The Animals

The fox is red. It burns like a flame in the black wood. It pricks its ears to listen to the mountain streams and wolves. It makes a labyrinth of pawprints to confuse the hunters. It glories in its cunning. It glories in being a fox. The deer is white. It glistens like wind through the veils of brown leaves. It raises one hoof to investigate. Its antlers rise like wet tree branches. It glories in its silence. It glories in being a deer. The bear is blond. It rumbles like autumn thunder by the shore of the lake. It claws the cool water in search of pearlescent fish. It licks the honey from a fallen hive. It glories in its mass and weight. It glories in being a bear. The man is pale and bluish, like frost, like a hurrican lantern, like the rope by which he hangs from the oak tree, casting a dark shadow on the mountain road.

The Cathedral

It was dark in the tavern across from the great cathedral. Despite its location on the square, it was not very attractive or popular. A blue twilight reigned among the scratched wooden tables, the cast iron stove in the corner, the long bar behind which bottles and glassware barely glimmered. An obstetrician stood at the counter with a journalist. “It’s time to settle up,” said the doctor. “We wouldn’t want to be late for the service,” the journalist agreed. They left some coins on the counter and went out just as another man was entering. The man was muscular, tall, and had a broken nose and chestnut hair that fell to his shoulders. One might say he was very good-looking, dark and mysterious like a gangster. He was dressed in a shabby black coat. There were scars on his face. He sat at a table by the frosted windows with a view of the cathedral. At the other tables sat thieves, militant racists, and well-off but disgruntled trades people who had just broken up with their mistresses. The mysterious stranger, or perhaps thug, ordered in a whisper, and the waiter hurried off to the back. One by one, the others cleared out. First, an adulterer, who loudly proclaimed he was heading to the church. Not long after, some thieves talked a militant racist into joining them on their way to the service. “It’s not a good idea,” said the militant racist. “Get over yourself. They won’t even notice you,” the thieves said. They wandered out the door. Only three men were left. “Aren’t you going to church?” the thug asked. They shook their heads. “Most of us here aren’t welcome there,” said a bald, bearded elder in a wheelchair. “I’m surprised the others are going.” “Want to join me?” The other three came over to his table by the window and arranged themselves on the other side facing him. “And what do you do?” the thug asked the elderly man. “I’m just an old veteran. Army.” A young, ginger-headed man with square spectacles said he was a tax lawyer. “And you?” the thug asked the chubby, baby-faced man with cropped, silver hair. “I own a laundry service. I started out driving the laundry trucks.” They sat in silence, waiting for the order to arrive. “Shouldn’t you be at the cathedral today? Everyone else is there. Why aren’t you there?” the old veteran asked. “They wouldn’t let me stay,” said the thug. An explosion rocked the plaza, filling the windows with an uncanny, rosy-orange light. The cathedral was burning. The waiter brought the order: some broiled sardines, rustic bread and a carafe of wine. “Want some?” the thug asked, and he poured out four glasses of wine after handing them slices of bread. “What do you do?” the tax lawyer asked the thug. “I’m a carpenter,” the other replied, his pales eyes aglow from the cathedral on fire.