Three Women in a Mirror (13 page)

“Brother wolf,” she murmured.

And right then she resolved to go with the hunters the following day.

 

The men gathered on the square at dawn, their faces gray, their skin swollen, and they seemed less inclined toward vengeful enthusiasm than they had on the previous day. Shoulders sagging, legs stiff, they looked like conscripts, soldiers who go to war only when they are forced to.

The women brought provisions for the battue. They uncorked a few flasks, fortified themselves with wine, then began to warm up and were glad to go off marauding.

Rubben the draper's son started up a song; the group marched off, singing the refrain. They sang off-key in a manly way, and to the applauding passersby their valiant cacophony was a sign that the punitive expedition would succeed: Bruges was sending the wolf not a choir of musical monks, but sturdy, determined lads.

Anne joined the women escorting their husbands, and when they stopped at the city wall, sending their men a last sign of farewell, she ran up to the guard of the watchtower and explained that she was carrying provisions for the heroes, and she left the town.

Once she was on the muddy road, she hesitated between following the hunters or changing direction. Without knowing exactly why, she decided to go along behind them at a respectable distance, so as to avoid being seen. Perhaps she wanted to be sure they wouldn't kill the wolf? Perhaps she wanted to come to its rescue if they found it? Perhaps . . . Her thoughts were confused, only her acts were clear. So she trailed the makeshift army.

The day went by as she had imagined, quietly. As the odds of meeting a wolf were slimmer than those of catching a squirrel, the rowdy youths, too noisy and smelly and not clever enough for that tireless, intelligent beast, alerted him of their presence, and he went into hiding. And yet they never doubted their own skill; they renewed their search over and over, constantly remapping their hunt.

At dawn, disappointed and exhausted, they had to admit defeat, and took the road back to Bruges.

Once again, action came to her without premeditation: she hid just as the men were rushing back toward her. Sheltered by a stand of wild hornbeam, she controlled her breathing and her movements to melt into the shadow of the trunks and leaves. Just like the wolf . . .

The men marched by.

From the road, snatches of their bickering reached her ears. Some of them, including Philippe, were convinced that the wolf had run away, frightened by their hunting. They congratulated themselves on this assumed retreat; oh, perhaps they hadn't rid Flanders of the wolf altogether, but they had cleansed Bruges, and that is what they would say on their return. Rubben, a more clever sort, protested that it would be better to acknowledge the failure of their expedition, because the next time a child was pulled to pieces or a woman was attacked, everyone would know that they had been bragging. The men grumbled, but conceded that he was right. When he suggested that half the group should wait all night in the countryside, they all refused, under the pretext that they had work the next day—for not one would confess he was shaking with fear—and the troop continued its retreat.

Anne stayed in the bushes until the sheepish army had disappeared.

The sky was gradually getting darker. All alone, she realized she was starving. While she was preparing to go digging through her bags, she changed her mind and smiled:

Drink!

She had just thought of the wolf, or rather, she had just thought
like
the wolf: after this long day spent walking, she had to drink. If she could find the watering place, she would increase her chances of encountering the animal.

Thinking back to her wanderings, she remembered a place where the bend in the river grew wider, in the midst of a clearing, where there was protection from the trees. If she were a wolf, that is where she would go.

She walked for a long time before she found the place. Luckily, the clouds frayed and made room for the moon. A stony light, gray and hard, traced colorless outlines on the earth.

She went through the woods and made her way through the thickets, frequently grazing her skin. Her thighs quaked with fatigue. She caught herself on brambles, stumbled against a stone, and thought her aching ankles would give way; nevertheless she went on, breathlessly.

Several times, in the distance behind the tree trunks she could see two lights in the night, appearing then vanishing. Could they be the wolf's eyes?

She would not allow herself to worry, continuing stubbornly on her way until she reached the clearing.

She saw them at once.

The wolf's pawprints in the mud. Impressive. Claws bigger than a man's fist.

She crouched down and looked more closely at the tracks: they were already dry, and must have been there for at least a day. So it was not too late.

Anne dragged herself to the bend in the river, drank, splashed water on her legs, and drank again. Then she sat on a stump and gazed at the stars revealed by the last fleeing clouds.

A powerful, rising sound pierced the darkness.

The howl came from the beech trees, closer than ever.

Anne shivered.

The haunting, raging call spoke of thirst and hunger, but also voiced a question: “Who are you?”

Anne knew then that the wolf had followed her all through her voyage.

“Who are you?”

Which feeling prevailed in that guttural cry—curiosity or surprise?

He howled again, and gave Anne his answer:
anger!

The young girl shivered. Suddenly she was frightened: now she understood how foolish her behavior had been. She would be devoured.

The wolf leapt out of the woods.

After three bounds, the animal moved more slowly and, assured, continued at a dancing trot. As he made his way, everything around him fell silent, as if the landscape were petrified. The rodents stopped munching. No sound of wings. A heavy silence spread over the land, woven together with a breathless fear. It rose to the sky. Even the leaves refrained from trembling. Only the moon seemed to be safe from the terrible beast.

Anne wanted to run away but an inner voice held her back.
Act like a sheep and the wolf will get you
, goes the proverb in French. Remembering it enabled Anne to quell the panic that was accelerating her heartbeat, raising the hair on her arms, and drying her mouth.

She turned cautiously toward the wolf and waited.

As the wolf advanced, his trunk was stiff and straight, full of aggression, while his paws were supple, his gait nonchalant. The fur on his back stood upright, his tail was raised, his ears were pointed forward, and he threatened Anne with his fangs, showing her his canine teeth as long as daggers, solidly planted in his wide, frothing, hostile jaw.

Anne bent her neck in a sign of submission.

Surprised, the wolf stopped six feet from her.

She lowered her eyelids. Nevertheless, she studied him fleetingly, terrified, dreading that at any moment he might leap onto her.

Beyond his snarling muzzle the wolf's staring eyes gave off an almost supernatural glow; they did not reflect the dim light of the moon or the stars; they had imprisoned the orange light of day to restore it to the night. His eyes were not satisfied with merely seeing, but gave off a light of their own.

Anne and the wolf stood face to face.

She could feel his warm breath. She knew the strength contained in his nervous body. The wolf's smell overwhelmed her, a brown, heady smell of dead leaves and stagnant water, with traces of blood and mortified flesh.

He looked at the kneeling woman. From time to time he ran his tongue over his chops. Was he salivating at the sight of so much meat? Did he view her as prey or as an enemy?

She examined him in secret. His dazzling teeth fascinated her as much as they frightened her. Such a contrast between the sharp fangs of a relentless hunter and the tawny fur flecked with black—long, coarse, thick, more lavish than a dog's, fading to white on his belly and paws.

Anne decided to carry out her plan: she maintained a submissive attitude, with her face toward the ground, while she meticulously, almost in slow motion, lowered the bags she had been carrying since morning, opened them, and spilled their contents onto the ground.

Chicken and rabbit bones rolled toward the wolf's claws, followed by the overripe fruit.

The predator's eyes filled with surprise.

Without moving his head, so as not to lower his guard, he wriggled his nose to verify from a distance whether this was truly a meal. Still, he remained immobile and left the food an equal distance between them.

Anne hesitated. Of course the wolf was refusing her present, because he was still wary, but through the pores of her skin she could sense that the danger was abating and the atmosphere was growing lighter. Bravely, without any sudden movement, she lifted her head and directed her gaze directly at the wolf.

They looked at each other at last.

And through their gaze they understood one another instantly.

There was no malevolence between them; it had vanished with fear. Anne was not the wolf's prey, nor was he hers. They did not wish each other ill. They were meeting under the moon, two creatures of very different worlds.

As God had put them together on earth, the wolf was merely doing what men did: he hunted and killed to feed himself. An easy notion to grasp. He did not deserve scorn, from any species.

You go about your business as a man, I will carry on my business as a wolf.

A silence fell, pregnant and rich. In the silence was an acceptance of destiny, the idea that one explores life as much as endures it. One takes one's share, makes the most of it, enjoys it, and then one dies. Animals know this. Only men forget it.

Yes, I agree
, thought Anne.
There have never been any bad wolves. That is an invention of men. Of bad men.

The wolf showed his approval with a strange, almost smiling snarl.

Suddenly the animal raised his muzzle to the wind. He could smell danger. Tense, his nostrils quivering, he made the fur on his neck stand on end, to capture the slightest signal. His tail beat the air vexedly.

Anne also sat up, fearing that some vagrants might seize this moment to attack him.

Both of them peered into the night, the wolf with his sense of smell, and Anne with her eyes.

Nothing. A false alarm.

Temporarily reassured, they observed each other.

“Eat,” she murmured.

Surprised to hear her voice, the wolf wiggled his ears and cocked his head to the left.

She gently pushed the food closer to him.

“Please. I carried it around all day just for you.”

The wolf thought, sat, and then, cautiously to begin with and subsequently with appetite, gobbled up his meal.

Meanwhile, glad to hear his noisy munching, Anne tried to communicate to him the essence of her meditation:
Look at men as enemies but not as prey. Remember me.

When he had finished the last bite, the wolf sniffed Anne's hand. In thanks?

Without hesitating, he turned on his paws and loped away, furtively, until he vanished.

December 20, 1905

 

My dear Gretchen,
Happiness is uneventful.
Like a plant in a hothouse, I am happy just to breathe, eat, and sleep. My belly has taken root at Linzerstrasse. No matter what the sky does, it grows.

I don't go out much, nothing interests me, I forget what people tell me; and yet this appalling Hanna—selfish, reduced to a vegetative state—everyone thinks she is marvelous.

Last night as Franz and I were having supper in the little blue dining room at the heart of the rotunda, he related the latest gossip about the people we see; I listened to his chronicles with pleasure—Franz is not without wit—and what enchanted me most was to see how eager he was to entertain me.

“You do make an effort, dear Franz, to amuse your nitwit of a wife, planted here in her pot.”

“Hanna, your health is more important to me than any insipid gossip.”

“Would you still love me if I gave you no children?”

No wiser than he, I heard the question that had sprung to my lips. I didn't even hear myself think it—so much the better, moreover, otherwise I should have hesitated.

Franz's face froze in surprise.

I repeated my question.

He shook his head, annoyed.

“Why are you asking me, since you are pregnant?”

I laughed before explaining, “If I were not pregnant, I would not have dared to ask you. So, would you love me?”

He scratched at a crumb that was stuck in the cotton tablecloth, taking the time to remove it from the weave, then he held it between his fingernails, put it on the saucer, and suddenly looked up.

“Hanna, have I asked you if you would love me if I were sterile?”

Although his intention was to unsettle me, I instantly replied, “Oh yes, Franz. Not for a second was I thinking of children when we married.”

“What? Not ever?”

“No, it never even crossed my mind.”

And after a moment's thought I added, “Perhaps because I saw myself as a child.”

“You, a child?”

“During our honeymoon, you taught me a great deal: what a man is, what a couple is, what love is.”

He blushed, flattered. I went on: “Now that I'm going to be a mother, I can confirm it to you: before this, I was above all your little girl.”

Springing from his chair, he fell to his knees and his arms crushed me to him.

“Oh, my Hanna, you really are not like the others!”

His teeth nibbled at my right earlobe while he murmured, ecstatically, “You are so different.”

These words stunned me: while Franz uttered them enthusiastically, I could remember how painfully I had said them over and over to myself for many long years. Could it be that he liked me for the very reasons I despised myself?

Lifting his head with my palms, I looked gravely into his eyes.