Foresters wear puttees, green or gray. This one never went anywhere without his rifle, just as he never went anywhere without being in a great hurry. When he came through the village he was always in a half-sprint, the dust stirring up above his ankles. Everyone greeted him, but he greeted none, perhaps because he was always in such a desperate rush that he had no time to notice those who slowed down and stepped out of the way when they saw him coming. Sometimes they would move right to the edge of the ditch by the side of the road and follow him with their eyes. To these bystanders it looked as though he was being led by a dog on a long leash, a big invisible dog to which he secretly whistled through his ever-pursed lips, against which he set his own hurried pace. And his attention appeared to be so thoroughly engaged by the movement of this phantom hound that it could not be distracted by anything else. When he passed them, the villagers never laughed, nor even smiled, but they would nudge one another from time to time, as if to remind themselves of the association they all shared in the shape of that strange invisible dog.
As he sprang up the concrete front steps of Cederblom’s Grocery, the forester startled a small group of women who stood at the top, offering each other snuff. In their sudden alarm, they jumped out of his way as he entered the store. Inside he unslung his rifle and stood there firmly with his feet spread wide on the newly scrubbed floorboards, weighing the weapon by the shoulder strap until he found its perfect point of balance. Only then did he step forward to the counter, and all of the eyes staring at him in curious bewilderment now slunk hastily off in other directions. The rifle butt came to rest firmly on the floor, the barrel sticking up an inch or two above the counter’s edge, and the two girls attending to customers suddenly looked nervous, even frightened, as they filled their customers’ paper bags and cartons at the counter.
When the forester’s turn came, he handed one of the girls a typewritten list. Not even when he was told that something or other was out of stock would he bother to speak. He would simply shake his head in displeasure and shrug his shoulders, as if to free himself of the annoyance. The forester always bought the same things, provisions for his excursions into the woods — canned goods, hard bread, goat’s cheese, oranges, coffee, condensed cream — and other essentially masculine things normally associated with strength, solitude and superiority — puttees, boot-grease of a particular brand, expensive pipe tobacco, the finest pipe cleaners, flasks for field use, and flints for his cigarette lighter.
When at last his goods were set before him on the counter, he would shove them down into his pack himself, the very abruptness of his movements making any assistance from the shopgirl impossible. No one in the village had ever heard him ask for help, just as no one had ever heard him say thank you. No one had ever seen his match blow out in the wind when he stopped to light his pipe, nor had anyone ever heard him swear because a stone had crept into his shoe. The forester was plagued by none of those things that made other people feel ridiculous, nothing that could be laughed or even smiled at. But the villagers were patient.
One day the forester came into the store and bought a woman’s head-scarf. On this day he left his rifle and backpack at home. Nor was he wearing his gloves as usual. The villagers were rather surprised to see how small his hands were — so small and white, almost like a woman’s. The cigarette that he was smoking also looked ridiculously small in the middle of his big, red face. From the moment he entered Cederblom’s, he was acting out of the ordinary. Instead of immediately approaching the counter he went over to a little glass case just to the left of the entrance. Inside were the sorts of things that people usually paused and snickered at, but never bought: cheap necklaces, gaudy bathing caps, imitation gold bracelets, trinkets, brilliantly colored silk bath robes, cigarette holders, earrings. What good would any of these things be to him out in the middle of the woods? Leaning over this museum of urban vanity, the forester stood for a good while ardently puffing on his cigarette, without ever taking it from his mouth. Finally it occurred to one of the shopgirls that she should go over and offer her assistance.
He asked in a friendly but somewhat embarrassed tone if he could see some cloths, and the girl, misunderstanding him, began to spread embroidered table cloths and linens out over the lid of the case.
“Not like that,” the forester said, spitting out his cigarette and crushing it under the toe of his boot. “The kind that goes on your head.”
The girl obviously didn’t realize that the “cloth” was intended for a woman.
