The Stone Raft (Harvest Book) Read Online Free PDF

not budged from the spot even after the roadways had been cleared, the trucks let off the hoarse bellowing of their
avertisseurs
and
bocinas,
and the helicopters hovered triumphantly overhead, like seraphim endowed with powers that were probably far from celestial. The cameras clicked incessantly, the television crews, overcoming their fears, moved in, and there, close to the edges of the crack that no longer existed, they filmed great layers of the rough concrete, the evidence of man's victory over the vagaries of nature. And this was how spectators, remote from the scene, in the comfort and safety of their own homes, were able to see pictures transmitted directly from the Franco-Spanish frontier at Coll de Pertus, laughing and clapping their hands and celebrating the event as if they themselves had been responsible for its success, this was how they saw, unable to believe their own eyes, the concrete surface, still moist, begin to shift and sink, as if the enormous mass were about to be sucked under, slowly but surely, until the gaping breach became visible once more. The crack had not widened, and this could only mean one thing, namely that the depth of the hole was no longer twenty meters, as before, but much deeper, God alone knew just how deep. The workers drew back in horror, but a sense of professional duty, which had become second nature, kept the cameras turning, shaking in their holders' hands, and the world could now see faces change their expression, in the wild panic shouting could be heard, cries of horror, there was a general stampede, within seconds the parking area was deserted, the concrete mixers were abandoned, here and there some were still working, the drums turning, filled with concrete that three minutes ago ceased to be necessary and was now quite futile.
    For the first time, a shudder of fear went through the peninsula and nearby Europe. In Cerbère, not very far away, the people, running impulsively out into the streets like their dogs before them, said to each other, It was written, whensoever they should bark, the world would end, but it was not quite like that, it had never been written, but great moments call for great words and it is difficult to say why this expression, It was written, figures so prominently in books recording prophetic statements. With greater justification than anyone else, the terror-stricken inhabitants of Cerbère began to abandon the town, migrating en masse onto firmer soil, in the hope that they would be safe there from the world's encroaching end. In Banyuls-sur-Mer, Port-Vendrès, and Collioure, to mention only the villages and hamlets dotted along the coastline, there was not a living soul to be seen. The dead souls, having died, stayed behind, with that persistent indifference that distinguishes them from the rest of humanity, if anyone ever said otherwise, or suggested, for example, that Fernando Pessoa visited Ricardo Reis, the one being dead and the other alive, it was his foolish imagination and nothing else. But one of these dead men, in Collioure, stirred ever so slightly, as if hesitating, shall I go or not, but never into France, he alone knew where, and perhaps one day we shall know too.
    Amid the thousand items of news, opinions, commentaries, and roundtable conferences that occupied the press, television, and radio the following day, the brief statement by an orthodox seismologist passed almost unnoticed. What I should dearly like to know is why all this is happening without so much as an earth tremor, to which another seismologist, of the modern school, pragmatic and flexible, replied, All will be explained in due course. Now, in a village in southern Spain, a man, listening to these conflicting opinions, left his house and set off for the city of Granada, to tell the television men that he had felt an earth tremor more than a week ago, that he had not spoken up sooner because he feared that no one would believe him, and that he was now here in person,