The Locust

The little boy was sitting on the doorstep, watching the little girl in the green weeds and plants near the railroad tracks. The train hadn’t come by for a whole week, night or day. The railroad workers had been on strike all week; it could well go on for several more days.

The girl was busy poking around in the weeds and plants, which towered over her tiny frame. While the little boy was watching the girl, he kept thinking about other things that mattered to him. He thought about joining her and helping, but instead he stayed glued to the spot. The girl headed for the railroad tracks and started walking on the rail, trying to keep her balance, but failed several times. The little boy laughed at her and told himself that he could manage to do it. But the thought just stayed there, stuck in his mind.

He noticed her stop her game and go back to searching among the weeds and plants. A stray dog was hanging about near her; its red tongue was hanging out, and ticks weighed down his drooping ears. She was afraid of dogs and would always cry for help. The boy was about to warn her about the dog close by, but changed his mind. The dog moved away, his ears still drooping under the weight of ticks. It trotted across the railroad tracks and disappeared down the slope.

The boy looked back at the girl. She seemed to be coming over with something in her hand; it was a small locust, unable to fly, a green locust.

“Aren’t you afraid of locusts?” the boy asked.

“No,” the girl answered. “Besides, it’s a female. One female doesn’t hurt another.”

“How do you know it’s a female?”

“Look how beautiful it is.”

“That’s true, it’s beautiful. But is it female or male?”

The girl didn’t answer. She moved away from him a bit and sat down on the ground. Placing the locust in front of her, she started slapping the ground with her hand, trying to get it to fly, but it didn’t move. The girl began to shout and hit the ground near the locust, then pushed it with her hand, but still the locust didn’t move.

“Take it out of the shade,” the boy said, “and put it in the sun.”

“Why?”

“It will warm up and try to fly. It’s feeling cold.”

The girl picked it up gently and put it in the sun. She kept slapping the ground, trying in vain to make it fly.

“No, let it be,” the boy said. “Let it get warm first.”

She left it alone. Going over to the boy, she sat down by his side, watching the locust. Finally it started to move. The girl thought it was going to fly and told the boy.

“No,” he answered. “It won’t fly until it’s warm.”

“It’ll fly even before it gets warm,” the girl said.

“That isn’t true.”

“Yes, it will,” said the girl, “because it’s a female.”

“That’s not true. It is neither female nor male.”

“It’s a female. It’s green because it’s a bride.”

“And what’s the groom like?” the boy asked, grabbing the girl’s fragile arm.

“He’s red.”

“No . . . you don’t understand anything. The groom’s yellow, and so is the bride. This locust is green because it feeds on green plants.”

The girl slipped out of the boy’s grasp and walked into the sunshine where the locust was. It stopped moving. The girl started blowing on it and striking the ground to get it to fly, but still in vain.

The girl left it where it was and walked back to the railroad tracks. She started walking along a rail; for a while she managed to keep her balance, but finally she fell down, revealing her buttocks. The boy laughed as he watched her adjust the pleats of her short, faded skirt. The girl stopped that game and went back to the weeds.

Now the boy could not see her. When she’d been out of sight for some time, he went over and joined her. He found her crawling on her knees, watching a tiny worm.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“I’m looking for a male.”

“For the worm or the locust?”

“For the locust.”

“You won’t find it. There are no locusts out now.”

The girl stood up. “Look,” she asked him, “do you know the ‘bride and groom’ game?”

“If you lie on your back,” he said grabbing her hand.

“But you won’t act like the locust.”

“I know what to do.”

Her mother came down to the first floor and called for her. The girl didn’t hear her, nor did the boy. The mother looked along the railroad tracks. She went back inside the house to see if the girl was hiding in one of the rooms or in the kitchen, but she didn’t find her. She went outside again and started calling for her loudly. This time the boy heard her, got off the girl’s body, and scurried away. When the mother spotted him, she asked him where her daughter was. The boy ran toward the railroad tracks. The mother understood everything and found her daughter among the weeds.

“What are you doing?” she asked as she grabbed her violently.

“We were playing the ‘bride and groom’ game.”

The mother started pinching her angrily. “When has your mother ever been a whore?” she asked.

The girl didn’t understand anything. At first, she tolerated the pinches, but finally she began to wail, “It isn’t me . . . him . . . h . . . h . . . aye . . . aye!”

The mother kept pinching her. “Tell me, you little tart,” she kept repeating, “When has your mother ever been a whore?”

Meanwhile, the boy avoided the pinches. He was trying to keep his balance on the railroad track, which by now had been warmed by the sun.