years ago, before I lost everything I had, at a time when I used to sing in a choir and my life was full of dreams. The artist asked me to pose as the model for the face of Jesus.”’There was a long pause. The stranger was looking at the priest, who was drinking his beer, but Chantal knew his words were directed at her.
‘So you see, Good and Evil have the same face; it all depends on when they cross the path of each individual human being.’
He got up, made his excuses, saying he was tired, and went up to his room. Everyone paid what they owed and slowly left the bar, casting a last look at the cheap reproduction of the famous painting, asking themselves at what point in their lives they had been touched by an angel or a devil. Without anyone saying a word to anyone else, each came to the conclusion that this had only happened in Viscos before Ahab brought peace to the region; now, every day was like every other day, each the same as the last.
Exhausted, functioning almost like an automaton, Chantal knew she was the only person to think differently, for she alone had felt the heavy, seductive hand of Evil caressing her cheek. ‘Good and Evil have the same face, it all depends on when they cross the path of each individual human being.’ Beautiful, possibly true words, but all she really needed now was to sleep, nothing more.
She ended up giving the wrong change to one of the customers, something which almost never happened; she apologised, but did not feel overly guilty. She carried on, inscrutable and dignified, until the priest and the local mayor – generally the last to leave – had departed. Then she shut up the till, gathered her things together, put on her cheap, heavy jacket and went home, just as she had done for years.
On the third night, then, she found herself in the presence of Evil. And Evil came to her in the form of extreme tiredness and a soaring fever, leaving her in a half-conscious state, but incapable of sleep – while outside in the darkness, a wolf kept howling. Sometimes she thought she must be delirious, for it seemed the wolf had come into her room and was talking to her in a language she couldn’t understand. In a brief moment of lucidity, she attempted to get up and go to the church, to ask the priest to call a doctor because she was ill, very ill; but when she tried to convert her intentions into actions, her legs gave way beneath her, and she was convinced she would be unable to walk.
Or, if she did manage to walk, she would be unable to reach the church.
Or, if she did reach the church, she would have to wait for the priest to wake up, get dressed and open the door, and meanwhile the cold would cause her fever to rise so rapidly that she would drop dead on the spot, right there outside the house that some considered to be sacred.
‘At least they wouldn’t have far to take me to the cemetery: I’d be virtually inside it already,’ she thought.
Chantal’s delirium lasted all night, but she noticed that her fever began to diminish as the morning light came filtering into her room. As her strength returned and she was trying to get to sleep, she heard the familiar sound of a car horn and realised that the baker’s van had arrived in Viscos and that it must be time for breakfast.
There was no one there to make her go downstairs to buy bread; she was independent, she could stay in bed for as long as she wanted, since she only began work in the evening. But something had changed in her; she needed contact with the world, before she went completely mad. She wanted to be with the people she knew would now be gathering around the little green van, exchanging their coins for bread, happy because a new day was beginning and they had work to do and food to eat.
She went across to the van, greeting them all, and heard one or two remarks like: ‘You look tired’ or ‘Is anything wrong?’. They were kind and supportive, always ready to help, simple and innocent in their generosity, while her soul was engaged in a bitter struggle for dreams and adventures, fear and power. Much as she would have liked to share her secret, she knew that if she revealed it to a single one of them, the rest of the village would be sure to know it before the morning was over. It was better to thank them for their concern and to carry on alone until her ideas had become a little clearer.
‘No, it’s nothing. There was a wolf howling all night and I couldn’t get to sleep.’
‘I didn’t hear any wolf,’ said the hotel landlady, who was also there buying bread.
‘It’s been months since any wolves were heard in the area,’ confirmed another woman who made conserves to be sold in the hotel shop. ‘The hunters must have killed them all, which is bad news for us because the wolves are the main reason the hunters come up here at all, to see who can kill the most elusive animal in the pack. It’s a pretty pointless exercise, but they love it.’
‘Don’t say anything in front of the baker about there being no more wolves in the region,’ muttered Chantal’s boss. ‘If word gets out, no one will come to Viscos at all.’
‘But I heard a wolf.’
‘Then it must have been the rogue wolf,’ said the mayor’s wife, who didn’t much like Chantal, but who was sufficiently well-bred to hide her feelings.
The hotel landlady got annoyed. There was no rogue wolf. It was just an ordinary wolf, and it was probably dead by now anyway.
The mayor’s wife, however, would not give up so easily.
‘Regardless of whether or not it exists, we all know that there were no wolves howling last night. You work the poor girl too hard, up until all hours; she’s so exhausted she’s starting to get hallucinations.’
Chantal left the pair of them to their argument, picked up her bread and went on her way.
‘A pointless exercise,’ she repeated to herself, recalling the comment made by the woman who made the conserves. That was how they viewed life, as a pointless exercise. She nearly told them about the stranger’s proposal there and then, just to see if those smug, narrow-minded people would be willing to take part in a genuinely purposeful exercise: ten gold bars in exchange for a simple murder, one that would guarantee the futures of their children and their grandchildren and return Viscos to its former glory, with or without wolves.
But she held back. She decided instead to tell the story that very night, in front of everyone, in the bar, so that no one could claim not to have heard or understood. Perhaps they would fall on the stranger and march him straight to the police, leaving her free to take her gold bar as a reward for services rendered to the community. Perhaps they simply wouldn’t believe her, and the stranger would depart believing that they were all good, which wasn’t the case at all.
They were so ignorant, so naïve, so resigned to their lot. They refused to believe anything that didn’t fit in with what they were used to believing. They all lived in fear of God. They were all – herself included – cowards when the moment comes to change their fate. But as far as true goodness was concerned, that didn’t exist – not in the land of cowardly men, nor in the heaven of Almighty God who sows suffering everywhere, just so that we can spend our whole lives begging him to deliver us from Evil.
The temperature had dropped. Chantal hadn’t slept for three nights, but once she was preparing her breakfast, she felt much better. She wasn’t the only coward, though she was possibly the only one aware of her own cowardice, because the rest of them thought of life as a ‘pointless exercise’ and confused fear with generosity.
She remembered a man who used to work in a chemist’s in a
