...of a transient

Beautiful summer evening, so calm in its vegetable torpor and continual absence of wind, unconditional calm, birds flown far off or fallen mute, respecting the proper balance in the off-season, the world in a state of silent suspension.
I go back up toward the house, drops of blood on my shirt, a gash in my left hand, brambles or sickle, cut across the lawn, raise my eye and see him, see him appear before me on the path, has been there surely for a while already but coming into sight only at this present moment, from head to foot, fully blown as if through a bid for power and instantly integrated into the landscape, neutralising the idea of time in the landscape, perhaps even the idea of place.
Red hair, bony, very skinny and tall, jacket and trousers in tatters, planted firmly on his legs looking at me, ten yards away, absolutely motionless, as if there were nothing extraordinary about him being there, putting in an appearance, staring at me, or looking beyond me, staring at the pond, the pool of water glittering in the sunlight or the large house behind the linden, as immobile as the tree, shut up as it is and mute, watchful, on guard.
I must have remained fixed to the spot for a while in turn, pondering, as if recapitulating my trip, the path traced by my steps, and establishing a relationship between these tracks and the abrupt fact of the gazing eyes, seeking a relationship, I wonder why, to find out whether he'd seen me for a long while perhaps, or followed me, preceded me rather, a relationship of gaits, a feature common to the journeys, something is linked to the total number of steps in this matter, the circuit of itineraries, I don't know, once I set off again the relationship doesn't matter anymore, no longer inevitably posing the supposition that it was ever really imposed, and I draw near, he still doesn't move, he's carrying a bundle at the end of a stick over his right shoulder exactly as in old-fashioned engravings.
I'm a few steps from him, he makes a barely perceptible movement of his head, a greeting perhaps, and I see his eyes, quite asymmetrical, more precisely the left one twitches very quickly, intermittently, never really blinking.
He's right in the middle of the path, I must turn off through the tall weeds if I want to get to the door, he looks at the small house, the door, nods his head again.
Bluish cheeks, ears sticking out, lips partly opened, directs his eyes upon me again, studies me as if I weren't in keeping with the place, yes indeed, more surprised than myself, finding somebody in such a place, mustn't have come upon much of anyone on his road, wherever he comes from.
I formulated the question no doubt, or else it's the first question popped into my mind at any rate, in present circumstances at least. He stretches his arm eastward, southeastward, the farm with the dog, and beyond Villeneuve, quite a hike already, but the arm keeps moving about, pointing out, evoking, naming other horizons, even more distant, more far off on the plateaus to the east.

[Disconnection, Ollier, C.]