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The Werewolf

By Boris Vian

There lived in the wood of Fausses-Reposes, near the coast of Picardy, a very handsome adult wolf with black fur and great red eyes.  His name was Denis, and his favourite pastime consisted of watching cars coming from Ville-d’Avray getting up to full speed to attack the shining slope on which a shower sometimes engraves the olive reflection of the big trees.  He also liked, on summer nights, to roam the copses to surprise impatient lovers in their struggle with the complexity of the elastic fittings with which the essentials of lingerie are unhappily encumbered in our times.  He observed philosophically the results of these sometimes-successful efforts and withdrew discreetly shaking his head.  Descendant of a long line of civilised wolves, Denis ate grass and blue hyacinths supplemented in Autumn by choice mushrooms and in Winter, much against his taste, by bottles of milk pinched from the Society’s big yellow lorry.  He detested milk, because of its animal taste and from November to February, he cursed the inclemency of a season that caused him to rot his stomach.

 [...]

One beautiful august evening, Denis was taking his daily gentle digestive stroll.  The full moon worked the leaves into a lacework of shadow and under its clear light, Denis’s eyes assumed the exquisite ruby highlights of Arbois wine.  Denis was approaching the chestnut, the usual terminus of his walk, when fate placed in his way the Mage of Siam, whose real name was Etienne Pample, and the little Lisette Cachou, brunette waitress of the Gronelli restaurant, brought to Fausses-Reposes by the Mage on a false pretext.  Lisette was wearing for the first time a brand new ‘Obsession’ girdle, and it was to this detail, the destruction of which had cost the Mage of Siam six hours of effort, that Denis owed this very late encounter.

Unluckily for Denis, the circumstances were extremely unfavourable.  It was exactly midnight; the Mage of Siam was at the end of his tether; and he had encountered in abundance round about, asses ears, wolves feet and white rabbits which, since recently, are the obligatory accompaniments of lycanthropy – or rather of anthropolycy as we will read shortly.  Rendered furious by the appearance of Denis, although discreet, and who was already withdrawing mumbling an excuse, the Mage of  Siam, disappointed by Lisette, whose excess energy demanded to be discharged one way or another, threw himself on the innocent beast and cruelly bit him instead of his knuckles.  With a yelp of anguish, Denis fled at the gallop.  Back home he was floored by an abnormal fatigue and fell into a heavy slumber  punctuated by troubled dreams.

 [...]

 In the little round mirror, a strange figure faced him, pale, deprived of hair, where only two ruby eyes recalled his former aspect. Letting out an inarticulate cry he looked at his body and understood the origin of this icy cold which gripped his every part.  His rich, black coat had disappeared and before his eyes appeared the malformed body of on of those men, the amorous awkwardness of which he normally mocked.

He had to get a move on.  Denis threw himself towards the trunk stuffed with divers clothing gleaned by chance from accidents.  Instinct made him choose a grey suit with white stripes, with a distinguished look, with which he mixed a plain shirt the colour of rosewood and a bordeaux tie.  As soon as he had  put on these clothes, surprised by keeping a balance which he could not understand, he felt better and his teeth stopped chattering..  It was then that his distracted glance fell upon the little heap of black fur scattered around his couch, and he mourned his lost aspect.  He caught hold of himself, however, by virtue of a violent effort of will and tried to assess his position.  His reading had taught him many things and the affair seemed clear: the Mage of Siam was a werewolf and he, Denis, bitten by the animal, had just changed into a man.

At the thought that he was going to have to live in an unknown world, at first he was seized by a great terror.  A man amongst men, what risks would he not run!  The evocation of the sterile struggles to which the drivers of the Picardy coast delivered themselves, night and day, gave him a symbolic foretaste of the atrocious existence to which, like it or not, he must submit.  Then, he reflected.  His transformation, according to all appearances, and if the books did not lie, would be of short duration.  Then why not profit by it and make an incursion into town? 

[..]

But Denis was unaware that in this seemingly calm place was held on exactly that day the monthly meeting of the Dilettantes of the Rambolitan Chub, and it happened that he saw flood in, in the middle of his meal, a theory of gentlemen with fresh complexions and jovial manners who occupied at a stroke seven tables for four.  Denis frowned at the sudden influx, and, as he watched, the head waiter came quietly to his table.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said that smooth-shaven and oily man, “ but could you do us the service of sharing your table with mademoiselle?”

Denis threw a glance at the chick and stopped frowning.

“I would be delighted.”   He said, half rising from  his seat.

“Thank you, sir.” Said the creature in a musical voice.  Musical saw to be exact.

“If you thank me,” pursued Denis, “what must I do?”

“Classical providence, without doubt.” Suggested the exquisite woman and she immediately dropped her handbag, which Denis caught in flight.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “but you have extraordinary reflexes!”

“Yes.” Confirmed Denis.

“Your eyes are also very strange,”  She ejaculated five minutes later. “They remind me of…of…”

“Ah!”  Denis commented.

“Of garnets.”  She concluded.

“C’est la guerre.” Said Denis

“I don’t follow you…”

“I wished to say,” specified Denis, “that I was waiting for you to evoke the ruby and not seeing anything come but the garnet I concluded upon the restrictions which immediately follow war by relation of effect to cause.”

“And have you graduated from the political sciences?” asked the brown-haired doe.

“Never to return.”

“I find you quite fascinating.” The maiden asserted flatly, who, between ourselves, had lost her virginity more often than was her due.

“I willingly reciprocate the feeling, placing it in the feminine.” Madrigaled Denis.

They left the restaurant together and the coquette confided to the  wolf made man that she occupied, not far from there, a ravishing room at the hotel Money Grinder.

“Come and see my Japanese stamps.” She whispered in Denis’s ear.

“Is that wise?” enquired Denis, “Your husband, your brother, or surely one of your people, won’t they be upset?”

“I am something of an orphan.” Wailed the little girl, wiping away a tear with the end of a loaded index finger.

“What a shame!” commented her elegant companion politely.  He noticed, on following her to the hotel, that the clerk seemed to be curiously absent, and that so much plush red velvet made the place differ greatly from his own, but the stairway revealed to him the stockings, and immediately adjacent calves of the beauty, whom he allowed, wishing to instruct himself, to take six steps in front.  Instructed, he increased the pace.

The idea of fornicating in the company of a woman repelled him by virtue of his sense of humour, but the evocation of Fausses-Reposes  made the inhibiting element disappear and he soon found himself capable of putting into active practice the knowledge acquired by eye.  The beauty enthusiastically declared  herself ruined, and the ruse of these affirmations by  which she made certain of rising to the vertical escaped the understanding, little exercised in these matters, of the good Denis.

He was coming  out of a kind of coma quite different from everything that he had hitherto experienced when he heard the hour strike.  Choking and blanching, he put himself straight but remained stupid on perceiving his companion, her bum (excuse me) in the air, foraging with diligence in the pocket of his jacket.

“You want my photo!” he said suddenly, believing that he had understood.

He felt flattered, but then understood, by the jump which animated the bipartite hemisphere, the error of this supposition.

“But…er…yes my darling.”  Said the sweet thing, without fully knowing whether he was taking the mickey or niet.

Denis frowned.  He got up, went and checked his wallet.

“So you are one of those women the turpitudes of which one may read about in the literature of Monsieur Mauriac!” concluded Denis, “A whore of some sort.”

She was going to reply, and thus, that he gave her a pain in the arse and that she banged for her meat, and that she wasn’t going to have it off with a bloke for pleasure, but a light in the eye of the anthropised wolf made her mute instead.  There emanated from Denis’s orbits two small red beams which fixed on the ocular globes of the brunette and plunged her into a curious disarray.

“Would you like to cover yourself and decamp this instant!” suggested Denis.

He had the unexpected idea of augmenting the effect by emitting a roar.  Never had a similar inspiration come to worry him, but despite his lack of experience, it resonated in an appalling fashion.

The maiden, terrorised, dressed without saying a word, in less time than it takes a clock to strike twelve.  As soon as he was alone, Denis started to laugh.  He experienced a vicious feeling, quite exciting.

“It’s the taste of vengeance.” He supposed out loud.

He  put his accoutrements back in order, washed where necessary and went out.  It was night and the boulevard scintillated in marvellous fashion.  He hadn’t gone two metres when three men approached him.  Dressed a little loudly, with suits that were too light, hats too new and shoes too shiny, they surrounded him.

“Can we have a word with you?”  said the thinnest of the three, a sallow man with a thin moustache.

“About what?” wondered Denis.

“Don’t fuck about.” Articulated one of the others, red and cubic.

“Step inside…” proposed the sallow one as they were passing a bar.

Denis entered, fairly curious.  He was finding the adventure amusing so far.

“Do you play bridge?” he asked the three men.

“You’re going to need one.” Remarked the red, cubic one in an obscure way.  HE seemed incensed.

“My dear sir,” said the sallow one once they had entered, “ you have behaved in a hardly correct manner with a young girl.”

Denis burst out laughing.

“He’s having a good laugh, the pillock.” Observed the red one.  He’ll be laughing less soon.”

“He finds,” pursued the sallow one, “ that we take an interest in this chick.”

Suddenly Denis understood.

“I see.” He said, “ You are pimps.”

All three stood up at once.

“Mind your own business.” Menaced the cubic one.

Denis looked at them.

“I am going to get angry.”   He said calmly.  “It is the first time in my life, but I recognise the sensation.  Like in books.”

The three men seemed put out.

“You needn’t think you scare us, mug!” said the red one.

The third said little.  He closed a fist and took a run.  As the fist arrived at Denis’s chin, this latter ducked back, snatched the wrist and squeezed.  It made a noise.

A bottle contacted the skull of Denis, who blinked and drew back.

“We’re going to hang you out to dry.”  Said the sallow one.

The bar had emptied.  Denis bounded over the table and the cubic one.  Astounded, the man gaped, but he had the reflex to grab the suede shoed foot of the hermit of Fausses-Reposes.  There followed a brief melee at the end of which Denis, his collar torn, contemplated himself in the mirror.  A gash crossed his cheek, and one of his eyes was turning indigo.  Rapidly, he arranged the three inert bodies under the benches.  His heart boomed beneath his ribs.  He tidied himself up a bit.  And suddenly, his eyes fell upon a clock.  Eleven o’clock.

“Good grief,” he thought, “I’ve got to move!”

Quickly, he put on his dark glasses and ran to his hotel.  His soul was full f hate but the urgent need o departure was obvious.  He paid for his room, took his bag, jumped on his bicycle and left like a true Coppi.

[...]

Denis threw himself into it.  The astounded asphalt gave way before his furious progression.  The edge of Saint Cloud would be reached in no time.  He crossed the portion of town that runs the length of the Saint-Cloud Park, and turned left towards the Pont Noir and Ville d’Avray.  As he was emerging from this noble city before the Cabassud restaurant, he became aware of an agitation behind him.  He forced the pace, and suddenly, turned onto a forest track.  Time pressed.  In the distance, suddenly, a clock announced midnight.

From the first stroke, Denis noticed that things were going badly.  He could hardly touch the pedals, his legs seemed to him to be shortening.  By the thin light of the moon, he was negotiating, in his flight, the pebbles of the dirt track when he noticed his shadow -  a long muzzle, straight ears – as at once, he came a cropper, as a wolf on a bicycle, it has no stability.

Happily for him, he had hardly touched ground when with a bound he sprang into a thicket, and the police bike crashed onto the fallen bicycle.  The motorcycle cop lost a testicle and h is auditive acuity subsequently diminished by thirty-nine percent.

Denis had hardly turned back into a wolf when he asked himself, while trotting back towards his home, about the strange frenzy which had seized him under his cast-off form of a man.  He, so soft, so calm, had watched his good principles and tolerance fly out of the window.  The vengeful rage, the effects of which had been visited on the three pimps of la Madeleine – of which one, let us hasten to say in the defence of true pimps, was in the pay of the Vice Squad – seemed to him at once unthinkable and fascinating.  He shook his head.  What great unhappiness this bite of the Mage of Siam!  Happily, he thought, this tiresome transformation was going to limit itself to days of the full moon.  But there remained something in him – and this vague latent anger, this desire for revenge did not fail to disturb him.

>>

Sursa:
http://www.roguesyarn.com/Werewolf%20story.htm

sau

Click here to download this file sau se poate consulta, pt savoarea limbajului  shi varianta in limba romana Boris Vian - "Omul-lup", traducerea din limba franceza de Ion Doru Brana publicata in "Tigrul monden - proza satirica contemporana", selectzia shi prezentarileViorica Mircea, prefatza Marin Sorescu, Astra, 1989