Somebody moves the Valdorrey boundary stone every spring

“Eighty-seven metres. Last year it was a hundred and twenty-seven.” “Maybe you measure differently, Elvira.” “I measure with the same kit the land registry uses, Benigno. And you are the bailiff, not the surveyor.” “All I am saying is that stones don’t walk.” “This one walks forty metres north every spring and comes back in October. Three years running.” “And what do you want, to open a file on a rock?” “I want you to tell me why there are two.” “Two what.” “Two boundary stones. The granite one, with the 1911 cross, is buried under the brambles, at a hundred and twenty-seven metres. The other is limestone, and the cross was cut with an angle grinder.” “You don’t know that.” “The limestone has saw dust on it and somebody moves it. Always in March, before the survey.” “Before the spring drops.” “Before the spring drops.” “My grandfather carved it in fifty-four. If the boundary runs by the granite one, the water of Valdorrey gets drunk in Ceza. Eight hundred of them there; forty-one of us here.” “Benigno.” “Go on.” “The granite one has been buried for three generations and nobody in Ceza has died of thirst. I am putting both of them on the record.” “Put them on it. But you come in March to move it, because I can’t manage the stone any more.”