The cats growled impatiently, but Virginia was thinking it over. She’d heard there was good dinnerware in churches, some of it made of gold, and the rest would always have its uses. She alerted the cats in their language, and told the saint, “Sir, what you’re telling me interests me to a certain degree, but it is against my principles to interrupt the hunt. If I come with you, I shall have to dine with you, and so shall the hundred cats of course.”
He looked at the cats with a certain amount of apprehension, then nodded his head in agreement.
“To bring you to the path of True Light,” he murmured, “I shall arrange a miracle. But understand that I am poor, very, very poor. I eat only once a week, and this solitary meal is sheep’s droppings.”
The cats set off without enthusiasm.
About a hundred yards from the Church of Saint Alexander there was what he called “my garden of the little Flowers of Mortification.” This consisted of a number of lugubrious instruments half buried in the earth: chairs made of wire (“I sit in them when they’re white-hot and stay there until they cool off”); enormous, smiling mouths with pointed, poisonous teeth; underwear of reinforced concrete full of scorpions and adders; cushions made of millions of black mice biting one another—when the blessed buttocks were elsewhere.
Saint Alexander showed off his garden one object at a time, with a certain pride. “Little Theresa never thought of underwear of reinforced concrete,” he said. “In fact I can’t at the moment think of anybody who had the idea. But then, we can’t all be geniuses.”
The entrance of the church was lined with statues of Saint Alexander at various periods of his life. There were some of Jesus Christ, too, but much smaller. The interior of the church was very comfortable: velvet cushions in ash pink, bibles of real silver, and My Unblemished Life, or The Rosaries of the Soul of Saint Alexander by himself, this in a binding of peacock blue jewels. Amber bas-reliefs on the walls gave intimate details of the life of the saint in childhood.
“Gather yourselves,” said Saint Alexander, and the hundred cats sat down on a hundred ash pink cushions.
Virginia remained standing and examined the church with interest. She sniffed the altar, which exuded a vaguely familiar smell, though she couldn’t remember where she had smelled it.
Saint Alexander mounted the pulpit and explained that he was going to perform a miracle: everyone hoped he was talking about food.
He took a bottle of water and sprinkled drops everywhere.
Snow of purity,
he began in a very low voice,
Pillar of virtue
Sun of beauty
Perfume …
He continued in this vein until a cloud flowed from the altar, a cloud like sour milk. Soon the cloud took the shape of a fat lamb with baneful eyes. Immediately Saint Alexander cried out, more and more loudly, and the lamb floated up to the ceiling.
“Lamb of God, dearly beloved Jesus, pray for the poor sinners,” cried the saint. But his voice had reached its maximum strength and broke. The lamb, which had become enormous, burst and fell to the ground in four pieces. At this moment the cats, who had watched the miracle without moving, threw themselves on the lamb in one great bound. It was their first meal of the day.
They soon finished off the lamb. Saint Alexander was lost in a cloud of dust, all that was left of the odour of sanctity. A weak, remote voice hissed, “Jesus has spilled his blood, Jesus is dead, Saint Alexander will avenge himself.”
Virginia took this opportunity to fill her bag with holy plates, and left the church with the hundred cats behind her.
The wheel crossed the woods at a hissing speed. Bats and moths were imprisoned in Virginia’s hair; she gestured to the beasts with her strange hands that the hunt was over; she opened her mouth and a blind nightingale flew in: she swallowed it and sang in the nightingale’s voice: “Little Jesus is dead, and we’ve had a fine dinner.”
A wild boar lived near Virginia’s house. This boar had a single eye in the middle of his forehead, surrounded by black curls. His hindquarters were covered with a thick russet fur, and his back with very tough bristles. Virginia was acquainted with this animal and did not kill it, since it knew where the truffles were hiding.
The boar was called Igname, and he was very pleased with his beauty. He enjoyed decorating himself with fruits, leaves, plants. He made himself necklaces of little animals and insects, which he killed solely to make himself look elegant, since he ate nothing but truffles.
Every evening when the moon was shining, he went to the lake to admire himself in the water. It was here, one evening, while bathing in the moonlight, that Igname decided to take Virginia as his mistress. He admired most her fruity smell and her long hair, always full of nocturnal animals. He decided she was very beautiful and probably a virgin. Igname rolled in the mud luxuriously, thinking of Virginia’s charms.
“She has every reason for taking me. Am I not the finest animal in all the forest?”
When he had finished his moon-and-mud bath, he got up to find the most sumptuous outfit in which to ask Virginia for her love.
No animal or bird ever looked so splendid as did Igname in his attire of love. Attached to his curly head was a young nightjar. This bird with its hairy beak and surprised eyes beat its wings and looked constantly for prey amongst the creatures that come out only at the full moon. A wig of squirrels’ tails and fruit hung around Igname’s ears, pierced for the occasion by two little pikes he had found dead on the lakeshore. His hoofs were dyed red by the blood of a rabbit he had crushed while galloping, and his active body was enveloped by a purple cape which had mysteriously emerged out of the forest. (He hid his russet buttocks, as he did not want to show all his beauty at one go.)
He walked slowly and with great dignity. The grasshoppers fell silent with admiration. As he was passing under an oak tree, Igname saw a rosary hanging down amongst the leaves. He knew there must be a body attached to this rosary, and he heard a shrill and mocking laugh from above.
Any other time, thought Igname, and he’d be laughing on the other side of his face, and he continued on his way without turning his head.
Igname arrived at Virginia’s house. She was sitting on her heels in front of a stewpot which trembled on the fire, making little musical noises. The cats were sitting motionless in every corner of the kitchen, staring at the stewpot.
When Virginia saw Igname she jumped on the table.
“You look impressive coming out the forest,” she breathed, dazzled by his beauty.
Igname’s eye became pale and brilliant; the nightjar sent up its thin cry, almost too high to be heard by the ear. Igname advanced and sat down beside the fire on his russet backside.
“Do you recognize my garments of love?” said Igname gravely. “Do you know, Virginia, that I am wearing them for you? Do you realize that the nightjar’s claws are thrust deep into my skull? It’s for you, I love you. I double up with laughter when I see the night, for my body is exploding with love. Answer me, Virginia, will this night belong to us?”
He faltered, since he had prepared his speech only to this point. Virginia, trembling, spat hard into the fire, a curse on the words of love. She was afraid of Igname’s beauty. Then she spat into the stewpot and put her lips into the boiling liquid and swallowed a big mouthful. With a savage cry she brought her head back out of the pot; she jumped around Igname, tearing her hair out by the roots; Igname stood up, and together they danced a dance of ecstasy. The cats caterwauled and stuck their claws into one another’s necks, and then threw themselves in a mass onto Igname and Virginia, who disappeared under a mountain of cats. Where they made love.
Hunters came seldom to the mountains, but one morning Virginia Fur saw two humans with guns. She hid herself in a bramble bush, and the human beings passed near without noticing her smell. She was terrified by their ugliness and clumsy movements. Abusing them under her breath, she returned home to warn Igname. He wasn’t there.
She went out again on her wh
eel, accompanied by the hundred cats.
In the forest Virginia learned that there had been several deaths. Flocks of birds and groups of wild beasts were having funeral feasts. Full of anguish, they filled their stomachs and cursed the hunters.
Virginia went looking for her lover, but found neither track nor scent of him.
Towards dawn she heard from a badger that Igname was dead: he had been murdered along with a thousand birds, forty hares, and as many deer.
The badger, sitting on a tree trunk, told the story:
“The hunters, who you noticed, passed close to the Church of Saint Alexander. The saint was sitting in his concrete underwear. He saw them coming, he was praying aloud. The hunters asked him news of game.
“I am the Protector of the Little Animals of God,” he answered. “But inside my church is a box of alms for the poor. If you put something in it, it’s just possible the good Lord will show you the lake where every evening a big wild boar can be found.”
After having a good look to see how much the hunters had put into the box, Saint Alexander led them to the lake.
Igname was looking deeply at himself in the water. The hunters fired, and the dogs finished him off. They put Igname into a big sack and said, “This one will do for the bistro in Glane, we’ll get at least a hundred francs.”
Virginia returned home, followed by the cats. There, in the kitchen, she gave birth to seven little boars. Out of sentiment she kept the one most like Igname, and boiled the others for herself and the cats, as a funeral feast.
The wheel, the cats, and Virginia merged with the trees and the wind. Their shadows, black and disquieting, passed with extraordinary speed across the slope of the mountains. They were shouting something; the nightbirds replied: “Wheeeeeeech? Saint Francis? That bore again! Let’s kill him! Isn’t he dead yet? Enough of his damned stupidities. It isn’t him? Who then? Ah, Saint Alexander, ayyyyy! Kill him too, he’s a saint.” And they flew along with the shadows, crying “Killll himmmm! Killll himmmm!”
Soon the earth moved with all the beasts out of their holes crying, “Killll himmmm!”
Ninety thousand horses bounded and broke from their stables to gallop along, beating the earth with their hoofs and neighing, “Killll himmmm, death to foul Alexander!”
Two ladies dressed in black were walking in the snow. One of them talked a lot, the other appeared to have had enough of walking, but wore the icy look of a dutiful lady. The other one, with her pinched, dry face, talked in a crystal clear voice, one of those voices that are so tiresome when one wants to go to sleep in a railway compartment.
“My husband,” she was saying, “loves me very much, you know. My husband is so well-known. He’s such a child, my husband. My husband has his flings, but I leave him totally free, my dear little husband. And yet I am very ill, I shall die soon, in a month I shall be dead.”
“No, no,” the other said, her attention elsewhere. “Aren’t the mountains ravishing in the snow?”
The talkative lady gave a laugh. “Yes, aren’t they? But all I see are the poor people who suffer in these isolated little villages. I feel my heart fill to bursting with love and pity.” She struck her flat chest, and the dutiful lady thought, “There isn’t room for a heart, her bust’s too tight.”
The path climbed suddenly, and at the end of a long lane they saw a convent.
“What a beautiful place to die. I feel so pure with the Sisters of Jesus’s Little Smile of Anguish. I know that there, with my prayers, I shall get back the soul of my darling little husband.”
Two men came down the path. They were carrying the corpse of a beautiful boar.
“I shall buy the boar and give it to the good sisters,” the lady said. “I am very generous, you know. My little husband often scolded me, said I throw money out the window. But won’t they be happy, the good sisters?” She gave the hunters some money and they said they’d take the boar to the convent. “I myself eat very little, you know, I am too ill. I am very near to death, very near.”
“We’re approaching the convent,” said the other, with a sigh.
“Kiss me, my dear little Engadine,” said the talkative one. “You know I’m nothing but a capricious girl.” She offered her companion a shrivelled face. “My little husband always said I was such a child!”
Engadine pretended not to hear, and walked faster. Her companion had a certain nauseating smell of the sick about her that repelled her. She walked faster. The sun was hidden by heavy black clouds. A flock of goats and a billy goat passed close, the buck threatening them with a devil’s look.
“They frighten me, these goats, they smell so bad. What a brutish smell!” The buck continued to stare at her.
The road became harder. The mountains darkened into rude animal shapes; in the distance they seemed to hear galloping horses.
They rang the bell at the great portal of the convent; it was opened by a creature that might have come from a lemon, she was so shrivelled and acid. “The Abbot is in the middle of his prayers,” she wheezed. “Mother Superior is on her knees. Come, come in the chapel.”
They followed her through the corridors, and finally arrived at the chapel. The Abbot had just finished his prayers. The Mother Superior of Jesus’s Little Smile of Anguish got up from her knees with difficulty, weighted down by her greyish flesh.
“Poor little girl,” whispered the nun. “Come along to the drawing room.”
Once there, the enormous woman enveloped the other in a fat, sturdy embrace. Then they talked:
“I’ve come to die in your convent and win the soul of my dear husband….”
“Board and lodging five hundred francs a month …”
“I’m very ill, very ill….”
“Plenary indulgences are supplementary, a thousand francs.”
“My darling little husband will come see me often….”
“Another thousand francs for food, of course.”
“I pray morning till night for my little husband.”
“A community like ours is very expensive.”
They talked like this for several hours.
At half past six an enormous bell rang for the dead and the evening meal, a meal to be taken in rigorous silence. On feast days, Sister Ignatius, headmistress, read aloud. She rang a little bell, and when everybody had something to eat, announced, “This evening is amongst the greatest of occasions for our community; the Great Saint Alexander himself is coming to speak to us in the chapel at seven-thirty. Afterwards we shall have a meal in the great hall to celebrate the occasion.”
The eyes of a hundred nuns shone with joy.
“Now,” continued Sister Ignatius, “we continue with chapter one thousand nine hundred thirteen of the twentieth volume of the life of Christ as told to children.” The light disappeared in a hundred pairs of eyes.
When the chapel was full of nuns, the organ played a grand, sombre hymn for the saint’s imperial entrance. In gold and purple and followed by five little boys, he got down on his knees before the altar.
A voice in the choir began to sing. Perhaps it was a hymn, but it went so fast that most of the nuns were two or three lines behind. The effect was odd; the Mother Superior appeared ill at ease; when the saint mounted the pulpit, followed by six fat cats, she was in a sweat.
“Dear sisters, I have come from far to gladden you with the word of God.”
It seemed as if the altar was filling with cats, gold cats and black cats.
“The harshness of life, the temptations of the flesh, the goodness of the good …”
A strong wild smell drifted through the church; raising their eyes, the sisters were horrified to see a large badger climbing tranquilly onto Saint Alexander’s head. He continued, but every now and again made a movement with his hand as if trying to chase something away.
“Beware of sinful thoughts….”
The voice in the choir was still singing, but it scarcely resembled a hymn; Saint Alexander was obliged to shout to make himself heard.
“The good Lord sees your most secret thoughts….” The ceiling was hidden by a million birds of night crying: “Death to foul Alexander….”
He descended the pulpit with as much dignity as he could muster, and went out, followed by the nuns, the cats, the badger, and a million birds of the night.
In the refectory a huge table groaned with platters of game, cakes, and great flagons of wine. The saint sat down in the place of honour at the head of the table and asked the good Lord for permission to eat. The good Lord made no reply, and everybody sat down and attacked with good appetite.
The Mother Superior, sitting on the saint’s right, whispered, “Holy Father, you weren’t disturbed in your magnificent discourse?”
“Disturbed?” he asked in a surprised voice, though his face was covered in scratches. “Disturbed, how?”
“Oh, nothing,” the mother replied, blushing. “There are some flies in the church.”
“I notice nothing when I talk to the good Lord,” said the lady who’d taken up residence at the convent. “Not even flies.”
The two ladies exchanged sour looks.
“That, dear madam, is a noble thought,” answered the saint. “Are you familiar with a little poem I wrote in my youth:
In Paris the Pope
In Aix Lord of the House,
But before the good Lord
I’m but a poor mouse.
“It’s fresh, and yet so strong at the same time,” the lady exclaimed ecstatically. “How I love real poetry.”
“There’s more where that came from,” said the saint. “I find the lack of true poets forces me to write.”
Out of the corner of her eye, the Mother Superior saw seven large cats enter the room silently. They sat down beside the saint, curling their tails around themselves. She grew pale. “Your husband, dear child, must be very busy to leave you alone so often?”
The Complete Stories of Leonora Carrington Page 4
