just the upper convex part that was intact, but the lower part too, which was a thick, flat, white membrane. He moved the enormous structure to one side of the excavation and was surprised at how light it was. He crawled inside. Th is, yes, could serve as shelter; and it was spacious and bare. He could stand up inside it, and walk . . . with some armchairs and a coffee table it would be a cozy little room. He cleaned it, tossed out what was left of the bones through the openings (there were six: one in front and one behind, for the head and tail, and four below, for the legs) and sat inside admiring the ancient marvel. Th e mother-of-pearl shell was not entirely opaque; it let in a very warm, very golden light. He remembered that the tails of that type of animal were also armored, and was surprised that there was nothing hanging from the back opening. Maybe it had fallen off . . . He got out and looked around. He had to dig a little more, but he found it: a kind of horn of the same material, an elongated cone some eighteen or twenty feet in length, curving to a very sharp point. It was empty too, and light enough so he could stand it up, with the point on top, and shake the dirt and pebbles out.
He’d been working for hours, and was covered in sweat. He crawled in again and stretched out on the membrane, as if on a prehistoric white rug, to rest and think. An idea occurred to him; it seemed crazy, but maybe it wasn’t. If he took this fossil as a chassis . . . and put the Chrysler engine in it, and attached the wheels . . . He was drowsy with mechanical dreams. But how would he get the engine and the other parts he needed here? He wouldn’t have to bring them, he could take the shell to where they were . . . He got out to try. Indeed, he could move it, but very slowly, with much difficulty, and it would take days to make the one or two miles that separated him from the car. It was a little like gambling: sometimes you have everything you need for a winning hand, but not all together . . . Another idea occurred to him (which isn’t so impressive: in general when an idea occurs to a person, another one occurs to him afterwards, so much so that I’ve come to wonder sometimes if ideas don’t come to me only to provoke the occurrence of other ideas). He walked off in the direction of the Chrysler. He would have to find it again, of course, but he was confident that he could, and he did. What he’d thought of was to take the rims off the wheels, get the axles out, and make a kind of wheelbarrow to carry the engine to the shell. But it turned out that it wasn’t so easy. Th e lack of tools didn’t help, although he found a providential screwdriver in the taxi’s crushed glove compartment. In the end he got the four wheels off (the circle had not been deformed on any of the four); to make the kind of wheelbarrow he’d thought of was crazy. It would be more practical to work backwards. He made four trips to the excavation site, carrying one wheel each time, another trip to bring the axles, and with the help of the obliging screwdriver he managed to attach them, precariously, to the underside of the armadillo. He pushed it, and it moved forward with perfect ease. He put the tail inside, in case it might be useful; he thought he might have to put it back in its place to act as a rudder, its natural function.
It didn’t take long to pull it off. First he took the whole wreck apart, screw by screw. He jury-rigged it brilliantly; he put the engine in front, held it in with clamps, and put in the gas tank, the radiator, et cetera. Th e pulleys, the axles, the wheels in the four openings for the legs . . . all set. It’s easier to explain it than to do it, but in his case it was very easy nonetheless. Th e next step was to turn it on and try it out, which he did. Th e machine moved, slowly at first, and then faster.
23
NIGHT FELL AND he drove on and on, with the horn in front . . . because he’d put the armadillo’s
He’d been working for hours, and was covered in sweat. He crawled in again and stretched out on the membrane, as if on a prehistoric white rug, to rest and think. An idea occurred to him; it seemed crazy, but maybe it wasn’t. If he took this fossil as a chassis . . . and put the Chrysler engine in it, and attached the wheels . . . He was drowsy with mechanical dreams. But how would he get the engine and the other parts he needed here? He wouldn’t have to bring them, he could take the shell to where they were . . . He got out to try. Indeed, he could move it, but very slowly, with much difficulty, and it would take days to make the one or two miles that separated him from the car. It was a little like gambling: sometimes you have everything you need for a winning hand, but not all together . . . Another idea occurred to him (which isn’t so impressive: in general when an idea occurs to a person, another one occurs to him afterwards, so much so that I’ve come to wonder sometimes if ideas don’t come to me only to provoke the occurrence of other ideas). He walked off in the direction of the Chrysler. He would have to find it again, of course, but he was confident that he could, and he did. What he’d thought of was to take the rims off the wheels, get the axles out, and make a kind of wheelbarrow to carry the engine to the shell. But it turned out that it wasn’t so easy. Th e lack of tools didn’t help, although he found a providential screwdriver in the taxi’s crushed glove compartment. In the end he got the four wheels off (the circle had not been deformed on any of the four); to make the kind of wheelbarrow he’d thought of was crazy. It would be more practical to work backwards. He made four trips to the excavation site, carrying one wheel each time, another trip to bring the axles, and with the help of the obliging screwdriver he managed to attach them, precariously, to the underside of the armadillo. He pushed it, and it moved forward with perfect ease. He put the tail inside, in case it might be useful; he thought he might have to put it back in its place to act as a rudder, its natural function.
It didn’t take long to pull it off. First he took the whole wreck apart, screw by screw. He jury-rigged it brilliantly; he put the engine in front, held it in with clamps, and put in the gas tank, the radiator, et cetera. Th e pulleys, the axles, the wheels in the four openings for the legs . . . all set. It’s easier to explain it than to do it, but in his case it was very easy nonetheless. Th e next step was to turn it on and try it out, which he did. Th e machine moved, slowly at first, and then faster.
23
NIGHT FELL AND he drove on and on, with the horn in front . . . because he’d put the armadillo’s
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