Memoirs of a Basque Cow Page 2

  ‘Can’t you give me a clue, my friend?’ I said then, and I don’t know how I could bring myself to say that, calling The Pest ‘my friend’, buttering her up. I was very young, of course, and I was fed up with being stranded on that hill. But those are just excuses; the fact is that I demeaned myself. There are no two ways about it, the truth is that now, if I could, I would kick myself hard in that part of one’s anatomy one doesn’t usually mention. Worse, The Pest was not even prepared to give in.

  ‘No, I told you “no”. You must give that head of yours a good shake and set it to work. It’s dark, that’s true, and the snow has erased all the roads and paths, but that shouldn’t be a problem for someone with the power to think. Think, my dear, and you will soon be home.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ I said as coarsely as I could and, grim-faced, I lay down in the snow and stared at the black rock. After a while, I half turned round and stared in the other direction. In that position, though, I couldn’t even see the rock, and I decided to turn round again. Although it was cold, my whole body was burning. I thought: ‘I’ll get up and empty my bowels. Perhaps that will distract me.’

  But it was no good. I didn’t feel like it. And I had no alternative but to continue being bored. In the end, I just stretched out my neck and bellowed with all my might: ‘What’s going on here! What’s happening, why aren’t I frightened? If I was frightened, I wouldn’t be so bored!’

  ‘Now that’s what I call bellowing, my dear,’ exclaimed my Inner Voice. ‘And would you believe it, that bellowing of yours might just resolve your problem, since it will have alerted the local pack of wolves to the fact that you’re here; they’re very hungry wolves, by the way, and they’d love to gobble up a nice tender little creature like you. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they didn’t arrive this instant. They’re probably on their way right now. Of course, I know how brave you are and that a wolf or two or even three would be nothing to you. Just deal them a couple of kicks each and that’ll be that. But a whole pack of wolves, about sixteen of them, that’s another matter. I don’t know, it’s up to you, but I think I’d probably leave — fast, quickly, at the double, in a word, pronto.’

  What did The Pest mean? What was all that about wolves? Wolves? Hungry wolves? Sixteen wolves? What did The Pest mean, ‘sixteen wolves’? Where had all those wolves suddenly sprung from? A shiver ran down my spine, but I decided to stand firm and stay where I was. My pride as a cow left me no alternative.

  ‘Be quiet, Pest!’ I said. ‘What do you mean “wolves”? This is the twentieth century, you know! Only a fool would believe such a thing!’

  ‘Of course, my dear, this is the twentieth century, or, to be more exact, 1940, but we are in the Basque Country, and in the Basque Country there’s been a war going on until recently, the Civil War of 1936, and there’s a lot of hunger, a lot of poverty, not enough people to clear the woods, and rumour has it that the woods are full of wolves.’

  ‘Well, there might be rumours flying around, but no wolves,’ I said to The Pest, trying to make a joke of it, but my tail was still twitching. Wolves! Sixteen wolves! Sixteen hungry wolves! And me a mere cow. Not just any cow, but a cow all the same.

  Suddenly, on the surface of the black rock, a shape appeared, a black shape, like a lump. Up until only a short time before, there had been nothing but a lot of snow and a black rock, now there was a lot of snow, a black rock and a lump. After a while, two more black lumps appeared: a lot of snow, a black rock and three lumps, four lumps, six lumps, nine lumps.

  ‘What’s more they’ve all got ears,’ I thought, looking harder. I leapt to my feet.

  ‘Rotten wolves! A whole gang of them too! Come at me one at a time and then we’ll see what’s what!’ I said, or rather I didn’t, I just imagined that I did.

  ‘My dear, think a little,’ said The Pest. ‘Where is your house? Where can it be?’

  Just at that moment, when my tail was beginning to tremble, light dawned. I was on the top of a hill, wasn’t I? I was up the hill. Therefore, what was the solution?

  ‘To go down!’ I said to myself. Besides, it was possible that there might not be any snow lower down and the path would be clear. Bracing myself from head to foot, I set off at a trot. By then, the black rock was covered in lumps, at least sixteen of them, all with ears.

  ‘Wait, my dear,’ said The Pest at that moment, and just at the right moment, like a real friend. ‘I know that back home in the barn no one can beat you at running, but one of those wolves probably could. Don’t trot, just take it slowly and calmly, as if you were looking for the odd blade of grass to eat. That way they won’t attack immediately. They’ll follow you, but they won’t attack. You must keep a cool head, my dear.’

  Realising that The Pest was right, I began to move nonchalantly. I took three steps and stopped. I waited a little, then took another two steps. Three steps, four steps, two steps. I looked out of the corner of my eye at the rock: all the lumps were now on the snow, and there were sixteen of them, all with ears. I took a step, the ones with the ears took another. I took three, they took three. Ahead of me lay only the darkness of the night and the whiteness of the snow, and some stars and a moon. At one point, a kind of spasm ran through my tail, and I forgot myself and took five rather rapid steps.

  ‘Careful, my friend,’ I heard the voice say inside me. All the lumps were bunched together only a few yards from me; I could hear them breathing.

  Boldly, without thinking twice, I turned round to face the wolves and I started calmly and contentedly eating the snow, as if it wasn’t snow before me, but whole bunches of fenugreek. When they saw this, the lumps seemed disconcerted and stopped in their tracks, first one, and then the others. I noticed that apart from ears they also had eyes: pointed ears and reddish eyes. Then, without losing my composure, I started to retreat, quite fast, one two three, one two three, one two three, and the wolves, one two three, didn’t take their eyes off me, but, one two three, they still couldn’t quite decide to attack. And thus, one two three, one two three, we reached a grove of trees. I remembered that grove of trees; it was just above my house.

  ‘Beyond the trees there’s a steep slope, and at the end of the slope is the path home,’ I thought. ‘If, when I get there, I hurl myself down the hill, I might break a leg, but at least those wolves won’t get me.’

  ‘A great idea!’ I heard the voice say inside me.

  I again began to advance, little by little, watching the sixteen wolves out of the corner of my eye. They still had ears and eyes, but, worse, they had mouths. They had red mouths and white teeth. From time to time, one of them would start howling, and behind him the others would begin to howl too. Maybe I imagined it, but, just at that moment, I heard one wolf say to another: ‘Shall we eat her, then?’

  I didn’t have the courage to wait for the reply. And since the beginning of the slope was some forty yards away, I broke into a trot, then a run. I ran, shaking the snow from the branches of the trees; and I was running and the wolves were running too, and I was panting and the wolves were panting too, and my breath was lost in the cold air, whilst the breath from the panting wolves, on the other hand, wasn’t lost in the cold air, but on a part of my anatomy I prefer, out of politeness, not to mention. I felt more and more breath in that area, but the grove of trees was, at last, getting nearer and nearer.

  Then, when I was sure I’d reached the slope, I felt something like a flame touch that unmentionable place and one of the wolves began to tug on the hairs at the end of my tail. I looked directly at it: it had pointed ears, reddish eyes, and a hairy mouth. Unfortunately for me, the hairs in its mouth were my hairs.

  ‘We’re lost, my friend!’ I heard the voice say inside me.

  ‘Don’t you believe it! The wolf hasn’t been born who could get the better of me!’ I cried out wildly. And with a strength born of desperation, I gave a huge leap and hurled myself headlong down the slope. It felt as if I were going to plunge into an abyss.

  After
flying through the air for a bit, I stumbled and finally rolled. If it hadn’t been for the snow, I would surely have broken a bone or two, but the snow was soft and saved me.

  ‘What about the wolves? Where are the wolves?’ I asked myself. And while I was saying that, the same wolf who had tugged at the hairs on my tail, sank his teeth into that rather remote part of my anatomy. I gave a yelp of pain and, at the same time, dealt him a powerful kick that caught him full on. He ran off howling. He took with him his ears and his eyes, he took with him his mouth, but he didn’t take with him the teeth in that mouth. They all fell out with that one blow. Soon afterwards, thanks in large part to The Pest, I was safe back in the barn at home.

  Come to think of it, though, where are those winter snows now? Or rather, as I learned to say in French long after that incident with the wolves: Où sont les neiges d’antan? How many years have passed since they melted for ever? Because that’s the truth of the matter, they melted, and our youth melted away with them. We were all young then: I was young, The Pest was young, the wolves were young, the other cows in my house were young, and even the century itself was young, it was only 1940 then; now the century is drawing to a close. Where has it all gone! Where are the snows of yesteryear? I realise now that then we were almost happy, and even The Pest and I got on better than it would seem. In fact, she hadn’t become a complete Pest yet, and wasn’t that irritating; true, she liked to get her own way, but she knew how to do so without giving orders. I was almost convinced that she really was my Guardian Angel. Lately, though, she just keeps on and on at me until she gets what she wants. On that night of thunder and lightning, for example, she didn’t care how comfy I was in my bed, and she kept asking me that question over and over: ‘Listen, my dear, has not the hour arrived? Is this not the appropriate, correct and convenient moment?’

  When The Pest is in that mood, you might as well give in, because, otherwise, she simply won’t shut up.

  ‘What hour? It can’t be time to get up yet! If it is, please just leave me in peace until day has dawned.’

  ‘It isn’t time to get up, my dear, but time to keep a promise that you made a long time ago. Do you remember what you said to me that night with the wolves?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You’ve grown old and lazy, but despite that, I can’t believe that you really don’t remember. Because who can best remember her young days? Why, the cow who is getting on in years. She may not remember what happened the day before, but she can remember exactly what happened forty years ago. Anyway, I will tell you what you promised after escaping from the wolves. You said: “One day, I will write my memoirs and I will describe everything that happened tonight.”’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I said bluntly.

  ‘Well, I find that hard to credit, because you said the same after that fiesta in the village, and again when you left home, and on many other occasions too. It was always the same old story: you would write your memoirs, you said.’

  ‘I find that incredible!’

  ‘Well, it’s true. And now I come to think of it, when Green Glasses arrived at your house, you said the same again. According to you, that bitter episode would also appear in your memoirs.’

  ‘Green Glasses! The ugliest creature I ever met!’ I exclaimed, unable to contain myself.

  ‘You see? You do remember, and very clearly! And do you know what I think? The century is moving on and so are you, and you can’t depart this life just like any other cow. You must leave a testimony! Let the world know how great a cow can be! The hour has come, my dear, the moment has arrived!’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ I said in a resigned voice, for I knew I had no choice but to write my memoirs. If I didn’t, as I said before, I would have to hear that same old song night after night.

  ‘I’m positive, my dear. You must start writing.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll go and fetch pen and paper and I’ll begin at first light.’

  And that is what I did.

  SECOND CHAPTER

  WHY I DO NOT RETURN TO BALANZATEGUI, MY BIRTHPLACE. WHAT PAULINE BERNADETTE TOLD ME. THE FIRST MAJOR TRAUMA — MY BIRTH.

  Apparently, I had to be born and so I ended up being born in a wood in the Basque Country shortly after the end of the 1936 war. The wood was part of land belonging to a house called Balanzategui, and I became part of that household: there I lived in my first barn and had my first home, and there too I spent the early years of my life, the most important years. It’s true that I didn’t stay there very long, it’s true that I’ve spent many years far from that house, but my spirit still misses that part of the world. And, who knows, perhaps my spirit flies there whenever I fall asleep. As a wise oriental once said:

  THE BLACKBIRD FROM ISTANBUL

  ALWAYS FLIES TOWARDS ISTANBUL.

  I’m not a blackbird, a thrush or any kind of bird, for I’m rather too big and bulky for that, but it’s no lie to say that my heart is not so very different from theirs. Indeed, my heart is the heart of a bird; if my heart had its way, it would have me spread my wings right now and fly away to the land of my childhood. I would arrive there, land all one thousand pounds of me as lightly as a snowflake, and then I would pour my feelings into this one cry: ‘Long live Balanzategui!’

  Of course, I don’t have wings, and I can only move my body by planting my four feet on the ground, and even then it’s quite an effort. And that is why I don’t go back to Balanzategui, because of the effort involved and because of all the usual aches and pains that come with old age. If I felt strong enough, I would set off tomorrow. In fact, if I knew for certain how much longer I had to live, I would set off despite all my aches and pains. If, for example, they told me that I still had another two years of life, then I would try — slowly, unhurriedly, but I would certainly try. As the saying goes:

  THE COW WHO WON’T TRY ONCE IS

  EITHER A WEAKLING OR A DUNCE.

  I don’t believe I’m either of those things, and I would leave for Balanzategui today if I knew that I had those two years ahead of me. The trouble is, I don’t know if I do or not. We cows are always unlucky; we were even unlucky on the day when time was shared out. I have heard that when the world began there was someone in charge of sharing out time, and that someone said to the snake: ‘You will live for twelve years.’

  And the snake said: ‘Fine.’

  To the dog: ‘Fifteen years.’

  And the dog said: ‘Fine.’

  To the donkey: ‘Twenty-eight years.’

  And the donkey said: ‘Fine.’

  To the man: ‘Thirty-three years.’

  And the man said: ‘You must be joking. I can’t accept that. I want to live longer.’

  ‘All right, you will live for eighty-eight years,’ the person who was sharing out time must have said, ‘but of those eighty-eight years, you will spend thirty-three as a man, twenty-eight working like a donkey, fifteen leading a dog’s life, and the last twelve you will spend crawling on your belly like a snake.’

  Anyway, it seems that the matter of how long men would live was resolved and the sharing out of time continued. And so the ants, bees, butterflies, wrens, seagulls, kestrels, tortoises, camels, trout, lions, tigers and kangaroos all learned how much time they would have in the world. Then there came a moment when it was all over and the Sharer-out of Time was about to leave.

  ‘And what about us? How many years will we have?’ someone was heard to say. Naturally, it was a cow. It seemed that everyone had forgotten about her.

  They say that the Sharer-out of Time said wearily: ‘How long? Hmm. Well, I don’t know. A few years.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said the cow. And with that everyone said goodbye and went their separate ways.

  That cow must have been a fool, a chump, a booby to respond to the Sharer-out of Time’s ‘A few’ with a ‘Thank you very much.’ What did she mean ‘Thank you very much’? That cow was nothing like me, of course.

  I would have asked the Sharer
-out of Time: ‘What do you mean “a few”? Because, obviously, “a few” can mean almost anything. Three years could be a few, so could forty years or even two hundred years. It depends on how you look at it. So could you just clarify what you mean by “a few”?’

  And the Sharer-out of Time would have clarified the point and told me exactly how many years I could expect. Let’s say a hundred. That way, knowing how long you had in the world, you could then do your calculations.

  ‘I came into the world around 1940, and the century is now drawing to a close. That means that I’ve been in the world for fifty years. If I’m supposed to live for a hundred years, a hundred minus fifty is fifty. I still have fifty years left, so therefore it’s worth my while to make my way slowly back to Balanzategui. Even if it took me ten years to get there, I would still have years and years to spend peacefully in the shade of the wood where I was born.’

  But that cow at the beginning of the world was stupid, and she didn’t ask how long our ‘few years’ would be. So there is no way I can know if it’s worth my while making the journey back to Balanzategui, because though it’s sad to have to die far from the place where you were born, it would be even sadder to have to say your final farewell in some unknown place en route. That’s what Sister Pauline Bernadette says too; she’s the little French nun who has looked after me for quite some time now:

  ‘You won’t be going anywhere, my dear, you’re happy and comfortable here with us. Or don’t you think so? Would you say we treated you badly here at the convent? What do you want? Do you want to leave here and end up with a broken back on some rough road somewhere?’

  ‘In one way, you’re right, Sister. Balanzategui apart, this convent is my heart’s true home, ma vrai maison,’ I say to the little nun, struggling to speak her complicated language. And she really appreciates my words, about how the convent is my heart’s true home and all that. She’s so pleased, in fact, that before I know it, there’s a big pile of grass in front of me, or, rather, grasses, because there’s always a bit of everything in these piles, from fenugreek to clover to alfalfa.