The wolf by Silvina Bullrich (1915-1990)

[Available at http://elespejogotico.blogspot.com/2011/03/el-lobizon-silvina-bullrich.html]

Today the autopsy took place. As you can imagine, I have regained my freedom. The medical report
It is categorical: Diego died of a cardiac injury on the night of September 20 to 21. Also
add that exercise and drinking awakened the disease that was already latent in him.

We had gone rowing in Tigre in the morning, then Diego spent the afternoon with Elvira and at night
we met again at her house for lunch. Elvira couldn't stay; I'm happy for her. From what
otherwise it would have been involved in this absurd assumption of crime.

When we went to Diego's we ate and drank too much, and that night for even more reason,
since there was no woman. That's why, after a while, exhausted the political topic,
we enter the realm of picaresque tales, and from there, aided by alcohol, we slip to
the confidences. We were four young, carefree men; we believed in neither God nor in Him.
diablo; much less in ghosts and superstitions. I pronounced such irreverent words about
the childish beliefs of humanity that Diego, the most serious of all, the oldest as well, me
interrupted abruptly:

If what happened to me had happened to you in life, you might hesitate before asserting that only
what our eyes see exists.

And immediately, without even waiting for our questions, he told us what I transcribe today, the
that we all intentionally forget during the interrogation in respect to the memory of
our friend. As I reserve the right to conceal his last name, that secret, which my
companions will not reveal either, has been buried with him. I hasten to say that I consider this
I recount one of the many cases of collective suggestion so studied by current psychology.
The reader will be able to verify it for himself. The truth is that his death and the investigation that it
I was the last to leave Diego's house, and his death, according to medical reports,
it happened at three in the morning, the time when I left him thinking he was asleep) they
my nervous system is unbalanced. They say that the best way to get rid of an obsession is
turn it over the paper. I want to do the test. Then I will go to the field. Yes, undoubtedly,
I need a season of rest.

Story of Diego.

My childhood was happily spent in that house in the Flores neighborhood, whose ugliness went unnoticed.
due to its similarity with the neighboring houses. It was a single-story construction, simple, vulgar, of the
from which all the boredom of the bourgeois families that resolve without problems emerged
spiritual.
It was a symmetrical cube, plastered in a cream color, almost ochre, detestable. Above the doors and
from the windows, rectangles of green mosaics increased the ugliness of the last house in the
how fortunate I was. There was a courtyard in front; a corridor that ran along the house connected it with a
back patio. Seven identical houses completed the block. The neighborhood had grown, but
she preserved a transplanted provincial sadness that intensified on Sundays. That day, in
Sunday rest name, I was prohibited from any activity. I remained gazing at the
window, looking, gradually making me sad, the deserted street, the dark and earthy green
from the patio plants and all the shades of ochre declining in the coarse plaster.
I counted the mosaics that crowned the doors of the neighboring houses, the divisions of each
mosaic: I added, I subtracted, I only stopped at even numbers, and then I started again
indefinitely. Sometimes the red and green cart of the peanut vendor added a touch of color to the
monotony of our street; I, to keep it a little longer, ran to buy five cents of
peanut; I wanted to breathe in a different, precise smell, that warm, inviting toasted smell of hot peanuts (in
the house always had the smell of freshly ironed clothes and yellow soap) and then I watched him walk away to the
they are from the harsh trumpet of the peanut vendor.

I stop on these details because their very triviality reminds me that once I was a child.
no importance, just like all the children. I liked sunny days and moonlit nights. After -
Haven't you noticed? - on full moon nights I do not dare to cross the threshold of my
house.

We were seven brothers; I was the youngest. When visitors arrived,

they waved amicably, exclaiming: 'This is the president's godson!'.

I was proud; I had at the head of my bed, next to a colored image of the Virgin
of Luján, a portrait of the president, in which these words were written: “For Diego…from his godfather.”
The signature stamped at the bottom prevented any doubt about the authenticity of the dedication. He still believed he was the

seventh son was a source of pride; my mother, however, opposed certain resistances to the
the enthusiasm of the neighbors, and when possible she avoided the subject. She was the daughter of a farmer of
Entre Ríos and the people of that region are superstitious.

One afternoon, a few weeks after my grandfather had died, I was busy with my game.
favorite. It consisted of slipping unnoticed under the dining table, and there, in the shelter of the
large maroon plush folder that covered her, she would spend hours and hours, dreaming that she was a
refugee Indian in his tent, in that tent that the Three Wise Men had never wanted to bring me. I
I was ten years old; I no longer believed in the Kings, but I was still fascinated by adventures and I continued
enjoying my improvised tent.

At one end of the table, my mother placed her sewing machine; at the other, my aunt was making a
eternal solitary, moving from time to time, while struggling with the desire to cheat himself
herself, the dial of the radio placed on the sideboard. In my family, like in all families
Modest, the dining room was the best part of the house and the meeting place. I endured the shrieks.
from the radio thinking it was the wind roaring between the mountains. But I must not dwell on
these details; I know that I do it out of cowardice, to delay the confession that I want to make to you today.
Diego gulped down his glass of whiskey and continued, giving his words a nervous, accelerated rhythm.
That afternoon my father entered the dining room as he did every day upon returning from the office. He kissed
my mother on the forehead and then said with that categorical accent of love that everyone uses
humble employees within their home:

Everything is already resolved; at the beginning of the month we are going to Entre Ríos.

The noise of my mother's sewing machine abruptly stopped.

-No! -exclaimed my mother-. Are you serious? It’s not possible!

-Why is it not going to be possible? Your brothers are useless and do not inspire me with faith; I want to go.
same to govern your field. You will see how I make it yield.

-But it is a very small extension- my mother argued-. and if you lose your job, you won't come back
you will find another one. Remember that this one was given to you by the godfather when we baptized Diego but now
things are not easy for the party.

-And do you think I'm going to keep rotting away in an office for four hundred miserable pesos? Not a chance.
they barely reach to support my family, and that is saying a lot since I never go to the café. I am fed up with
drowning the best years of my life between four walls.

-But before it was just but. The workshop only incurred expenses... -Well; I will request a leave of absence without pay and
later we will see. But I have confidence in the field. Yours is tall, rich...

The house is almost a ranch...

Is this a palace?

Then my mother pronounced the decisive, surprising phrase. Resisting for the first time to a
order of the husband, he exclaimed:

-No, I am not leaving. I don't want to leave… I can't… for Diego.

For me? Why could I be an obstacle for that trip? If no one was as eager as
I dream of living in the countryside! I wanted to run all day outdoors, like the rich boys during the
vacation months.

I can't accept that a foolish legend destroys our lives - my father roared - it would be
completely absurd...

-But what is it about?–inquired my aunt.

My parents seemed to hesitate; finally my mother answered:

Diego is the youngest of seven brothers...

-And...?
-I am scared- my mother sobbed, scared of the full moon nights.

There was a dense silence, loaded with answers and questions. And I suddenly remembered the
the only opportunity when my mother had treated me roughly, almost cruelly. It was, in
effect, a night of full moon. It was very hot; in the rooms the atmosphere was unbreathable.
I, without suspecting that I was committing a serious offense, went out to the patio in search of the fresh air that was blowing.

under the pergola. Suddenly I saw my mother appear; she was pale, there was an expression of;
anxiety, almost terror.

What are you doing there?" she asked me in a choked voice, without getting closer.

Fear that emanated from her took hold of me and I escaped through the kitchen door. Then I heard
a desolate cry; I thought something had happened to my mother and went back to her. I found her
overwhelmed in the wicker rocking chair, crying, her face buried in her hands. I approached
she kissed her; she shuddered as if a reptile brushed against her.

-Go away- shouted-, go away, damn!

The word did not correspond to the harmlessness of my prank.

Don't be like that, mom - I pleaded - I was hot, I wanted to take a breath. If it frustrates you so much, I won't do it.
I will do more, I promise I won't do it again.

My mother raised her head, looked at me for a long time; then she ran her hands through my dark hair and
thick, because of my large ears, very far from the face; because of my deformed teeth from when I was a kid that
they were looming between my parted lips.

This hair... these ears... these teeth... -he murmured.

I started to laugh.

It's not that serious; maybe the girls think I'm good-looking anyway.

She smiled and we entered the house. True to my word, I did not go back out to the patio at night. But already
In the dining room, my father had broken the silence with these enigmatic words:

It is because of that grotesque legend of the lobizón.

There was another silence. My aunt broke it:

He is not wrong. In the countryside, the boy's situation could be difficult.

-In this world, everything has a remedy- my father stated.

-Which?–asked my mother and my aunt at the same time.

It is very simple. Since Mario is doing military service, everyone will believe that we have six.
male children. Later on there will be time to look for another solution. We can send Diego to a
School of Buenos Aires, for example.

At that moment, two of my brothers entered and the conversation took a different turn. I had
understood that an exceptional and little enviable destiny weighed on me, but which one? I did not
dared to interrogate. I knew that any question would worsen my mother's sorrow, already resigned to
obedience. The first months we spent in Entre Ríos were such as I had
imagined. The countryside air erased our suburbs children's paleness, we all grew
cheerful and robust. Our happiness would have been complete were it not for the clouds that cast
about her the neighbors' questions:

-So there are six boys? Wasn't there any girl? Anyway, it's a nice family.

My mother's hand trembled over the sewing machine. But if all joys are unstable,
none is as much as the one based on a lie. One day, inexorably, it arrived
Mario. They had discharged the conscripts for economic reasons, and he had rushed to join them.
with us, without assuming that his arrival would disrupt the joy of the home and would take me away to
always the inner peace. At first, I did not notice any difference in the treatment from the friends of the house. Without
embargo, little by little some moved away, others said goodbye as soon as they saw me appear.
When I walked through the streets of the village, the boys, hand in hand, followed me singing: 'Let's play
in the forest that the wolf has already left... I quickened my pace, and around the corner I asked my mother to
he gave me any job in the field, but not to send me to the village. And on the nights of
full moon my mother assured early the latches of the doors and windows.

A strange nervousness was starting to take hold of me; I felt that something was being prepared.
terrible event, that nothing could stop. Often, when I was alone, I murmured: 'The
lobizón… lobizón", searching for the meaning of this esoteric word.

Children, like adults, quickly inform their friends about events

unpleasant things that run concerning them. A fight over a kite brought me the
desired clarification.

Keep it to yourself - my companion shouted, weaker than I, leaving the bird in my hands.
paper - keep it to yourself; after all, I don't care: I'm a normal guy, I can play with whoever
I feel like it. And I'm never going to play with you again, never, you know? My dad doesn't like that
play with a werewolf.

I let go of the kite. I rushed towards the boy, grabbing him with both hands by the collar of his shirt and I
I shook crazily, not knowing what I was doing, shouting:

-What is a lobizón? What is it?… tell me or I will kill you.

The boy was silent, terrified. I insisted persuasively.

If you tell me what a lobizón is, I will give you the kite... Look, there it is, it’s yours.

You are a werewolf... You.

-Why me? Why me and not you?

Let me go and I'll tell you.

-No; I won't let you go until you tell me what a lobizón is.

-The seventh son of a son- my friend replied- the one who turns into a wolf on moonlit nights.

-But I do not turn into a wolf - I protested - When have you seen me turned into a wolf?

I have not seen you, but Mr. Prudencio says he saw you and also Mrs. María the healer, and

-They lie- I shouted desperately- They lie! Look at me closely, do I have anything of a wolf?

-I don't know... the hair so dark... the ears and the teeth so large...

I ran a trembling hand through my hair, indeed black and coarse, like the hair of a
wolf; I touched my big ears, which suddenly seemed pointy to me.

-They lie- I repeated, but already without conviction.

-You yourself don't know it–my friend argued–; when you return to being a man, you don't remember.
that you have been a wolf.

I kept murmuring 'they lie...'

You knew that your parents made you pass as the sixth child... They didn't want us to know that you were the one.
seventh... There must be a reason.

Her logic overwhelmed me. Everything was true. I remembered my mother's terror at seeing me at night in the
patio and the conversation that had surprised, hidden under the dining table.

-And since you arrived- my friend insisted, now the owner of the kite- there is a wolf in the region and
has eaten many sheep. At the La Blanqueada stall four have died. And they say there were
wolf tracks next to the Cat stream.

I didn't want to hear any more. I ran to my house, shaken by horrible sobs; and upon seeing my mother next to
at the edge of the well, I stretched out my arms and fell at his feet, exhausted. My mother made me lie down and sleep.
most of the day. When I woke up it was night. In the sky a clear, round moon was shining.
In the distance, a wolf howled! A wolf! I got up without reflecting, as if hypnotized. Today I know it was
the inevitable result of the words heard in the afternoon, but at that moment it was the victim of
a powerful hallucination. I looked out the window; the howl was repeated more precisely, more
prolonged. Today I know it was a dog howling beside its dying master. But that night
I knew it was a wolf. So, resigned to my fate, I don't know if credulous or hysterical, or perhaps
really wolf, I leaned over the windowsill and let out a pitiful howl. Two of my brothers, who
they were sleeping in the same room, awoke startled.

-What are you doing?–Juan asked, getting up to stop me.

-Don't move- murmured Pedro-. Don't move; it's the werewolf.

The shadow of my head was cast on the ground; it was the head of a wolf. My nails were digging in
like claws in the palm of my hands; then I felt that my fingers were stretching, losing their
joints. It seemed to me that the teeth grew sharp and disfigured my mouth, that the
hair covered my forehead. I let out another howl and jumped through the window. I saw light in my room.
mother, but I did not stop. I began to run through the sleeping field under the guilty moon. To my
I heard someone shouting: 'The lobizón, the lobizón!... Stop him!...'

They found me half dead next to the stand of La Blanqueada. My sleeping clothes were
torn by the thistles: my lips and the palms of my hands were bleeding. They say that one
one night a wolf ate a sheep, but it wasn't me... I could swear it wasn't me... Although, in
reality, they say that when the lobizón returns to being a man he forgets that he has been a wolf... But I never
I would have forgotten... No, of course I wouldn't have forgotten.

Diego looked at the summer sky, where a round moon shone. He brought his hands to his head,
he sunk his fingers in his hair, he stroked his ears. Then he added:

-Go away. It has hurt me to remember this... It's as if I have relived that terrible night.

We remained silent, without daring to take a step.

-Go away- insisted Diego-. I want to sleep.

He closed his eyes. I was the last to leave. I don't know if I stayed with him out of spirit of companionship.
or out of curiosity. A bloody foam was escaping from his mouth; but I saw that later, in the
I remember. I was fascinated by his hairy, clenched, rigid hands on the arm of the armchair.
I thought they were turning into claws, but I didn't know - how could I know? - that they were the
hands of a dead person.

Silvina Bullrich (1915-1990)