In the end he had studied the tiniest of the cracks between the planks, knew what field of vision each offered. This one, above the shelf, enabled one to observe a narrow part of the road that linked the village to the district capital. That other one, next to the bunk flap, cut across a fence of dry branches.

One day he saw a man asleep, drunk, at the foot of this fence, lying there as if felled by a rifle shot. The panels of his jacket were spread out in the dust of the road; his snores reached all the way to the barn. This slumped body expressed such a blithe indifference to what anyone might think of him, such a lack of constraint in this temporary death, such a physical oblivion, that Alexeï became aware of a violent jealousy. Or rather, of a temptation: to lay hands on this snoring corpse, search him, rob him of his papers, disguise himself in his clothes, return to life under this stolen name…

The splinters in the wooden plank pricked his cheek. Alexeï stared at the drunkard as if this were a miraculous vision. The man was nothing like him, at least twice as old as he was, red-haired, with a flat nose. But this notion of stealing an identity, unlikely as it seemed for the moment, took root in his memory.

It was through one of the cracks between the planks that he saw his uncle's cart driving off one evening: his uncle held the reins, his aunt sat amid the crates of vegetables they were going to sell in the Sunday market at the district capital.

That night the sound of horses' hooves invaded his sleep. "Back already?" he thought in surprise, still only half awake. The clatter became louder, reminiscent of thunder. His shoulder was pressed against the planks of the wall, he could feel them vibrating. "All these horses!" his dream whispered to him, teeming with herds that made the earth tremble as they galloped.