J. M. Le Clézio - Terra Amata

THE WOLVES ARE BLACK

Now run quick quick / Run / The lightning flashes / The rain comes down / Bang bang pit a pat / Grrraooo /Run / Run / Feet thump the ground / Knees pound / The grass is wet / There’s broken glass in the grass / A tree over there / Run / Ha ha ha ha / Down / Up / Down / Up / The lightning flashes /Again / ‘I’m slipping’ / There’s a hole full of mud / ‘I’m falling I’m falling’ / The mud / ‘Help’ / The wolves have come / They prowl round / But there’s only one wolf now / He’s as big as a mountain / He prowls round / You can hear his raucous breathing / Rhaaa / Rhaaa / Rhaaa / His mouth opens like a cave / The teeth / The red throat / The raucous breathing / ‘I’m slipping towards his throat’ / ‘I’m going to fall in’ / The eyes light up the whole night / Two red fires flickering in the sky / ‘I must blow the eyes out’ / ‘Blow blow’ / Impossible the eyes are still burning / Everything here has turned into wolf / The mouth / The throat / The teeth / The forest and the back / The grass and the fur / The paws / The trees / The mountain / The cave / The throat / The eyes / The fire / The wind / The rasping breath / ‘Rhaaa’ ‘Rhaaa’ / The hands are coming / The nails shine / The white teeth / The eyes flicker / The night is black / black / The forest is black / black / the grass black / black / The eyes black / black / The fire black / black / The wolves are black / are black / ‘Mummy’ / Roll on to my back / Swim / The slime / The water closes over / The sky is a black puddle / ‘I’m stifling’ / ‘I can’t breathe’ / ‘Help’ / Stifled in the filthy mud / Stifled in the black water / ‘I’m dead’ / No one / Never anyone / Alone / ‘I can’t see’ / At the bottom of the well in the stagnant water / Water coming in through ears and nose / Water coming in through the eyes / Nowhere / Finished / Lost / Alone horrible alone / Blade between the ribs / Cold steel piercing skin and lungs / Breath going / Blood flowing into the water like a cloud / The light gurgles / Bubbles of light / Of blood / ‘I’m dead’ / The night is black the forest is black the fire is / black the grass is black the flame is black the eyes are black the rain is black / The smoke is black the trees are black the sky is black the mud is / black the hands are black the glasses are black the / snakes are black the potatoes are black the wolves / are black the wolves / are black the wolves / are black /

There’s no more forest now, no more plains or fires, no more …

There’s a big room without any windows in the walls.

There’s a great empty room.

All along the windowless walls stand statues.

There is one statue like the others.

It is of grey stone and it stands on the concrete floor.

It doesn’t move, it doesn’t speak, its eyes are motionless.

It stays as it is.

It’s made of hard grey stone, and the walls and ceiling float around it like smoke.

It’s at least six feet high.

There’s no noise, no noise.

Then the statue takes off its stone mask.

It doesn’t move but the mask just quietly disappears.

And under the first mask there’s a second.

The second mask disappears and there’s a third.

A fourth.

A fifth.

A sixth, a seventh.

An eighth mask, a ninth mask, a tenth mask.

The masks are falling at top speed now, so fast you can’t count them any more.

And there’s always another mask made of stone, motionless, with eyes fixed.

With two wrinkles round the empty mouth, and arched brows.

With a hard nose, ears and cheeks of stone.

And the unmoving statue madly sheds its masks.

Noses, mouths, eyes appear and disappear, appear and disappear.

There are ten, a hundred, a thousand every second.

And each time you see it’s a different mask.

Motionless, solemn, hard as stone.

The statue sheds its masks furiously, like running water.

And its face is never seen.

It never melts, it is never ready.

It has no face, it has only millions of falling masks.

Millions of fixed eyes.

Millions of ears.

Millions of foreheads and cheeks.

Millions of black mouths with two wrinkles on each side.

The statue will never show its real face.

And in the same way, all along the walls of the great empty room, the millions of statues shed their masks, here their fixed eyes, there their hard noses, there again their empty mouths with two wrinkles on each side.

The masks frantically come and go from one end to the other of the empty room.

And not a single word is ever spoken.

Chancelade is in a public lavatory. He walked a little way along the low room looking for an empty cubicle. Right at the end he found one with the door open and used that. It was very new and white, with nylon curtains and a chromium chain. He didn’t stay in there long. But when he came out he saw two men waiting for him. One was skinny, with glasses, and the other very tall and stout and stood with his arms akimbo. The thin one came up quietly and said politely:

Chancelade doesn’t quite understand what he’s saying, but it’s something about a brand-new fixture that Chancelade has spoiled. A brand-new collapsible fixture that had been put there to await delivery. He’ll have to pay for it. Chancelade reaches for his wallet and asks how much. The thin man explains that it’s an absolutely new fixture, luxury model, and with the chromium chain you have to reckon about 130 pounds sterling. Chancelade is just about to take out his wallet when he realizes that that’s very dear for a W.C. He says: ‘I’m not paying for a new one when this one can still be used.’ The man with glasses insists but Chancelade makes to go away. Then the tall stout man pushes his companion aside and plants himself in front of Chancelade:

‘That’s enough argument. Give me the mok .’ Chancelade is surprised at having understood him. He didn’t know there was a word pronounced ‘mok’. But he understood that it meant money. And then, before he realizes what has happened, he finds himself out on the pavement again with a knife in his hand. He’s fighting the two men. He easily kills the skinny one with glasses. But the other is too big and strong. Chancelade knows he’s going to die but advances just the same toward the man, who is holding a sharp knife. Chancelade clasps the handle of his own knife tightly in his right hand and inches towards the giant. And he isn’t very surprised when he feels the cold blade enter his heart.

And there’s war too, with whistling bullets, shells, and the mine that explodes under the man’s body and shatters him to pieces. All you can see in the muddy crater is curly hair stained with blood. War, the shark-nosed submarine, the aeroplane spinning down the sky, and the tumbrils of black smoke belched from bombed oil-tanks. A dozen men in uniform shoot another man against a brick wall. The bullets burst and dig their rending hole. Trees collapse with a crash, the barbed wire pierces the skin at the back of the neck, rooks caw along the roads. Out of the dried-up earth come pale hands with fingers gnawed by rats. And all the time the siren turns round and round, imprisoned in the head, shrieking out its sinister call.

Lying on its front on a bed with unnaturally clean sheets. It’s a body. Someone you can’t see slowly brings the syringe and gives the injections. The right hand holds the long syringe and the left rubs with the piece of cottonwool dipped in spirit. And without stopping they keep giving the body injections, terrible injections that enter into the flesh and make it shudder. In the back, on the shoulder-blades, in the buttocks, in the thighs, in the back again, and in the nape of the neck. The needle sinks into the white meat, and the black liquid flows out drop by drop. And although it’s that body there that they’re giving injections to, the pain reaches you and makes you moan, shriek, howl, bellow! Then comes the terrible lumbar puncture and the sharp needle penetrates the spinal column in the middle of the back, and introduces the serum. The pain is so strong, blinding as lightning, that you faint.