CHAPTER I

My name is Manuel Blanco Romasanta. As I sit down to write these memoirs I am about to turn forty-three. In my part of the world I am known as O Tendeiro, the salesman, but I shall go down in history as The Wolf Man. Of that I am positive. Nevertheless, the mob, the greatest simpletons, who may also be the shrewdest, will go on calling me in Galician “O Homo de Unto”, as well as “O Saca Manteigas”, the man who sucks human fat.

         Regueiro lies near Esgos. It is a small place, not even a small village, located just down from the church at Santa Baia, from where Regueiro, as well as the parishes of de Sontelo and A Lama, have always been administered. My home, the same house where I was born into this world, sits precisely at the start of the road that descends from the parish church, just as you enter the small cluster of houses that make up Regueiro.

         To get to Esgos from Regueiro you have to leave the village and pass directly in front of my house before taking the road that leads to A Lama. After crossing the village you go on climbing, as if you were heading towards the top of O Couso, but before you reach it you must take a left turn and descend along the main road until you reach Esgos, which is close by. Indeed, you could say that Esgos lies a little too close for comfort.

         From the front of my house, if you look over and beyond its tiled roof, you can see the summit of Mount Castelo, which is somewhat steeper than the peaks nearby. I know all of them well from having criss-crossed them often, travelling in the opposite direction to that always used by the “Maragatos” when they come here from their land. As long as I can remember, the Maragatos have always come carrying their merchandise in drays, or just loaded on the backs of mules. If you go in the opposite direction from the one taken by them from the summit of O Couso, you get to A Rúa. From there you make your way to Barco de Valdeorras, and then, following the course of the River Sil, passing close to As Médulas, you enter O Bierzo. You then go through Ponferrada, after crossing Foncebadón, and you reach Val de San Lorenzo, which is already in La Maragatería. I always envied these Maragatos, and felt a deep and abiding admiration for them. Maybe it is for this, and other reasons that will become apparent in due course, that I undertook, in these, and some even more exotic surroundings, my first and one and only chosen profession. For I became a travelling salesman, a career that provided me with enough money for greater and more arduous enterprises, and from which I would ultimately become the rich man I had always dreamed of becoming. To this day I am faithful to my calling.

         I was a good-looking boy, with eyes the colour of honey, and so skilful with my hands that my work never failed to provoke admiration. I realised from the beginning that I had a talent, and I took delight in my dexterous hands, seeking to draw people’s attention to the hobbies to which I devoted my spare time as a child. I did not engage in this work for the sake of it, since I scarcely derived any pleasure from it, but rather because I knew that people’s eyes were on me. The knowledge of this really afforded me pleasure. In fact, it was an indescribable pleasure, and it is still so. It was the best way at my disposal to make people look at me, eliciting their admiration and praise.

         To hear people talking about me, just to imagine them doing it – or that they may do it at any given moment – also thrilled me, and it still thrills me. Girls must be better able to recognise the feeling to which I am referring, since I have no doubt that they experience it when they know that they are being observed by boys who gaze besottedly upon them. It is as if the boys are struck deaf and dumb by the girls jumping and skipping joyously and exultantly, enjoying the pleasure of focusing and maintaining the attention of these little men upon them with their sensual rhythms. The girls know that the boys are talking about them, mentally tracing the curves of their young bodies and craving them, even if only in an adolescent way, without realising the implications of what they are experiencing. To make people talk about me and to be aware of their eyes penetrating my body was always an inexhaustible source of that pleasure which I am describing. My hands were the first instruments I used to induce that pleasure.

         There are not many tasks fit for a child that you can perform with your hands to draw people’s attention, especially if you live in a village, or more accurately in such a tiny spot as my birthplace, in the province of Ourense. It makes matters even worse when the tasks performed are those expected of a boy, especially when all the other boys in the place are carrying out those same tasks. A boy cuts off a long branch from a hazel tree to make a cattle prod, upon which he carves an endless number of mainly geometric designs on the bright brown bark. Irrespective of the degree of craftsmanship involved, nobody will express surprise that a child can carry out this task. That is how it was for me. From the start, my drawings were of exceptional quality, but nobody was unduly impressed by them, and certainly not to the extent that I hoped. They were equivalent to those by other boys. Although much better executed, they were the same in the long run: cattle prods made from hazel branches upon which I carved figures of animals or geometric patterns. I made them very elaborate, similar to those carved on the stones of neighbouring hills, but no matter how beautifully I rendered the designs or how beautifully I drew the figures of deer, showing their tall antlers or huge testicles, nothing I did was regarded as special.

         Likewise, it is also customary for a boy to use his hands to build cages for birds employed to capture other birds – I mean those birds used as decoys. Neither is it unusual – except in rare cases – for boys endowed with ability to build even more splendid, perfect cages for the birds that had been captured. This would be considered quite unexceptional. I built them too, but for the reason I mentioned before, I soon became bored with this job, and I only made the cages when the parish priest specifically asked me to do so. When I built them, they were certainly the most splendid ones. But I did not want to do what everybody else did, even if my workmanship was superior. I preferred to devote myself to other tasks. Firstly, I forced myself to read easily and fluently, and then to borrow the books that the priest was reading, with the result that I eventually became much more cultured than the rest of my neighbours. Later I learnt other tasks. By then I was different from the others, wasn’t I?

         I do not know why I did it or why I wanted to be different. Maybe it was because I sensed that to be able to read in Spanish would assist me to fulfil my dream to leave my village and to see the world. How I wanted to see the world! In order to do this I needed to speak like the “Maragatos” who came from the other side of the mountains. That is why I learnt to read. At least that is what I think now. I did it in the knowledge that quite a few people would hold it against me, and that my decision would provoke negative comments, always behind my back of course. This only served to encourage me all the more, since in a way I did not suspect, it stimulated that sweet and sour taste of revenge that always attracted me. To know that they were gossiping about me and that I was better than them gave me a thrill. Vengeance always seemed to me my sacred right. This was just another way of achieving it.

         Learning to read did not exactly quench my desires. On the contrary, it channelled them towards different, more scandalous ways. I knew that my hands were among my best weapons, at least when it came to drawing other people’s attention. Maybe that is why I became an expert tailor, a profession which, where I come from, is regarded as a feminine pursuit, hardly something worthy of men. I then became a much-admired cook, and an outstanding taxidermist. There was nobody with my talent for preserving animals, after having caused them the exact amount of pain before they died: death-throes that nobody would have imagined possible. To contemplate them steeped in an indescribable stupor as they lay there dying was such a mystery to me that I engaged in this pastime whenever I had a chance. I dissected some animals while they were still alive only for the sake of watching that incredible expression in their eyes, whose light became duller and duller. Or else I watched their half-open mouths in order to perceive something that I have never been able to determine – if it was pleasure or terror, pain or an indescribable wonder they felt in the face of everlasting night.

         It was a slow apprenticeship. I began by piercing the eyes of finches that I caught to see if it is true that their song is more beautiful when this happens. I do not think so, but I do acknowledge that it becomes sadder. I also admit that to observe them in their cages, imprisoned but secure, hostages to their dependence on birdseed and the water bowl, makes you want to free them so you can see them fly blindly in erratic patterns similar to those described by butterflies. They fly like this while emitting shrill cries, stuttering and anguished, before they come to rest anywhere at random, rolled up in sad, shrunken balls, and await the fast approaching hour whose imminence they have learned to anticipate.

         I used to trap them with bird-lime, after attracting them with a decoy of their own kind. Incarcerated within one of those cages that I used to build from an early age, the decoy attracted the other finches with its song, forcing them to rest on the nearest branches, where they were doomed to remain. I then caught them with my hands, and I burnt their tiny eyes with a red-hot pin. I convinced myself that this would make their song sweeter. Eventually I realised that it only became more melancholy. Then it became a song of fear. This occurred when I released them, and as I saw them flying, mapping out those patterns in the sky that would make butterflies go mad with envy, I would succumb to an indefinable puzzlement. Sometimes, as I felt them throbbing within my hand, then as powerful as it was skilful, I would clench it slowly, snuffing out their life as they lay within its hollow, my fingers astounded by their own strength.

         I have already said that, by contrast with the people from my village, who will never learn to read and write in Spanish, or will always do it badly, I soon learned to read and write in “correct” Spanish. I was helped in this endeavour by the close relations I always maintained with members of the Church, since I was an altar boy at a young age and subsequently I became an acolyte in the parish of Santa Baia. This all happened before I decided to become a travelling salesman and so follow the dictates of my heart, which so many people believe, or choose to believe, is sick and afflicted. I also learnt to sew better than anybody else. I made all sorts of ecclesiastical garb – meticulously embroidered cassocks and white surplices with charming laces, altar cloths, stoles and even priestly habits made lovingly and painstakingly, not to say prettily and to perfect specifications, since I am an artist with my hands. And I do write well, don’t I?

         I always enjoyed walking, especially where nobody else had ventured, discovering new paths and hidden ways. As a boy I occasionally escaped from Regueiro, and avoiding Esgos, I used to go to San Pedro de Rocas and visit the abandoned cemetery. There I would rest my tender body on the granite slabs occupied by other bodies now evicted by time or who knows what historical circumstances – bodies reduced to dust and now cast into total oblivion. I must admit that those visits were in no small way prompted by the romantic books that I read at the behest of the parish priest, an avid reader of such things, not to mention others.

         In short, I was a precocious and adventurous boy, adept with my hands, eloquent, fond of exploring ways and by-ways, and always anxious to attract the attention of my peers. I was also a boy who, even before adolescence, always wished to increase the opportunities that my modest circumstances could afford. However, bad luck made me the seventh of nine brothers.

         The parish priest must have noticed my behaviour, or maybe my weird kind of love for animals, or who knows, maybe one or other of my rather extravagant inclinations, for he did not encourage my religious vocation. The truth is that he never even suggested the possibility that I may take the path of the priesthood, something that would have thrilled me. I could read, I understood Latin, which he himself had taught me, and there were even moments when I was convinced that he would propose that I embrace the religious life. But it was not to be, and when I was persuaded of that fact, I realised that I would have to find an alternative career. It was then that I decided to become a travelling salesman. I would have preferred to become a missionary, but what did I have to bargain with, being penniless and coming from an isolated village?

         At first I made my way by moving to Chaves, all the way to Portugal, where I acquired bows, laces, veils and frills from the shop owned by Don Francisco Morais, as well as that of Señor Diéguez, who lives in Rúa Dereita. It was the latter who, without realising it, put me in contact with apothecaries and other buyers of human fat. It was from these two men that I purchased the fancy wares that I subsequently sold in the villages, where I was invited into the homes of women whom I could not really say that I always seduced with my charms – although occasionally this did happen. I can say though, that women were attracted to me not only because of my equable temperament, which I always cultivated, but also because of my gift of the gab, that verbal brilliance with which I have always been blessed since childhood.

         Once I had gained the women’s confidence, I used to sell them my Portuguese wares at a small profit. I never made too much money; rather, my aim was to win them over to my side from the beginning, the idea being to allow them to satisfy their whims without feeling exploited. It was almost as if being invited inside their homes gave me a sense of security, the kind of warmth I had always been seeking. I am not sure if this was really the case, but that is how I remember it. I also remember that it paid dividends for me.

         I was soon bearing messages back and forth – messages which were often written by me. This permitted me to find out the details, trivial and transcendental, of many of the people who lived along the length and breadth of the territory where I had established my route as a small businessman specialising in those fripperies so beloved by women. I never failed to carry out my commissions. The man who is today the post office administrator in Santiago always came to me when he needed to send money to Portugal. No money ever went missing; no job ever went half done. I knew what I was doing. Today this man is testifying on my behalf, and like many others, he is genuinely surprised at the predicament in which I now find myself.

         Oftentimes, carried away by my own manual abilities, I even reproduced the wares that I bought, making improvements on the patterns and embellishing the embroidery. As a result, not only did I manage to stimulate admiration for myself and my work, but also to stir women’s avarice for my handiwork. My sales increased and my merchandise began to be sought after. On the other hand, I never went overboard with my embroidery. Other greater pleasures stemmed from my professional calling.

         In this way I learned to read women’s eyes. When they become filled with greed and the desire to possess, this means that women want us to believe that they are overflowing with desire. I could see through their laughter when it was really that of Sibyls and snakes. As for their gestures, which seem so mannered, they in fact comprise a secret code that renders the real meaning invisible to us men, with the result that we misinterpret them. Our mistake is that we always rush headlong in the direction of lust, which never fails to overwhelm us and leave us exposed, and all because we read women’s gestures as inviting, when they constitute nothing but treachery. For these reasons I learned to emulate these gestures. I used to mimic them with subtle discretion, which made the women laugh and trust me more than ever. And while they delighted in my prissy affectations, I indulged in that strange pleasure which now occasionally gives me food for thought. The more I mimicked them, the more they opened their doors – and their souls – to me. Little did they realise how much I craved them. They had even less notion of the degree which my hate for them would reach.

         Thanks to my occupation as a seller of women’s clothes, and to the frequent enjoyment of feminine company this afforded me, I came to appreciate that if I copied their behaviour they would eventually succumb to the urge to protect me, to abandon themselves to me and to my counsel, to treat me with the same consideration they would like to treat their own sex, but which the great fear of exposing their vulnerabilities prevents them from showing each other. Women realise that mutual affection, or even excessive deference to other women, can leave their own men exposed to other female wiles, so each one forms a barrier around her own mate. What women want is to keep to themselves the strength they draw from their own man, a strength that one way or another they always need. In this regard, as in many others, humans are different from other animal species. As I understand it, in other species it is the males who flirt and show off their best attributes, whereas with humans it is women who embellish themselves with make-up and decorations. It is women who show off and sway and wiggle to attract our attention, and sometimes we men are so naive about this, leaving ourselves exposed as weak and defenceless before them. In the end we show off our strengths before other males, and all this is so that women can perceive our strength through the responses of other men.

         I learned to behave in a docile, ambiguous manner, acting effeminately, sometimes tenderly, occasionally perversely, but always with a quick tongue verging on the indiscreet. I was always quick with my gestures. Once the women’s formerly impregnable defences were lowered, they would give me to understand that they were on my side, ready to become my accomplices, to gossip and to flirt, if not to engage in that carnal contact against which the reverend had so often warned me.

         I took so many women! Although I hated most of them (in spite of the fact that some of them I almost fell in love with), I also came to rely upon them. As a result I opened the door to my own vulnerability, a weakness from which you are only liberated by their deaths. In any case, I always exploited them, maybe to compensate for something, which right now I cannot quite understand.

         All this happened from the moment I realised that indulging my pleasure in female company – a pleasure to which I succumbed with increasing frequency – not only lowered my profits, but also lowered the bar of expectation I had set for myself in life. Since I was a boy I had set my sights high, but my dealings were now only with peasant women who were barely able to survive on their own, with the shining exception of a few widows. Women who had separated from their men offered some possibilities. Daughters were reliable only to a point, but having discovered these younger women, I devoted more of my time to them.

         Gradually I established a network of clients which included the hospitable widows and abandoned women whom I met in the inns where I spent the night. During the months when the men left for Castile to work in the harvest, I went from home to home, often taking a husband’s place, making the most of his absence and enjoying the best, or more aptly, the juiciest slice of the cake left behind. On other occasions I followed the men in all their travels, bearing messages and money and opening new commercial routes. Truth to tell, it upset me to see them like that, tireless workhorses, trudging two weeks here, twelve days there, while in my case, money made my journey lighter. It bothered me to see them in gangs of seven, nine or more, supervised by a foreman, or by one or more deputy foremen, when the gangs could consist of as many as one hundred. All those wretched Galicians, every one carrying a blanket and their other equipment, which consisted of two or three hoes, sharpening stones and their sower’s thimbles, trudging day in, day out, in search of jobs. It bothered me seeing them, but it made me feel good to know I was different, liberated as I was from their yokes.

         Castilian sickles are different from ours, they are bigger, and the ones used in New Castile differ again from those in Old Castile. Galician sickles are made by expert ironmongers. The reapers brag about their sickles, dividing themselves into hierarchies according to the number of honers they require. The really good reapers only carry two sickles, the not so good ones need three, and the beginners require four. The better the reaper, the fewer honers needed. Castilian reapers use the same type of sickle to reap the various kinds of crops, although there are some crops that require different sickles. It all depends on the crops. The sickles are usually sharper in Segovia, for specialist honers from Nogueira de Ramuín in Galicia have settled there. I speak, for example, of the honers from the Arias family. Thimbles, placed on the fingers to protect them from the sharpness of the blades, are made from leather or sometimes wood, though they can be of both materials and used alternatively depending upon the fingers.

         Seeing the reapers bent over the sheaves made me feel irritable, and it made me feel depressed when I saw them sleeping in rows of two, using one man’s blanket to cover the ground and another man’s blanket to cover their bodies exposed to the cold of night. Sometimes they worked at night, or they travelled at night from farm to farm so as not to waste time. They were like slaves. They are slaves. They work like slaves. They kill themselves working, and they never stop being slaves. Seeing them made me realise that I had chosen the right path, for I did not have to work as hard and I make much more money. Ahead of the gang goes a foreman, and behind them the assistant foremen, three, four or five of them, and behind the latter, one for every two reapers, goes a young boy, always tying the sheaves, never slacking though exhausted.

         Occasionally I considered slicing off a head or two, using the reaper’s own sickle, but I was always put off by their number and the fact that they travelled together without ever arguing among themselves. In fact, they hardly ever argued with the Castilians. Slaves. In Old Castile they still used to get something to eat – at dawn, to put something in their bellies, they would get at best some soup accompanied by an egg, maybe a dish of bacon and crumbs, plus bread and wine. Later they would be given bacon and chickpeas plus fresh meat at midday, and at night a stew or rice. That is what they got in Old Castile. On the other hand, in New Castile they were given a cold, watery soup with vinegar at daybreak, they would eat from a pot of chick peas at midday, and nothing much would pass their lips for dinner. As for the boys, they would get on with binding the sheaves, always on the go, back and forth, binding what the men reaped.

         They ate like dogs, everyone from the same pot, first the foreman and then the others. Woe betide anyone who tried to get his spoon in ahead of the boss! The poor sod would be denied any wine. No Sabbath, no free day, always working. If anyone cut himself with a sickle, or if a cut on a leg bled profusely, they would cover the wound with soil lifted from a furrow to stop it from haemorrhaging, and the work would continue.

         Whenever I heard comments made by the Castilians, I would swear that I would never be taken for one of my countrymen.

         “Galicians came to the world to give animals a rest,” they would say, and I would look the other way.

         “You reap more than a Galician,” they would declare, to my shame.

         “Not even a gang of Galicians would have reaped that,” they would say, and I knew that I had avoided a life of slavery like this.

         You can see why I would have done anything to escape that fate! That is why I never worried about charging more for my services, or engaging in any other sort of activity, so long as I could avoid the sort of life that would have been my lot if I had not learned the crafts I did. What a range of services I offered: from dissecting birds before stuffing them, to slicing off human fat so that the Portuguese could manufacture those types of soaps so coveted by mature-age women, who quite happily paid the earth for them. The fat was also used by apothecaries to prepare potions, ointments, lotions and all sorts of concoctions to alleviate ills and woes used by others in rituals and liturgies that so many people regard as profane and sacrilegious.

         In spite of all this, I used to frequent churches and pray in them, in full view of the women from the villages. I always pretended to be submissive and helpful, pleasant and educated, aided and abetted by the agreeable manners that I knew I possessed since I was a boy. Now, I do not know if I should mention all their names, but the doctors who have seen me describe me as of five feet minus an inch in height, with a light olive complexion, clear brown eyes, black hair and black beard and the front of my head half bald. The doctors report that my physiognomy is not at all repugnant, and that I have a look that is sometimes sweet, sometimes timid, fierce, haughty, or artificially severe.

         I have been scrutinised closely, especially by someone called Don Vicente María Feijoo Montenegro y Arias, who, as they say, is a writer. I shall never forget his name. It was he who said what follows: that my heart-rate is sixty two beats per minute and that I have a bilious, nervous temperament, with no particular feature or organ that stands out. He even said that my tissue is so soft that it is impossible to classify. He would know what he meant by that, since he qualified it by saying that it coincides with a regularly developed form and shape and with a state of health that is robust and unfailing.

         Don Vicente affirms that there is nothing in my appearance that differs from that of other men. He adds that my speech is coherent and precise, marked by good judgement and also by distrust. He also observes in me perspicacity, tact and natural talents beyond my status. He adds that my bearing is modest, although it is earmarked by hypocrisy, and in this the good doctor is of my opinion. As I said, I shall never forget his name.

         Every time that I think about what he added after subjecting me to a medical examination, I cannot help smiling. The doctor wrote that my emotional and cognitive faculties are not afflicted or impaired by inherent or acquired vices. Furthermore, he noted that I recount my life since infancy without omitting or altering any significant detail, that I never contradict my story, that he could not find evidence of any extravagance on my part suggestive of bad periods of health, or of any madness that could lead him to suppose that I suffered from any permanent or temporary mental problems, now or in the distant past. He came to the conclusion that as a whole person, as a total human being, I force people to like me, something that is true. And how could this not be true, when this has been my objective as far back as I can remember?

         For this reason I shall never forget the name of a doctor who makes such a display of his intuition. Another reason is that his examination tends to confuse and undermine my strategy. How could this not be so, when from all this evidence Don Vicente deduces that occasionally I reveal sinister flashes of my personality, that is, that I allow a clear view of what resides within me. My intuition tells me that what he might mean is, that when I realise that people can see through my words, I cling to a weird sort of excuse that proves disconcerting, because my story and the facts are in total opposition to one another. In other words, there is a contradiction between what I say and my denial that I do it. This is true. I know it, so I conceal it, and I try to mislead people. That is why I try to pretend to be the madman I am not – that is, the Wolf Man. This doctor’s perspicacity is too much, methinks. But if all this does not make sense, you will soon see more clearly what I mean.

         The sly son of a bitch also says that above all you must take into account that two primordial faculties govern human behaviour: the brain, for understanding, and the entrails, for bouts of temper and energy. A third faculty ensues from the coincidence of the two fundamental ones. The son of a bitch adds that this is a powerful, terrible principle, since when the two basic faculties are overblown and released through different and unforeseen channels, then the consequences can be many and in proportion to their origin. It is in this way, in the conjunction of both faculties to constitute this third faculty, that a man can be transformed into an idiot or a total lunatic. This is what happens when the faculties are predisposed in a certain way. Monomania belongs to the first faculty, “satiriosis” to the second one, and “lycanthropy”, that is, the act of saying something is true when the doctor says it is not, belongs to the third faculty. Lycanthropy is the doctor’s deduction of what I suffer from, and it is the condition that he diagnoses and treats in me.

         To demonstrate his theories he first examined my visceral state, then he made me submit to a brain scan with its flashing lights. He declared that the cranial capacity extending from my forehead along my temples and on to my occipitus, measures twenty-two inches. My facial capacity measures just less than twenty-four inches. My mastoid apophysis consists of an arc of nine inches, while from my dental arch to the top of my forehead the measurement is six inches. The doctor adds that, because my frontal lobes protrude considerably and could develop extensively, my facial angle opens up some eighty-two degrees. Nevertheless, he argued, my encephalic mass has nothing to do with this condition, and it does not cause a flaw or an error, as the phrenologists have indicated. The doctor added that the scaly proportion of my temporal bone stands out quite prominently.

         He is really quite sharp, this good doctor; he observes and analyses everything in the light of his theories. That is what Manuel Rúa Figueroa, my lawyer, told me when he pointed out that the doctor applied all of Lombroso’s theories to me, even if only to refute them and so confirm his own thesis, which is true in my case, although quite tendentiously so. For this reason the doctor claimed that if human passions were determined by the protuberances of my cranium, then the following would find pride of place in me: comparative sagacity, educability, metaphysical depth, mechanical ability and acquisitiveness, or the tendency to acquire or possess. All this is true, as there is nothing I have wanted more in life than to feel the owner of everything around me at any given moment. The doctor is a writer, and quite intuitive. He maintains that these tendencies of mine in no way clash with those we are talking about now. He says that even though my particular inclination is inherently good and practical in every way, given the society in which we live, my tendency could, if taken to extremes by an unsettled spirit such as mine, lead to theft and to murder if the occasion demanded it. I have warned you that the good doctor is sly, and as I now observe, also two-faced.

         This medic is also quite a poet, which he demonstrates when he argues that man is born naked and weak, in need of protection, bereft of the claws of a tiger, the horns of a bull or the fangs of a wolf. Man does not even possess the shell of a turtle. Man comes into the world without weapons, defenceless. The fact is, a knife is not natural to man. Rather, it is man’s faculties that manufactured the knife and his free will sharpened it. The best possible interpretation of all of this is that I become a wolf when it suits me, when I feel the occasion favours me, when nobody will suspect anything and when I will not be held legally responsible. In other words, when nothing stands in my way, when I consider myself stronger than my victim or when the deed will bring me some physical or moral advantage. What I am saying is that I turn into a wolf when the two basic faculties come together to form that third faculty and that other “I” is created. An “I” made to measure, determined by my desires and my free will; and, if I understand the process well, so I can take refuge in it.

         I shall never forget his name. I shall not forget it because my conduct is clear evidence of what he says. The doctor affirms it and I acknowledge it, although in such as way as not to cause me harm. And all I succeed in doing is to confirm the truth of what I am saying. The wolf that I am, or that I say I am, knows that it is doing evil, and that it breaks the laws of nature and man. It knows that it must hide when the wolf takes over, and that it can only show itself when it is a human being. This is the only way to explain the fact that it never occurred to the wolf – that is, it never occurred to me – to turn into a wolf when I was staying in villages, not even when I was all alone, crossing unpopulated places. Yes, I do acknowledge that I, the Wolf Man, always act against all reason, and that I have never lost this faculty, even if I did lose any sense of goodness. Yes, I admit that I am a lover of avarice and am totally self-interested, as recorded by this son of Hippocrates. But I also admit that I am not worried by my condition.

         A great illustration of my willpower was provided by the way in which I submitted to all the numerous and unrelenting tests that the doctor carried out during the brain scan. I had to put up with all of them. I felt like strangling him, then and there, with my own hands. I could have done it, even if he had been helped by the orderlies, for I know my own strength. I was certainly very excited and indignant on this momentous occasion. Nevertheless, I contained myself and continued pretending that I was an obliging fellow, not to say deaf and dumb, a village idiot who was the victim of an environment dominated by ignorance and superstition. In short, I gave the impression that I was a poor yokel who had swallowed the stories told about wolves, and let his imagination run wild until he finished up acting like one. Tomorrow I shall continue with my story, as incredible as it is, and spurred on by my unbridled fantasy.

CHAPTER II

The sea is rough. I had never seen it like this until today. In fact, I had never seen it at all until a few days ago when I entered this cell, from which I can contemplate the water at my leisure. But I do recognise the sea gulls. I saw them hundreds of times flying above the Lagoa de Antela during those cold winter days deep within Ourense, my beloved native land, the only province of Galicia with no outlet to the sea. The sea gulls flew above that immense, shallow lagoon, home to all manner of frogs and other creatures, as well as the repository of many customs and other figments of the imagination that are even more fantastic than the idea of the wolf which I try to be. Yet few people question those other things. That is how man is. And I should know, I have observed man as if he were a sea gull. I have contemplated him coming and going, majestic or perversein flight, sometimes sublime, sometimes pathetic. Yes I, the humble, effeminate acolyte, have observed humanity. Man believes in submerged cities, he is adamant that he has seen belfries protruding from the surface, and that he has been induced into a melancholy stupor by the tolling of the bells. Man believes in benevolent or malignant spirits capable of producing poisonous mushrooms and then making them safe to eat. Hallucinogenic mushrooms. Fantastic but true. Spirits whose behaviour responds to the cycles of the moon, or behave according to their whims. Man believes in witches that suck out the souls from good people, and in wandering snakes and lizards who are the reincarnation of former sinners, now doomed to purge their sins as they travel along the road to Allariz, where they will join the witches coven celebrated every year during the summer solstice. Man believes in those long, interminable processions of souls from purgatory that can be seen wandering lost and confused in the foggy night of summer and winter. If man can believe in the Wolf Man and can recognise his own humanity in this creature, why cannot this accursed doctor also believe in him? Why does he persist in denying me the nature in which I seek solace?

         I recognise the sea gulls. I can see them from here, from this cell in the castle of San Antón, where I endure my imprisonment. It is the same cell where the guard tells me that they imprisoned Malaspina. Yes, I recognise the sea gulls, the same ones that flew over the lake of Antela and which probably scanned the horizon for wolves in the foothills of the Serra de San Mamede, where I am just another one of its many sons and creatures. Those sea gulls, birds of carrion! Did I, or anybody else, fight with them over the toads or snakes, or the nauseating pieces of rotten flesh they snatched with their hook-like beaks from the bloodless bodies that had died from the cold or the hunger of winter? Did anyone begrudge them the morsels that they carried in their beaks, up there in those bright, glistening heights? Then why do they have to fight me, someone who led so many souls to a life of eternal sleep?

         Whenever I left Regueiro to travel to Portugal, I normally took the route that went down from Alto do Couso to Maceda, and from there to Vilar do Barrio, skirting the foothills of San Mamede. I then travelled along the plains around Lagoa de Antela. The trip took me directly under the path of those unreachable sea gulls, always up there above me. I would see them sometimes from the hills, resting on the water, impervious to the wind and to the frost, exactly where they say you can make out the protruding belfries and the roofs of the submerged houses, and you can never hear the laments and wails of the creatures who are supposed to live there. Yes, I could see the sea gulls as close as they are to me now, resting on the water, upon the turbulent waves, not in the least interested in me or my woes.

         From the Lagoa de Antela I used to head towards Verín, and from there to Chaves, in Portuguese territory, where I used to stop over in Manuela García’s house. In those days she was an adorable widow. She seemed so beautiful, so tender and delicate; nothing in her betrayed her peasant stock. I identified with her. Like me, she was one of those people of humble extraction who some cruel god chose to bless with a special dose of charm and elegance, endowing her with a rare intelligence and beauty that made her stand out from her neighbours. So I hated her because I could see myself in her. For this reason I craved her, I wanted to possess her, I needed to take back those gifts that were mine and mine alone. If I alone had such gifts then I would treasure them all the more. I wanted all she had to offer, as well as everything her sister had to give me. Why is it that an entire family, or perhaps just one member of a family, is born with such beauty and with such grace, with a voice and manners that are so special and so sweet that they clash with the world into which they are born? You would suppose that only aristocratic people have a right to such breeding. Why does man believe that the seventh of nine brothers must be, without fail, a wolf? I was born the seventh son, handsome and with an intelligence that could be nurtured. I always knew that I was different, but I was never ever prepared to share my special gifts with anyone. However, I was prepared to acknowledge such gifts in others and to worship them.

         Looking back, these events seem to have occurred very slowly and a long time ago. In fact, they happened quickly, precipitously. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that, driven by the usual envy, people were impatient to see me done in. I do know what I am talking about, for I have always had to endure my neighbours’ teeth biting into my flesh. Why? Because of all those special gifts with which either God or Nature saw fit to endow me. First, there was my ability with my hands, next my fondness for reading, then my personal charm, then my outstanding intelligence, and finally my gradual, progressive accumulation of wealth. All of this was the result of my special personality. I always endeavoured to accept my burdens with absolute discretion, the same approach that I adopted in the course of my commercial dealings. Nevertheless, I always felt those teeth biting into some part of my soul, always digging deep into the most sensitive parts of my flesh. It seemed that even Manuela wanted to stick her teeth into me.

         The headlong rush of events was so worrying that to escape from Galicia, I used the pretext that I was accompanying my countrymen in their summer migration to Castile for the harvest. I followed the Galician reapers to the most remote corners of their itinerary, hoping to pass unnoticed there under the alias I had assumed: Antonio Gómez. I had been using this cover because of something that occurred to me previously and which I shall recount in due course, but not now, as it is not relevant. The fact is that I adopted this name just after that year’s carnival, when I decided to flee in search of refuge and the security that my homeland could no longer provide. By this stage I was aware that I had done something wrong, that something in my behaviour, maybe some small error, or perhaps a long-standing attitudinal problem, had come to light, arousing people’s suspicions against me. Needless to say, I suffered the consequences. Maybe I flew too high. Solitary men like me suffer from this tendency. We are so accustomed to talking to ourselves, that we never admit that we are wrong. Consequently we talk ourselves into thinking that we are uniquely exemplary in our attitude and infallible in our decisions. As a result we do not so much disdain the opinions of others as reject them out of hand, since we do not think they concern us. What others think seems too lowly for us, so we simply cast it aside.

         My story really began to be known from the second of July of 1852, not a day before or after. I shall never forget those names: Martín Prado, Marcos Gómez and José Rodríguez, for it was they who went to the mayor of Nombela, not far from Escalona, in the distant Castilian province of Toledo, to denounce me.

         What is the point of deceiving myself? Why continue pretending that I am right if I know I am wrong, and that what this is really about is keeping alive this escape route? For this reason I should admit, from the beginning, that I had not travelled so far in my countrymen’s footsteps merely to earn a salary, which is what they were doing when they worked as harvesters. My aim was to go on making money on the sly, beyond prying eyes, as I had already observed suspicions, perceived rumours and heard commentaries about my conduct. In other words, I went to Castile to escape from my closest neighbours. I did not have the slightest suspicion that these three men would recognise me when I was in Toledo, so far away from Verín. On other occasions I did travel with my fellow Galicians, not exactly seeking their company, but making an effort to catch up with the gangs of harvesters in certain places. I would bring them news of home and take news back, and I would try to find out who was missing and to pick up information about events, so that later I could carry out my business with aplomb. But on this occasion I sought to avoid my fellow Galicians. Contrary to what I had done previously, when I did seek them out so that I could sell and buy things, which I could in turn resell, and also so that I could pick up letters whose contents I would try to find out, or transmit greetings and other news. On this occasion I did my best to avoid my countrymen. So I was caught totally by surprise when I bumped into those three pricks in November. It was a bad day for me and I curse them for it.

         From the above it should be easy to understand why I know so intimately the routes taken by my fellow Galicians, and why I am so knowledgeable regarding their customs when they travel, their codes of conduct, how hard they labour during the day and the miseries they endure most nights spent away from their homes. Because I know Galician customs, on the very occasions when I would have been better off breaking a leg and staying at home, I too set out from Galicia with a stone in my pocket. Following an ancestral custom, I cast the stone into a milladoiro, those heaps of stones that stand out like monuments along the Galician borderlands. I did this when I reached the top of the mountain, signifying that I was leaving Galicia, for as soon as I began the climb down the other side I would be stepping on foreign soil. For the same reason, whenever I returned home I would have another stone in my pocket and would cast it in the milladoirowhen I knew I was once again on Galician soil. Knowing Galician routes and destinations as well as I do, I never could have imagined that reapers from Verín would travel as far as the province of Toledo. So far away! By contrast with other Galicians, reapers from Verín and Xinzo, even those from Allariz, tend to leave earlier and to remain closer to home. They are in the privileged position of living very close to the Castilian border where a type of wheat is grown from which a white, insipid bread is baked. Castilians call this bread candeal, while we Galicians know it as gramado.

         The reapers must start their journey at exactly the right time if they are to get there for the harvest, when the wheat is golden and the ears weighed down with grain. My fellow Galicians arrive and they offer their services, not to the landowners, but to their servants, with whom they reach an agreement about their salaries. And then they set to work like beasts of the field.

         The first to leave could well find that the wheat is not sufficiently ripe, so they might have no option but to travel further into Castile in search of other fields further south ready for reaping. For this reason only would they be compelled to wander farther than anticipated. The normal thing is for the first to leave to stay closer to Galicia, and for those who leave last to find work further afield. In other words, the first to arrive stay closest to home and are the first to return. However, against all logic, things do not always happen like this. It all depends on the seasons and the rains, and upon the sun and the frosts, and ultimately upon the unpredictable stars that determine and condition our destiny. Of course, there are also those who travel long distances, motivated solely by the desire to see new things, contemplate different customs and set forth for horizons other than their own.

         My urge for emancipation was exacerbated by the sight of my fellow Galicians singing their songs, wandering along Castilian roads and knowing that they were despised and treated like slaves. All I wanted was to get as far away as possible from this reality, and the way to escape from this wretched destiny was to obtain as much money as possible. And so, during the first few months of a number of summers, I travelled with my countrymen to the harvest in Castilian fields. Unfortunately, in that year, 1852, my steps wandered further afield than ever before, without realising that my enemies had also gone this far.

         Yes, in 1852 at least three of them reached Toledo, where I had already fled previously to avoid problems. Were they fleeing from something? They recognised me and went to the authorities to denounce me. They did not think about it twice, accusing me of the death of a number of women. They did it when, already fearing for my safety, I had begun my flight, as I thought that this was the most prudent measure to avoid trouble. I really thought that I was out of harm’s way. The fact is that the alarm had sounded about my activities, and that occasionally I could detect suspicious glances among the reapers, who would look at me with lowered heads, looking at me from beneath arched eyebrows, and making comments that I could well imagine. For this reason I thought it opportune to put as much ground between them and me, and so I had travelled beyond Madrid.

         I had covered a lot of territory and left my identity behind, as I had thought it a good idea to conceal my name and adopt another one. I had used as my cover the name of Antonio Gómez. He was someone who had given me shelter and allowed me to work as his servant for six months in a village close to Montederramo. For a long time I had entertained doubts about my security and felt threatened. This was not because a strange feeling of guilt had taken root in me, unsettling my conscience – no, not at all – but rather because I could sense something in the atmosphere, something contrary to my interests that would get in the way of my ambitions. Maybe it was an ill wind that was blowing, raising clouds of murmur and gossip against me. And so it was that while working as a servant for six months, I managed to obtain a passport under the false name of that nobody, Antonio Gómez. It was easy enough. I pretended to be a native of a neighbouring village, and it was very easy for me to talk as if I came from there, with eloquence and knowledge, making reference to people, farms, roads and hills, fountains and mountain streams. I was able to speak unfalteringly, and even managed to add a year to my age, claiming that I was forty-three, a widower without children, something that gave me an aura of respectability. I claimed that I was away from my village because my job as a shoemaker took me all around Castile hammering nails into soles.

         I had obtained the passport from the mayor of Viana de Bolo, and I curse the moment that I decided to show it to the mayor of Nombela, forgetting that in the very same bag where I carried my passport, there was a document in my real name! It is that kind of error that can destroy the best laid plans of mice and men.

         It is not hard for me to imagine my three countrymen denouncing me before the mayor of Nombela. I can see them whispering amongst themselves under the piercing, blinding heat of the sun, as they bend over the dry furrows in humiliation so that they can reach out and grab the bottom part of the tall ears of wheat with their left hands, forming sheaves that they rip out of the soil amidst their groans. I can also see them at night, shrunken on the ground inside their blankets, weighing the consequences of their decision to denounce me to the mayor. They must have spent some disturbing and restless moments talking about it. We Galicians are not a people given to impulsive behaviour but to thoughtful, deliberate actions. It is only the fear of the absurd that provokes us into unpremeditated action. We act impetuously only when reason has failed us or when we have come to the conclusion that it is the only possible option. We only have recourse to temerarious behaviour when it is imposed upon us, when we realise that the urgency of the moment makes rational behaviour impossible and we have to seek the quickest solution.

         That is why I can imagine them talking constantly, during the breaks from their labours, before taking the plunge to blow the whistle on me so far from home. What would have happened to them if the mayor had not listened to them? They would not have been able to return to their homes, I would have made sure of that! They did not think carefully before denouncing me. Rather, they acted as they did because they were certain that I was a killer of women. And they were right! They felt that they had to act quickly and urgently. They feared that I would escape with impunity. Why did I not see them coming? Sometimes God is unjust.

         I can only hope that they had to endure long, interminable meetings racked by doubts before they determined to inform against me. I rejoice at the thought that they would have been left hanging there in that terrible space between doubt and certainty where any fantasy or chimera is possible. Their minds would have been visited by monsters, inflaming them with even more doubts, and tormenting them with the anguish of indecision. To avoid this situation I have never doubted anything. I have no doubts now. I decide to act and the longer I can continue doing what has to be done, the happier I am. I never give in. If they had vacillated, they would not have accused me to the mayor. Their fear would have paralysed them. I have known this from the moment that I committed my first murder, for I hesitated and then knew that I would have to kill again to escape from the monsters of remorse. I need to flee my sense of guilt. On the other hand, they do not feel any guilt, but instead, they feel like heroes. They act like brave men. If I could lay my hands on any one of them…!

         As soon as I saw Martín Prado I recognised him as the person to whom I had sold a strange handkerchief of faded colours that had belonged to a woman from Castro de Laza whom I had dispatched to the other world. I had done her in by a shrub of glistening berries under the hot sun of July. It was difficult for me to pretend that I did not know Martín Prado. That was the only way out for me, under the circumstances, since it was too late for me to avoid him.

         Martín Prado was right. When his wife, Valentina Rodríguez was her name if I remember correctly, put on that damned handkerchief, somebody recognised it. It was silly of me to sell it to somebody from the same area as the woman I had murdered – but how was I to know? I should have sold it to someone further afield, to someone I could be certain was not in any way connected to that wretched woman from Castro de Laza. However, when things are going too well, it is easy to become overconfident. That led to my undoing. Everything else is a matter of chance, and I now I realise that circumstances are governed by laws of coincidence that have nothing to do with the process of trial and error upon which we humans tend to rely. Never a day goes by when we do not have something to learn.

         I always enjoyed musing about what people were saying about me. Indeed, I spent a good deal of my time fantasising about the gossip doing the rounds about me. So it is not hard to imagine the reaction of my three countrymen when they recognised me and their doubts and indecisions before betraying me to the local authorities. Now they have done it, but that does not mean that they are better than I. Deep within their souls they are jealous of me, since they realise that they could never do what I have done so many times. They would tremble in their shoes if they knew how often I have killed. How else can you interpret their allegation that I sold human fat at great profit? Who says that this sort of commerce is regulated by any law? Is there a minimum and maximum price for this trade? What morality governs this transaction? Or is it not the value of human life that matters? Of course, what really bothered them was that I was becoming rich. They didn’t care about the women I had killed. They were jealous of my excessive profits – the bastards!

         They told the mayor that I had escaped from the Civil Guard before Carnival, and they were not wrong. I had intended to spend Carnival in Laza, enjoying the chaos caused by the cigarróns, those ancient pagan figures of Celtic origin which feature in our Carnival. With all the hubbub I thought that I would go in and out of houses at will, selling my wares and buying others, and even justifying my trade if I had to. I intended to do all this before going back to Chaves, where I normally get rid of my most compromising products, that is, the human fat that I extirpate from my victims. In Portugal, they use this fat to manufacture soap, as well as potions and ointments that I, for one, would never apply to my body. I loathe that smell of human fat, still warm from the body recently carved up – a body which only a few minutes previously had been a source of consolation for me, and who knows, for the owner of the body as well! To this day I have not been able to figure out if pleasure and pain are as different from each other as some people claim, or if the song of a finch is the most melancholy melody in existence, or whether it is shrouded in a weird sort of joy that can only be perceived if heard from afar. Is the finch’s song something that exists beyond its circumstances, is it perhaps some kind of magical incantation?

         A stranger could well presume that these three countrymen of mine had pursued me step by step, with utmost care and tenacity. They were certainly able to retrace my steps with a wondrous precision. I suppose – no, I am certain – that they were spurred on by the resounding voice of Barbara, Manuela’s youngest sister, and the most beautiful and spirited one. This makes me wonder if some families are especially chosen by destiny. It was Barbara who recovered, one by one, her sister’s clothes, and it was Barbara who reconstructed my life with the greatest degree of accuracy. I never found out whether she hated me, or if she expected from me what I had given Manuela when I learnt that she lived the life of a disconsolate widow, although at the time she was only separated from Pascual Merello Merello N. I introduced myself to Manuela, and offered to console her.

         Manuela was attractive, she was alone and I only wanted what was best for her, and also for Petronila, her daughter. They both lived in Rebordechao, at the foot of Mount San Mamed, in a village resting atop a steep hillside facing the sun when the latter decides to shine during the cold days of winter. That is, when the sun’s rays manage to penetrate the thick shroud of clouds, or when these occasionally disperse and do not obscure the high hills around the lagoon. I used to pass along this spot quite often in the course of my travels. At first I used to spend some summer nights with Manuela when I had business in Rebordechao. I used to arrive at sunset, when the cover of darkness had almost fallen, and I could not wait to woo her. And so, without trying too hard, I obtained my fill of pleasure and a bed for the night, as well as an abundant meal. I had plenty of time to contemplate the prospects that would come to me in the not too distant future from my new relationship with Manuela.

         It was not difficult to overcome Manuela’s feeble resistance to my advances and to conquer her. My famous way with words and my handsome bearing did the trick, not to mention her predisposition to pleasure. Ah, those were happy days, and well remunerated to boot. During this time I travelled to and fro along the Chaves road incessantly in search of human fat, and my word, didn’t I find pleasure in the job! It was almost as if my lovers and my victims were throwing themselves into my burning arms. Sometimes things go really well, but I never did find out if my success at that time was due to my ingratiating attitude or to some strange wind that came down from the mountains and infected my victims, turning them into my willing prey. In any case, things were going my way. Manuela heard my call, driven to me perhaps by that strange wind that forced her to give herself to me. I reaped so many rewards from her affections! But I also felt drawn towards her. Meanwhile, all her sisters were observing us, either enviously or suspiciously, maybe smelling the air, like bitches.

         Manuela was somewhat older than I, maybe by seven years or so. I do not know whether I was ever in love with Manuela, but I should never have got involved with her, for it was this involvement that has brought me to this sad pass. Manuela, Barbara, and all the other sisters, yes – they are to blame for my troubles. If it had not been for them, nobody would have ever remembered the other women and their sad stories. It was these sisters who were my undoing.

         Manuela was ambitious, like me, so much so that in her I thought that I had found my soul mate, the she-wolf to accompany me in my blood lust. It was for this reason that I tried to make her mine, to bind her to me with that strange glue called love. But it was a mistake, since Manuela used me – yes, she used me, as strange as that may seem. She decided to use me as a means to escape the trap into which she was born, the same trap in which her sisters were caught. But she was the first one who decided that she wanted out, followed by Barbara, the youngest, who also wanted out from the beginning. Barbara, too, understood that her life was a dirty trick played on her by fate. Yes, I know deep inside me that Barbara knew, at the same time as Manuela, that I was to be the instrument provided by destiny to escape the trap of their existence. When I realised what was happening it was already too late. I had already started to incorporate Manuela into my daily routine, so I had no choice but to kill her. Subsequently, I was to incorporate Barbara into the world of my dreams.

         Anyway, those first sporadic, furtive nights with Manuela soon turned into longer, more stable periods of cohabitation. So much so, that Manuela eventually became an essential part of my life, and she began to accompany me during some of my travels as a peddler – or as Manuela inspired me to say, as a salesman engaged in a true merchant’s trade. Yes, it was Manuela who, at first timidly and uncertainly, began to refer to me as a “merchant”, pronouncing the word with obvious delectation. It was if she took delight in the discovery of the word, enjoying its pronunciation, and giving me joy as she said it. I have never felt so brimful of happiness as during that period of my life. I became popular on the road, and dispelled any lingering doubts about my person and my conduct, which until then some people had considered eccentric.

         It was not the same thing to go to an inn on one’s own as with a woman as beautiful and elegant as Manuela. What manners she had! It gave me pleasure to think that we might have been taken as an honest married couple engaging in an honest trade. My God, I was so happy then, so blinded by the bonanza of our trade that I soon agreed that Manuela could begin travelling on the road in my stead. She could then sell some of my merchandise, or even close some of my deals, and so bring to fruition my long-standing ambition to expand my business of buying and selling second-hand clothes and other used products. I would swear that it was I who first brought up this glorious possibility. What more can I say to give an idea of how I felt at that time?

         It must have been around 1845 when Manuela became a stable part of my life. It was she who prompted me to dream of this possibility. It is true that in hindsight I can see that she was driven by ambition. But what drew me to her was not her ambition but her talents in bed, which complemented my own sexual proclivities. Manuela was such an obliging lover! And it is this quality that so often turns us men into women’s slaves. Even the most eccentric men can succumb to the wiles used by women in the bedroom. We then give in to all their desires, which in Manuela’s case meant that I would ask her to become my partner. Her ultimate aim, of course, was to use me to become her own free agent.

         It happened a few months before the autumn of 1846, probably around March of that year, when Manuela sold a cow and two bulls. With the five hundred reales she made in profit, Manuela joined me as a partner, paying me the agreed price for a handkerchief I gave her so that she could sell it herself. She quickly sold it at a good price. That was one of her charms. Although I kept my independence, she became more and more independent herself, as we had ultimately agreed. In spite of my initial misgivings, in the end I felt overjoyed at the prospect, which goes to prove the extent to which she had begun to control me. She was certainly a seductive woman! However, we soon began to lapse into what I considered senseless arguments. On numerous occasions she wanted to tell me what to do, which, at first imperceptibly, disturbed me deeply. She was certainly competent and insistent, she would never give up, she would go on and on until you gave in, even if you did not agree with her. She would make you forget your initial purpose, and by then you were so confused that you lost sight of your own goals. In the end you would only see her own designs, which you would, of course, turn into your own. All this may seem very convoluted, but let me tell you, it was all so easy for her.

         Nevertheless, she had an enormous talent for business, and she was usually in the right whenever we had any disagreements. My God, she was so persuasive in her reasoning! She could catch you unawares with the force of her logic. She had such intuitive flashes, that without being in any way prejudiced against her, I began to suspect that her aim was to set up her own business without me, and the quicker the better as far as she was concerned. It was this attitude that was my salvation and her undoing. Accordingly, I decided not to let her know about my flourishing business selling human fat in collaboration with some Portuguese citizens. It was almost by chance that I entered into this business arrangement a few short years ago.

         For the first few months of my relationship with Manuela I suspended my trade in human fat, an activity which had monopolised my time beforehand. It was not a profitable decision. Undoubtedly my neglect of this trade contributed in no mean way to my acceptance of her proposal that she become more and more independent. Her independence meant that she would spend time away from me, with the result that I would be able to return to my favourite and most rewarding enterprise. To be truthful, until then I had not really missed my trade, but I began to miss it, and particularly the intense emotion that accompanied it. I am referring to the nauseating smell that human entrails give off – so much more pungent than that of other animals. Once you have smelled this odour it can become nigh well indispensable, for no other smell stays with you so long, clinging to you so closely that it hurts you. It is a smell that turns you into a slave, forcing you to remember your most intimate, unfulfilled desires, those visceral longings that you have always sublimated. Ah yes, it is a stench that marks you for life, calling out to you, forcing you to go on repeating the foul deed, as if it were all part of a lunar cycle. Some people blame it on the moon – but why blame the moon?

         It must have been towards the end of autumn when everything began to fall apart. I am not sure, but it must have been that same year, or else the following year. Sales had been excellent, business was growing steadily, and Manuela had gone to the rectorate of Paredes de Caldelas to collect thirty reales owed by the abbot of the parish. It was the profit on the sale of a house and another sale that Manuela herself had made to Tecla N., the servant of the administrator of Los Milagros. Tecla N. was the one who had settled the purchase with the economic backing of the abbot, if you know what I mean. Manuela very quickly became aware that one learnt many things when travelling the road by my side, and that one also acquired much knowledge that could be used to make a quick, clean profit. For my part, although I still retained trust in her, I was already beginning to suspect her intention to abandon me so she could exploit what I had taught her and branch out on her own. I was continually weighing up the problems faced by a woman on her own without a man to protect her, a woman, dare I say, who wished to pursue the sort of a life into which I had initiated her. To make matters worse for her, I suspect that she also had to put up with her sisters’ envy. Yes, all of this must have happened in the autumn of that same year, 1845. In any case my relationship with Manuela was already well established. At that stage Pascual Merello Merello N., her husband, had not yet left this unhappy world, but he was already a distant, forgotten memory.

         While Manuela made her way to Paredes de Caldelas, her daughter, Petronila, remained in my care, and together we set out for Portugal, which we would have reached if circumstances had not got in the way. This was her first trip to Portugal, which I wanted to visit again after so many years, for I wished to renew old, almost forgotten contacts that would give me the opportunity to engage in activities that for some weeks now I had been pining for.

         Upon reaching a spot near Souto de Redondela, a wood near Montederrano to be precise, Petra – that is what I liked to call her – walked away so that she could hide behind a large shrub next to a grove of chestnut trees. Soon I heard her stream of urine beating against some dry leaves, or maybe it was on old tin, in any case against something solid, I cannot really recall. In fact, it could have been the sound of her water falling on a small rivulet nearby. To imagine her with her legs apart drove me wild. I could not control myself, so I approached her as furtively as I could and to her surprise, when she looked up, there I was standing naked before her while she was still peeing. When she saw me standing there, she picked up a stone and threatened to throw it at me.

         “Go away! Get out of here!” she said without any anger in her voice, fearlessly, but fully aware of my intentions. She remained there, squatting, exactly as I had found her.

         Petra was fourteen years old and she was beautiful and fair like her mother. I knew that she had disliked me ever since I had taken her father’s place in her mother’s bed. To make matters worse, I had dragged her mother away, forcing her to accompany me on my travels. When I did not react to her threat, she flung the stone at me. As she did so, she partially exposed her white body, which of course drove me mad with desire. There and then I leapt on top of her.

         I slew her on the spot, suffocating her with my hands, then I stripped her and had sex with her. I put her clothes away so that I could sell them later, as I had done so often before, and subsequently I enacted my usual ritual. I used a shoemaker’s blade, what we Galicians call a subela, to strip her body of the thin layer of taut, fair skin covering it. Not to beat about the bush, I skinned her, then extracted the throbbing, greasy fat so deeply cherished by the Portuguese. They use it in their rituals, and some Portuguese women soap themselves with it when they perform their most intimate ablutions. No soap could make their skin look so delicate and smooth. No wonder the Portuguese pay so generously and happily for a good rub down with human fat.

         After drawing and quartering Petronila, I spread her remains around different spots well known to me. After all, I had been travelling that region for many years, so I chose the most concealed, inaccessible places frequented by the wolves that go hunting for food under the cover of night. Every night the wolves come, and I knew that when they found Petra’s remains they would devour them, leaving no trace of her, or hardly any at all. After this I continued my journey, feeling my old self again. I must admit that once again a strange sense of calm fell over me.

         When I got back to Rebordechao some time later, Barbara, Manuela’s youngest sister, who had come from Castro de Laza to live with her after her mother’s death, asked after her elder sister and her niece. I told her the first thing that came into my head. That is, that Manuela had found work as a housekeeper with a priest who lived not far from Santander. I told her that I had left the mother and the daughter with the reverend so that they could ascertain if they could get on with him, and more importantly, if they would find their new position comfortable. I said that in my opinion it was a magnificent opportunity for them.

         “But wasn’t your business going so well for you both? Didn’t you say that you were born for each other?” she interrupted me angrily. I looked her up and down while I took time to think of a convincing reply.

         “Why are all women like this? One day you say that you cannot live without us, and the next day you claim that you are sick of us. What do you want me to say, that she will soon be back or that I shall soon be bringing you news about her and how she is doing?”

         Barbara stared at me untrustingly, but my words seemed to satisfy her and calm her down. She would never have guessed that in my saddle bags, right there where my horse stood, I not only kept her niece’sclothes, but also the fat from her pretty body. The realisation of this made me start acting in a way I had forgotten. I sensed that I was looking at her furtively and that I was casting fleeting glances at my horse. Unfortunately at that very moment Barbara caught my eye, and she asked me once again:

         “How come you’ve only brought back Petronila’s mule?”

         “Manuela’s mule died when we got to Astorga,” I answered on the spur of the moment.

         “And what are you going to do with this other one?” she insisted.

         “I suppose I’ll sell it as soon as possible. I should have done it already, but I thought it would be better to wait and see if one of you wanted it,” I retorted quickly. She did not answer me, but just kept looking at me. For a few moments I looked back at her. Then I pretended to go about my business. She then left to go into the stable where not long ago the cow and the two bulls sold by Manuela had been lodged.

         Barbara had continued to live in Manuela’s old house, as I had agreed under the terms of my deal with her sister. That night I decided not to stay in the house but to continue on my way to Chaves to unload my merchandise. I wanted to return as soon as possible, early enough to prevent Manuela from arriving before me in Rebordechao after settling the sale of the small house in Paredes de Caldelas.

         It was already late and night would soon fall. So I hastened my step in the dark, something to which I was accustomed. Nocturnal messengers who move from one place to another always travel like this to put would-be-thieves off the scent. The mantle of darkness offers a degree of invisibility and some messengers are so quick that they can cover the distance between Allariz and Compostela between sunset and sunrise. And what am I if not a messenger?

Text © Alfredo Conde

Translation © Roy C. Boland

This title is available to read in English – see the page “Novels”.