10. 18. 2009. 10:36

National zoo II.

István Vörös: The wolf and the lamb

Do angels count as animals these days? For a long time even sirens were considered animals. Dragons and such were taken to be some sort of lizard. Well, never mind. Let's stick to discussing the lamb.

A little lamb, only just weaned, fluffy as a cloud of wool, went out for a drink. She was just tottering outside a fancy restaurant, staring into the abandoned premises where no sign of life would appear before 11 pm, still hours away, when a big bad wolf passed that way driving an SUV. He hit the brakes seeing the lamb, turned on an emergency signal light and popped out of the odorized wolfden. His body was completely hairless, even his head was shaved quite bare. A policeman, taking off to a safe distance from danger, was about to shout out "pour hot water over his bald
head", but it somehow seemed such a faux pas, anyway we're in a different story here, he thought, in a whole bundle of them all at once, then again he was a bit of a coward too, not that he'd have known, or cared to admit to himself if he had. So he chose not to think at all, a popular stance.
The wolf was no scholar either. He howled out "motherfucker!" at the bus driver trying to sidle around the vehicle, then looked up at the Moon that wafted faint over the city, and advanced on the lamb: "You rock me, angel mine!"
Do I know you?, was the lamb's frightened retort. But the way a frightened lamb resembles an angel, any animal would find mindblowing, let alone a wolf: I'll get you a Bailey's, alright?
I'm thirsty, a beer would be nice.
Beer and Bailey's, nodded wolf, and felt inclined to throttle the lamb and in a single bite crunch up her vertebrae and gnaw the fragile bones between his snow-white fangs. And strip her hide off for a bedspread, or maybe for under his feet at his desk. I've never used that desk, at least that would give me a reason, he thought.
He led the lamb into a booth. The beer arrived promptly, and the lamb knocked it back, producing a little white moustache of foam. She nuzzled up to the wolf, intoxicating the noble beast as if he were drunk on the finest cognac.
What's your name?, the lamb bleated. Normally wolf would have given a slap for that, his own name belonging to him, none of anybody's business. He would have howled that out too, except the hair was standing on his back, yes, it felt as if it had just sprung up. No matter how many women he'd had, wolves, a she-bear too, countless deer and fawns and cows, but this lamb was the first to make him feel like a real man. Delicately, he held her forelimb and lifted the little trotter to his mouth, kissing the rigid, artificial nail extensions and breaking out in sweat: Haven't we known each other before?, he asked.
Never, you haven't even told me your name.
You want to know my real name? I'm afraid I can't tell you, I'm Public Enemy No.1 with the bulldogs, also the gang of renegade dingos led by that backslider of an alsatian.
I'll come along with you no charge, just tell me.
Wait now, aren't you a lamb? Then why do you behave like a she-goat?
How dare you talk to me like that, the lamb barked, flashing her terrifying molars, the banes of many a field. She slapped the stunned wolf hard, and he flushed red with humiliation. Then he snuck a look around, relieved to see that the scene had gone unnoticed. You know what, I'll give you a hunnit. We drink this, then back to my place.
One grand. My place. Oh, and no way are we going anywhere beyond second base. I'm a lamb. Maybe next time round.
The wolf downed his beer. The lamb left hers, but lapped at her liquor daintily. Then with clicking hooves, she made her way to the car.
You have to earn me, she snapped to the wolf on her trail. He was opening the car door for her. Then he jumped behind the wheel, and they took off into the unknown. They ended up in a skid row dive. He was about to start undressing the innocent, blinking herbivore when the police broke in. The cuffs clinked hard around his naked wrists. The team was led by his arch-enemy, an agile hound. They wouldn't even let him get dressed. He was dragged naked to a patrol car, and the hens and mice stood mobbing the street corner, laughing at the bald wolf.
For these days angels are the fiercest of creatures, and the unsuspecting will fall in their trap. This trap, like all traps, will be set with the stuff of one's own stupidity.

Translated by: Dániel Dányi

Tags: István Vörös