy bells break on their stems in the wind, fall noiselessly from the long creamy bunch, that hardly sways.

The coffee-berries are turning red. The hibiscus flowers, rose-coloured, sway at the tips of the thin branches, in rosettes of soft red.

In the second patio, there is a tall tree of the flimsy acacia sort. Above itself it puts up whitish fingers of flowers, naked on the blue sky. And in the wind these fingers of flowers in the bare blue sky, sway, sway with the reeling, roundward motion of tree-tips in a wind.

A restless morning, with clouds lower down, moving also with a larger roundward motion. Everything moving. Best to go out in motion too, the slow roundward motion like the hawks.

Everything seems slowly to circle and hover towards a central point, the clouds, the mountains round the valley, the dust that rises, the big, beautiful, white-barred hawks, gabilanes, and even the snow-white flakes of flowers upon the dim palo-blanco tree. Even the organ cactus, rising in stock-straight clumps, and the candelabrum cactus, seem to be slowly wheeling and pivoting upon a centre, close upon it.

Strange that we should think in straight lines, when there are none, and talk of straight courses, when every course, sooner or later, is seen to be making the sweep round, swooping upon the centre. When space is curved, and the cosmos is sphere within sphere, and the way from any point to any other point is round the bend of the inevitable, that turns as the tips of the broad wings of the hawk turn upwards, leaning upon the air like the invisible half of the ellipse. If I have a way to go, it will be round the swoop of a bend impinging centripetal towards the centre. The straight course is hacked out in wounds, against the will of the world.

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Yet the dust advances like a ghost along the road, down the valley plain. The dry turf of the valley-bed gleams like soft skin, sunlit and pinkish ochre, spreading wide between the mountains that seem to emit their own darkness, a dark-blue vapour translucent, sombring them from the humped crests downwards. The many-pleated, noiseless mountains of Mexico.

And away on the footslope lie the white specks of Huayapa, among its lake of trees. It is Saturday, and the white dots of men are threading down the trail over the bare humps to the plain, following the dark twinkle-movement of asses, the dark nodding of the woman's head as she rides between the baskets. Saturday and market-day, and morning, so the white specks of men, like sea-gulls on plough-land, come ebbing like sparks from the palo-blanco, over the fawn undulating of the valley slope.

They are dressed in snow-white cotton, and they lift their knees in the Indian trot, following the ass where the woman sits perched between the huge baskets, her child tight in the rebozo, at the brown breast. And girls in long, full, soiled cotton skirts running, trotting, ebbing along after the twinkle-movement of the ass. Down they come in families, in clusters, in solitary ones, threading with ebbing, running, barefoot movement noiseless towards the town, that blows the bubbles of its church-domes above the stagnant green of trees, away under the opposite fawn-skin hills.

But down the valley middle comes the big road, almost straight. You will know it by the tall walking of the dust, that hastens also towards the town, overtaking, overpassing everybody. Overpassing all the dark little figures and the white specks that thread tinily, in a sort of underworld, to the town.

* * * * *

From the valley villages and from the mountains the peasants and the Indians are coming in with supplies, the road is like a pilgrimage, with the dust in greatest haste, dashing for town. Dark-eared asses and running men, running women, running girls, running lads, twinkling donkeys ambling on fine little feet, under twin baskets with tomatoes and gourds, twin great nets of bubble-shaped jars, twin bundles of neat-cut faggots of wood, neat as bunches of cigarettes, and twin net-sacks of charcoal. Donkeys, mules, on they come, great bundles bouncing against the sides of the slim-footed animals. A baby donkey trotting naked after its piled-up dam, a white, sandal-footed man following with the silent Indian haste, and a girl running again on light feet.

Onwards, on a strange current of haste. And slowly rowing among the foot-travel, the ox-wagons rolling solid wheels below the high net of the body. Slow oxen, with heads pressed down nosing to the earth, swaying, swaying their great horns as a snake sways itself, the shovel-shaped collar of solid wood pressing down on their necks like a scoop. On, on between the burnt-up turf and the solid, monumental green of the organ cactus. Past the rocks and the floating palo-blanco flowers, past the towsled dust of the mesquite bushes. While the dust once more, in a greater haste than anyone, comes tall and rapid down the road, overpowering and obscuring all the little people, as in a cataclysm.

They are mostly small people, of the Zapotec race: small men with lifted chests and quick, lifted knees, advancing with heavy energy in the midst of dust. And quiet, small, round-headed women running barefoot, tightening their blue rebozos round their shoulders, so often with a baby in the fold. The while cotton clothes of the men so white that their faces are invisible places of darkness under their big hats. Clothed darkness, faces of night, quickly, silently, with inexhaustible energy advancing to the town.

And many of the serranos, the Indians from the hills, wearing their little conical black felt hats, seem capped with night, above the straight white shoulders. Some have come far, walking all yesterday in their little black hats and black-sheathed sandals. Tomorrow they will walk back. And their eyes will be just the same, black and bright and wild, in the dark faces. They have no goal, any more than the hawks in the air, and no course to run, any more than the clouds.

* * * * *

The market is a huge roofed-in place. Most extraordinary is the noise that comes out, as you pass along the adjacent street. It is a huge noise, yet you may never notice it. It sounds as if all the ghosts in the world were talking to one another, in ghost-voices, within the darkness of the market structure. It is a noise something like rain, or banana leaves in a wind. The market, full of Indians, dark-faced, silent-footed, hush-spoken, but pressing in in countless numbers. The queer hissing murmurs of the Zapotec idioma, among the sounds of Spanish, the quiet, aside-voices of the Mixtecas.

To buy and to sell, but above all, to commingle. In the old world, men make themselves two great excuses for coming together to a centre, and commingling freely in a mixed, unsuspicious host. Market and religion. These alone bring men, unarmed, together since time began. A little load of firewood, a woven blanket, a few eggs and tomatoes are excuse enough of men, women, and children to cross the foot-weary miles of valley and mountain. To buy, to sell, to barter, to exchange. To exchange, above all things, human contact.
That is why they like you to bargain, even if it's only the difference of a centavo. Round the centre of the covered market where there is a basin of water, are the flowers: red, white, pink roses in heaps, many-coloured little carnations, poppies, bits of larkspur, lemon and orange marigolds, buds of madonna lilies, pansies, a few forget-me-nots. They don't bring the tropical flowers. Only the lilies come wild from the hills, and the mauve red orchids.

* * * * *

"How much this bunch of cherry-pie heliotrope?"

"Fifteen centavos."

"Ten."

"Fifteen."

You put back the cherry-pie, and depart. But the woman is quite content. The contact, so short even, brisked her up.

"Pinks?"

"The red one, Señorita? Thirty centavos."

"No. I don't want red ones. The mixed."

"Ah!" The woman seizes a handful of little carnations of all colours, carefully puts them together. "Look, Señorita! No more?"

"No, no more. How much?"

"The same. Thirty centavos."

"It is much."

"No, Señorita, it is not much. Look at this little bunch. It is eight centavos."—Displays a scrappy little bunch. "Come then, twenty-five."

"No! Twenty-two."

"Look!" She gathers up three or four more flowers, and claps them to the bunch. "Two reales, Señorita."

It is a bargain. Off you go with multicoloured pinks, and the woman has had one more moment of contact, with a stranger, a perfect stranger. An intermingling of voices, a threading together of different wills. It is life. The centavos are an excuse.

* * * * *

The stalls go off in straight lines, to the right, brilliant vegetables, to the left, bread and sweet buns. Away at the one end, cheese, butter, eggs, chicken, turkeys, meat. At the other, the native-woven blankets and rebozos, skirts, shirts, handkerchiefs. Down the far-side, sandals and leather things.

The sarape men spy you, and whistle to you like ferocious birds, and call "Señor! Señor! Look!" Then with violence one flings open a dazzling blanket, while another whistles more ear-piercingly still, to make you look at his blanket. It is the veritable den of lions and tigers, that spot where the sarape men have their blankets piled on the ground. You shake your head, and flee.

To find yourself in the leather avenue.

"Señor! Señor! Look! Huaraches! Very fine, very finely made! Look, Señor!"

The fat leather man jumps up and holds a pair of sandals at one's breast. They are of narrow woven strips of leather, in the newest Paris style, but a style ancient to these natives. You take them in your hand, and look at them quizzically, while the fat wife of the huarache man reiterates, "Very fine work. Very fine. Much work!"

Leather men usually seem to have their wives with them.

"How much?"

"Twenty reales."

"Twenty!" —in a voice of surprise and pained indignation.

"How much do you give?"

You refuse to answer. Instead you put the huaraches to your nose. The huarache man looks at his wife, and they laugh aloud.

"They smell," you say.

"No, Señor, they don't smell!" —and the two go off into fits of laughter.

"Yes, they smell. It is not American leather."

"Yes, Señor, it is American leather. They don't smell, Señor. No, they don't smell." He coaxes you till you wouldn't believe your own nose.

"Yes, they smell."

"How much do you give?"

"Nothing, because they smell."

And you give another sniff, though it is painfully unnecessary. And in spite of your refusal to bid, the man and wife go into fits of laughter to see you painfully sniffing.

You lay down the sandals and shake your head.

"How much do you offer?" reiterates the man, gaily.

You shake your head mournfully, and move away. The leather man and his wife look at one another and go off into another fit of laughter, because you smelt the huaraches, and said they stank.

They did. The natives use human excrement for tanning leather. When Bernal Díaz came with Cortés to the great market-place of Mexico City, in Montezuma's day, he saw the little pots of human excrement in rows for sale, and the leather-makers going round sniffing to see which was the best, before they paid for it. It staggered even a fifteenth-century Spaniard. Yet my leather man and his wife think it screamingly funny that I smell the huaraches before buying them. Everything has its own smell, and the natural smell of huaraches is what it is. You might as well quarrel with an onion for smelling like an onion.

* * * * *

The great press of the quiet natives, some of them bright and clean, many in old rags, the brown flesh showing through the rents in the dirty cotton. Many wild hillmen, in their little hats of conical black felt, with their wild, staring eyes. And as they cluster round the hat-stall, in a long, long suspense of indecision before they can commit themselves, trying on a new hat, their black hair gleams blue-black, and falls thick and rich over their foreheads, like gleaming bluey-black feathers. And one is reminded again of the blue-haired Buddha, with the lotus at his navel.

Market lasts all day. The native inns are great dreary yards with little sheds, and little rooms around. Some men and families who have come from far, will sleep in one or other of the little stall-like rooms. Many will sleep on the stones, on the earth, round the market, anywhere. But the asses are there by the hundred, crowded in the inn-yards, drooping their ears with the eternal patience of the beast that knows better than any other beast that every road curves round to the same centre of rest, and hither and thither means nothing.

And towards nightfall the dusty road will be thronged with shadowy people and unladen asses and new-laden mules, urging silently into the country again, their backs to the town, glad to get away from the town, to see the cactus and the pleated hills, and the trees that mean a village. In some village they will lie under a tree, or under a wall, and sleep. Then the next day, home.

* * * * *

It is fulfilled, what they came to market for. They have sold and bought. But more than that, they have had their moment of contact and centripetal flow. They have been part of a great stream of men flowing to a centre, to the vortex of the market-place. And here they have felt life concentrate upon them, they have been jammed between the soft hot bodies of strange men come from afar, they have had the sound of strangers' voices in their ears, they have asked and been answered in unaccustomed ways.

There is no goal, and no abiding-place, and nothing is fixed, not even the cathedral towers. The cathedral towers are slowly leaning, seeking the curve of return. As the natives curved in a strong swirl, towards the vortex of the market. Then on a strong swerve of repulsion, curved out and away again, into space.

Nothing but the touch, the spark of contact. That, no more. That, which is most elusive, still the only treasure. Come, and gone, and yet the clue itself.

True, folded up in the handkerchief inside the shirt, are the copper centavos, and maybe a few silver pesos. But these too will disappear as the stars disappear at daybreak, as they are meant to disappear. Everything is meant to disappear. Every curve plunges into the vortex and is lost, re-emerges with a certain relief and takes to the open, and there is lost again.

Only that which is utterly intangible, matters. The contact, the spark of exchange. That which can never be fastened upon, forever gone, forever coming, never to be detained: the spark of contact.

Like the evening star, when it is neither night nor day. Like the evening star, between the sun and the moon, and swayed by neither of them. The flashing intermediary, the evening star that is seen only at the dividing of the day and night, but then is more wonderful than either.