A Tranquil Star by Primo Levi Page A

branches, each a little less than a meter long, and began to scrape one of them. He worked with purpose and skill, in silence or humming, his mouth closed: after half an hour the branch was tapered at one end, and periodically Achtiti checked it, bending it over one knee to feel if it was flexible enough. Perhaps he perceived a trace of impatience in the attitude or comments of the two men, because he interrupted his work, went off among the huts, and returned accompanied by a boy. He entrusted the second branch and another scraper to him, and from then on they worked together. Indeed, the boy was as skillful as Achtiti; it was evident that for him, too, making a bow was not a new job. When the two branches were reduced to the right size and shape, Achtiti began to smooth them with a rough stone that to Wilkins appeared to be a fragment of a whetstone.
    â€œHe doesn’t seem to be in a hurry,” said Goldbaum.
    â€œThe Siriono are never in a hurry. Hurry is a sickness of ours,” Wilkins answered.
    â€œThey have other sicknesses, however.”
    â€œOf course. But nowhere is it said that a civilization without sickness is possible.”
    â€œWhat do you suppose he wants from us?”
    â€œI think I understand,” Wilkins said. Achtiti continued to scrape the wood diligently, working around all sides and testing the surface with his fingers and his eyes, squinting, because he was a little farsighted. Finally, he tied the two untapered ends together, overlapping them for a short distance, and between the pointed ends he stretched a string of twisted gut: he had a certain air of pride, and showed the two that, if you pinched the string, it resonated for a long time, like a harp. He sent the boy to get an arrow, took aim, and shot: the arrow stuck quivering in the trunk of a palm fifty meters away. Then, with an emphatic gesture, he offered the bow to Wilkins, indicating with a nod that it was his: he should hold it, try it out. Then he took two matches from the open box, offered one to Wilkins and one to Goldbaum, squatted on the ground, wrapped his arms around his knees, and waited, but without impatience.
    Goldbaum, with the match in his hand, was speechless. Then he said, “I think I understand, too.”
    â€œYes,” Wilkins answered. “As a lecture, it’s clear enough: we wretched Siriono, if we don’t have a scraper, we make one; and if we are without a bow, with the scraper we make the bow, and maybe we also make it smooth, because then it’s apleasure to look at and hold in your hand. You foreign sorcerers, who steal men’s voices and put them in a box, you were left without matches: come on, make some.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œWe’ll have to explain our limits.” With two voices, or, rather, with four hands, they tried to convince Achtiti that although it’s true that a match is small, much smaller than a bow (this was a point that Achtiti seemed to consider important), the head of the match contained an ingredient (how to explain it?) that dwelt far away, in the sun, in the depths of the earth, beyond the rivers and the forest. They were painfully conscious of the inadequacy of their defense: Achtiti stuck out his lips at them, shook his head, and said things to the boy that made him laugh.
    â€œHe must be telling him that we are bad sorcerers, scoundrels who only know how to talk big,” said Goldbaum. Achtiti was a methodical man: he said something else to the boy, who grabbed the bow and some arrows and stood at a distance of twenty paces with a resolute air; he himself went off and returned with one of the knives found at the site of the base camp, which the fire had warped and severely oxidized. He picked up one of the watches off the ground and held it out to Wilkins. Wilkins, with the pale face of one who shows up unprepared for an important exam, made a sign of impotence. He opened the watchcase and showed Achtiti the minute gears, the