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ain calm.
"What you've just been saying is very interesting, an excellent subject for a sermon. I think we should all attend Mass today."
Chantal hesitated no longer. She headed straight for the Y-shaped rock, thinking of what she would do with the gold as soon as she got it. Go home, get the money she kept hidden there, put on some more sensible clothes, go down the road to the valley and hitch a lift. No more wagers: those people didn't deserve the fortune within their grasp. No suitcase: she didn't want them to know she was leaving Viscos for good--Viscos with its beautiful but pointless stories, its kind but cowardly inhabitants, the bar always crammed with people talking about the same things, the church she never attended. Naturally there was always the chance that she would find the police waiting for her at the bus station, the stranger accusing her of theft, etc., etc. But now she was prepared to run any risk.
The hatred she had felt only half an hour before had been transformed into a far more agreeable emotion: vengeance.
She was glad to have been the first to reveal to those people the evil hidden in the depths of their false, ingenuous souls. They were all dreaming of the chance to commit a murder--only dreaming, mind you, because they would never actually do anything. They would spend the rest of their lives asleep, endlessly telling themselves how noble they were, how incapable of committing an injustice, ready to defend the village's dignity at whatever cost, yet aware that terror alone had prevented them from killing an innocent. They would congratulate themselves every morning on keeping their integrity, and blame themselves each night for that missed opportunity.
For the next three months, the only topic of conversation in the bar would be the honesty of the generous men and women of the village. Then the hunting season would arrive and the subject wouldn't be touched upon--there was no need for visitors to know anything about it, they liked to think they were in a remote spot, where everyone was friends, where good always prevailed, where nature was bountiful, and that the local products lined up for sale on a single shelf in the hotel reception--which the hotel landlady called her "little shop"--were steeped in this disinterested love.
But the hunting season would come to an end, and then the villagers would be free to return to the topic. This time around, after many evenings spent dreaming about the riches they had let slip through their fingers, they would start inventing hypotheses to fit the situation: why did nobody have the courage, at dead of night, to kill useless old Berta in return for ten gold bars? Why did no hunting accident befall the shepherd Santiago, who drove his flock up the mountainside each morning? All kinds of hypotheses would be weighed up, first timidly and then angrily.
One year on and they would be consumed with mutual hatred--the village had been given its opportunity and had let it slip. They would ask after Miss Prym, who had vanished without trace, perhaps taking with her the gold she had watched the stranger hide. They would say terrible things about her, the ungrateful orphan, the poor girl whom they had all struggled to help after her grandmother's death, who had got a job in the bar when she had proved incapable of getting herself a husband and leaving, who used to sleep with the hotel guests, usually men much older than herself, and who made eyes at all the tourists just to get a bigger tip.
They would spend the rest of their lives caught between self-pity and loathing; Chantal would be happy, that was her revenge. She would never forget the looks those people around the van gave her, imploring her silence regarding a murder they would never dare to commit, then rounding on her as if she was to blame for all the cowardice that was finally rising to the surface.
"A jacket. My leather trousers. I can wear two T-shirts and strap the gold bar around my waist. A jacket. My leather trousers. A jacket."
There she was, in front of the Y-shaped rock. Beside her lay the stick she had used two days before to dig up the gold. For a moment she savored the gesture that would transform her from an honest woman into a thief.
No, that wasn't right. The stranger had provoked her, and he also stood to gain from the deal. She wasn't so much stealing as claiming her wages for her role as narrator in this tasteless comedy. She deserved not only the gold but much, much more for having endured the stares of the victimless murderers standing around the baker's van, for having spent her entire life there, for those three sleepless nights, for the soul she had now lost--assuming she had ever had a soul to lose.
She dug down into the soft earth and saw the gold bar. When she saw it, she heard a noise.
Someone had followed her. Automatically, she began pushing the earth back into the hole, realizing as she did so the futility of the gesture. Then she turned, ready to explain that she was looking for the treasure, that she knew the stranger walked regularly along this path, and that she had happened to notice that the soil had recently been disturbed.
What she saw, however, robbed her of her voice--for it had no interest in treasure, in village crises, justice or injustice, only in blood.
The white mark on its left ear. The rogue wolf.
It was standing between her and the nearest tree; it would be impossible to get past the animal. Chantal stood rooted to the spot, hypnotized by the animal's blue eyes. Her mind was working frantically, wondering what would be her next step--the branch would be far too flimsy to counter the beast's attack. She could climb onto the Y-shaped rock, but that still wasn't high enough. She could choose not to believe the legend and scare off the wolf as she would any other lone wolf, but that was too risky; it would be wisest to recognize that all legends contain a hidden truth.
"Punishment."
Unfair punishment, just like everything else that had happened in her life; God seemed to have singled her out purely to demonstrate his hatred of the world.
Instinctively she let the branch fall to the ground and, in a movement that seemed to her interminably slow, brought her arms up to her throat: she couldn't let him sink his teeth in there. She regretted not wearing her leather trousers; the next most vulnerable part was her legs and the vein there, which, once pierced, would see you bleed to death in ten minutes--at least that was what the hunters always said, to explain why they wore those high boots.
The wolf opened its mouth and snarled. The dangerous, pent-up growl of an animal who gives no warning, but attacks on the instant. She kept her eyes glued to his, even though her heart was pounding, for now his fangs were bared.
It was all a question of time; he would either attack or run off, but Chantal knew he was going to attack. She glanced down at the ground, looking for any loose stones she might slip on, but found none. She decided to launch herself at the animal; she would be bitten and would have to run towards the tree with the wolf's teeth sunk into her. She would have to ignore the pain.
She thought about the gold. She would soon be back to look for it. She clung to every shred of hope, anything that might give her the strength to confront the prospect of her flesh being ripped by those sharp teeth, of one of her bones poking through, of possibly stumbling and falling and having her throat torn out.
She prepared to run.
Just then, as if in a movie, she saw a figure appear behind the wolf, although still a fair distance away.
The beast sensed another presence too, but did not look away, and she continued to fix him with her stare. It seemed to be only the force of that stare that was averting the attack, and she didn't want to run any further risks; if someone else was there, her chances of survival were increased--even if, in the end, it cost her the gold bar.
The presence behind the wolf silently crouched down and moved to the left. Chantal knew there was another tree on that side, easy to climb. At that moment, a stone arced across the sky and landed near the wolf, which turned with phenomenal speed and hurtled off in the direction of this new threat.
"Run!" yelled the stranger.
She ran in the direction of her only refuge, while the man likewise clambered lithely up the other tree. By the time the rogue wolf reached him, he was safe.
The wolf began snarling and leaping, occasionally managing to get partway up the trunk, only to slip back down again.
