When he awoke, it was horrible—he couldn’t feel his legs anymore, he took a shaky deep breath. The doctor was the only one present when he woke. He told him something, but Pavia lost consciousness again.
He awoke, his legs stitched up with black thread, sutures, he understood. From then on, two metal rods became part of his body. There was a time of convalescence, long, long weeks at the hospital, but he survived. In the village, the bear was savoured by all and everyone talked about the courageous man who had dared to challenge it. He became a sort of legend. In the neighbouring village, a rumour went around about a man who had killed a bear with his bare hands, which Pavia found highly entertaining. Half the village crammed into his home to hear him tell his story, all impatient for every detail. That was two months ago.
Pavia bends over the table, he opens the package Abel handed him earlier this week. “Open it when you know the time is right.” Pavia unties the many strings with his trembling fingers. He feels the paper: drawings. Two framed pieces, a portrait of a haggard old man, light in his eyes, his mouth closed; this man inspired respect. Here before him was the portrait of a man sitting straight and proud. The second drawing depicts a bear toppled over on its side, a streak of blood trickling out. Pavia places the first drawing on his knees, he cries softly.
His wife found him the next day, a drawing on his lap. Outside, the flurry of snow blocked the horizon from her sight.
Winning the Bird’s Heart
Nature flares her gills, bares her belly: splendid clusters of green, snares exposed, the promised thaw, a few dry shoots, and a silver reflection on the water. The smell of the place is dizzying, too many scents, gentle and pungent at once, salt, the rising tide, the body’s restoration. The temperature has soared, fifteen degrees. The sun pervades every human crease, the glaciers glisten; it’s a rare sight. The birds are the first to embrace the sweetness of the balmy air. Twenty hours a day, days that no longer end. This is how Imaru welcomes his new land, the mildness, the unfurling fan of flowers, the springs, the sound of water. Everything seems endless, an everlasting concert of scents and sounds. The Green Earth etches her name, and all these synonyms touch the man, win his heart.
Taking the earth’s pulse, summer. From now on, no more shack, summer is the sacred, long-awaited moment, they prepare for it for six months with hunting in mind. The desire to freeze this moment in time, to prolong it, to bless its every shape and form—this is the desire that Imaru knows all too well. He breathes in. For the first time in months, warm blood rushes to his head; impatience. He has the unpleasant impression of having left a part of himself somewhere, this winter, too many dark, uncontrollable thoughts. He was becoming another. A dead man. Six months of cold, of grueling hunts; few catches, one meal a day, the wait, all this leaves its mark. You must be strong to gain the upper hand over winter. To not stay there. You must think about hares, about the very rare bear, you must think about meat, constantly, about meat. But Imaru is an experienced hunter, he knows when the storm will finish its destructive work.
He walks a bit outside around his house, his legs are killing him. A typical hunting story, a very thin icefield, frozen only at the surface in some places, a thin film of frost and crystals. But Imaru always followed only his instinct, the limits of the ice, the stars tallied in the sky. All the same, Joseph had warned him, bad ice, a trap a few centimetres below. He limps a bit, what’s most important is to know how to run risks, to detect the danger. He gathers up the traps that the snow had safeguarded, he laughs thinking that anyone could have caught their foot in there. He would have to repaint the sides, maybe red, to welcome Ana. It’s her favourite colour. In the meantime, the outside of the little house is shabby, the paint peeling, the walls gnawed away by the cold. Imaru is already mentally organizing the next few days. Maybe Ana would also like to paint the house.
With summer, wealth, excitement, and hunting return: readying the rifles, setting up camp before nightfall. As a good hunter, Imaru has learned patience, the pounding chest. He walks around the house to see his dogs. Six behemoths with stormy eyes, proud, brave, frontiersmen of the bitter cold. He gratifies his protectors, tosses them chunks of meat chopped up in a hurry. He knows that the dogs are an undeniable part of why he is alive. Without the dogs, winter would only have been even more miserable. Interminable. The entrails of hares, a pretty poor thank you for their reassuring presence. But the dogs make a feast of it, scarcely wolfing down one mouthful before asking for more. He pets them very gently, he can come close now, their bellies are full.
He walks a few metres into the hamlet, imbibes the fresh air, uncontrollable breaths. All around, beds upon beds of green; there is no more snow, sheets of ice, threats of suicide. A hunter hardly missed his mark this winter, they never saw him again, maybe he had moved away. He didn’t talk about it anymore, ashamed; from what they say, it wasn’t the first time he had tried. A failed attempt. Joseph was very grieved, because he was good friends with the man, a well-respected hunter. Probably the fewer catches than usual crushed his spirits, then the dark thoughts began to sprout among the branches. Joseph is savouring this moment too, at his doorstep, he studies the horizon. He smiles. Joseph is ageless, hardly any lines grace his forehead, he has a reassured smile, a mischievous air. A brother, inseparable.
“So, how’s the leg? Will we need to take the axe to it?”
“No, it’s ok, definitely healing. I don’t feel the numbness I did at first. But I always feel like I’m limping. It kind of sucks, but whatever, I’m up and about!”
“Oh, great! Keep it up and you’ll be fucking legless!”
“Hey, you cut it out! In two days, I’ll be ready to set off for the camp.”
“Sara and Jim are already on their way. The rest of the gang is settled in. The only ones missing are you and your wooden leg!”
Joseph bursts into a huge thunderous laugh, slaps both hands on his thighs. He sometimes reminds him of an auk, he doesn’t speak, he chirps, tugs odd little syllables from his throat. He lost two of his dogs in December but doesn’t seem troubled by it. Joseph has a natural talent for laughing and good humour. A rare bird. Imaru can’t stop thinking of Ana. Of the few days that separate them.
Summer. Summer is Ana, the never-ending sunshine.
Summer will bring her back, will draw her from her native South. Ana talks cars, libraries, theatres, she speaks plainly, gives weight to each word, beautifies them. She likes to give advice on books; she’s a librarian. Why this one instead of another? Love of words, she says. To comb through pages and pages of story. To Ana, the very point of books is their innermost anatomy, something that keeps us alive, that obliges us to live, proof of belonging, a seal.
Imaru still remembers the time when Ana drew back the curtains, flooding the library with light; choose, she was saying. She spread the contents on the floor like an offering. Forty-seven heavy, dog-eared books, alive but already tired out from much use. A whispered love, pinned to the floor, a jewellery box. A part of Ana. Imaru, shaking, panic-stricken. What should he choose? He so wants to make Ana happy, doesn’t want to disappoint her. He was holding the book close to his heart. Then Ana was approving his choice. Later, he devoted himself to describing winter to her, long letters that encased his spectacle of white noise. Thousands of stars, a little of you every night, come quickly, hurry! Here, it’s always winter, there’s no respite, almost six months of total darkness, a meditation. Now, a glacier bears your name. Ana. I photographed it many times, for you. Promise me, you will come taste hare, it melts in your mouth. You will see the sun itself melt in its way, you will love it, you will not need books to understand the countryside. Summer, everything is different, nature green, grass everywhere, you can hear the water, Ana, the glaciers are freed from their stiffness. There are waterfalls, clear water, so clear; you will be able to drink your fill. I will introduce you to my friends: Joseph, Sara, Jim. They will love you, you will love them, without a doubt, I don’t know anyone as generous and welcomi
ng, you will be welcomed like a queen, it’s a promise. They already know you through my words, my photographs. In a few days, Ana will arrive, time to reach camp, ready the rifles; wait, patience.
The night is long, very long, a midnight sun, Imaru doesn’t really sleep. His body hasn’t exactly adapted yet to this persistent light, despite the drawn curtains, the two layers of blankets. Memories of Ana come through the light, the town, the noise, the honking of horns, the aisles of fish, the skating rink. He remembers the museum of natural history, the bones, the narwhal teeth, the tanned walrus hide, the boots fashioned from the skin of an Arctic fox; fragments of his life displayed here and there with explanatory captions. Ana was saying that she would like to wear the fox-skin boots, she thought them pretty. They then went skating, red cheeks, dancing snowflakes, wild arabesques, never had Imaru enjoyed himself so much than on that day. He had relived this scene countless times and the hours that followed, inside in the warmth, with Ana. But they didn’t make love, Ana wanted to wait a little, to be sure of how she felt. She would rather he write her a few letters first, she wanted words before body. Imaru understood, he devoted himself to writing her every week, believing her love would grow. He sleeps, alone, with the hope of growing love.
Setting off for the camp, the excitement, the impatience, regaining his bearings. Imaru is already mentally numbering the bodies, the wild ballet, a frenzy flying straight to heaven. He imagines the children’s wild joy, their cheeks alight again, a rosy glow, they think they’ve been invited to a party, they are kings for a brief moment, they’re vibrating. Eighty kilometres now separates him from this pageant; fortunately, Joseph incessantly clucks away, he describes the scenery splendidly, improves it, distorts it, knows the name of every rock, of every flower. Sometimes he invents them.
“Does Ana arrive soon?”
“Yes, in a few days, a week at the very most. I’ve been counting the days since last summer. Three hundred sixty-five days without seeing her, a year to the day.
“Who’s going to drive her from Qaanaaq?”
“A cousin who lives there. He’s not working right now, so he has lots of time.”
“Are you sure? I mean, it’s a long trip. Do you think she’ll feel safe? She’s not from here …”
“Don’t worry! It’s okay. At least, I think, it’s okay. I’ll just have to wait it out, I guess.”
“Yes, but you will be so happy to see her again!”
The rock, immense, lords over the fatiguing landscape. How many times, the climb, the storms, but always that intoxicating moment when thousands of birds enclasp the infinite canvas of sky. Bird droppings gob the rocks, the stench of ammonia, immediate retching for anyone, but Imaru knows what to do, he clambers up. A puff of breeze from the sea, a breath, almost warm, salty, a muddied smell. Joseph and Imaru clamber, they feel the rocks crumble under their boots, stop before a few shoots to identify them. So early, the flowers never spring up so early. Imaru contemplates gathering a few to press; Ana’s book. He would prefer for Ana to gaze at them with her own eyes. She will make what she likes: a bookmark, a sign of love. Joseph seizes his net first, he fixes his eyes on the sky, studies the auks’ abstract trajectories, his shoulders thrown back at the slightest gust, he’s magnificent, net in hand, ready to rend the air. Ready for the shower of birds. He remains like that for a few minutes, completely silent, his shock of hair ruffled by the wind, a monument of the hunt. He changes his mind, turns his back to Imaru and suddenly—snap! The first bird snagged in the net, the first catch. Imaru, in turn, whirls his net about, blood pounds in his temples, he’s hot but he remains in control; if he loses control, the hunt will end, he knows, without enough provisions for everyone.
Auk eggs, all the fragility of the world, one egg. Now, to win the bird’s heart, to not frighten it, to wait. A certain, instant death, the bird will not suffer. Imaru grabs his net, knows that a formidable hunter, with much patience, can catch more than three hundred auks. He attends this breathtaking sight. One, two, three, twenty, forty. He feels like a schoolboy minding his lessons, much concentration, but the body is a network of senses, everything can change in an instant. Joseph smiles at him, this part of the hunt overwhelms him with happiness. His cap makes him look like an urchin, a tall, thirty-year-old urchin with two missing teeth. Imaru returns his smile, he feels amazing. Winter is over and done. The birds fall one by one, their hearts won, thudding against the rocks. A few feathers wafted by the wind compose an epitaph. Imaru and Joseph remain there, arms in the air, net pitched to the sky for hours. They never pause despite the numbing sensation in their muscles. They will be warmly welcomed. Joseph totters, he’s no longer standing steady. He’s very hungry, he hasn’t eaten today. He seems very agitated all of a sudden and a little strange. Imaru declares the hunt over for the day. Joseph stumbles over a rock, he tumbles a few metres down; Imaru panics, he’ll help his friend, leaving the dozens of birds on the cliff’s crest. He grabs the shoulder of his friend, he’s patting down his right leg.
“Man! What a nasty fall! But I’m fine … I’m not good for much anymore!” Joseph laughs.
“Fine? You’re okay?”
“Of course! Look at me go. I’m going to climb back up to get my share of the birds! I’m not one of those young weaklings, not me!” He chuckles.
“Ok, but don’t overdo it. We’ll fill the bags and go …”
Back at camp. The party aroma, northern style, meat roasted over a fire, the smell of blood, guts in plain sight, feathers, children’s games, smiles. They gather together to celebrate, to forget those months of oppressive darkness, the empty stomach, one meal a day, the faces of starvation, the band regroups. For a moment, they forget that darkness no longer lasts entire days, that no one is any longer the easy prey of polar nights, that there exists something besides the pummelling beauty of the earth. Imaru watches Sara steadily sew the auk wings, long necklaces of feathers; Sara is a jeweller, she transforms birds into necklaces, into balloons. This immense balloon of birds is a magnificent work of art. To sew, to piece together, the craft of a patient woman, incredibly meticulous; metres and metres of tissue for survival, for the survival of all. Sara knows how to prepare kiviak better than anyone else. She has already prepared a heap of stones, Imaru knows that she chose them with care. An aroma of grilled birds, children running, Imaru must recount it all, sew the words, explain how this celebration is of utmost importance, why they dream months in advance about this improbable baptism of flesh and peace.
Imaru to Ana. In a few days, you will be with us, together, you will join us, join me for this party. Ana, I swear that everything here is feasted on by both eyes and stomach, we have been so hungry for months; now, we eat. Everyone wears their brightest smile, we joke, we laugh; cascades of laughter, ridiculous stories. We’ve prepared kiviak; in a few months, the birds will finally be ready and you will be able, yes, you too will be able to taste this meat. You should have seen Joseph, he was roaring with joy. The aroma of grilled birds constantly permeates the camp, their meat is delicious, the flowers are splendid, you will think them so pretty, they have a bluish tinge a little like water, they’re delicate, almost transparent (you taught me this word); they are all over the camp. I know you will arrive in just a few days but I’m impatient. I reread your book, my book, maybe you are the book, I don’t know, I don’t understand all the words but I imagine their meaning. You should teach them to me and then I would be able to use them in my own letters, to know what they’re made of. I like puzzling words, I try to guess at their meaning; like transparent, I thought that it meant “soft,” but actually, it’s even better.
I will show you how to hunt auks, I have no doubt that you will be an excellent hunter. All the families from the village are at camp. I will introduce you to Jim and Sara. They will love you at once, for sure. Old Erninnguaq too, who doesn’t hunt anymore; he’s maybe a little jealous, he doesn’t walk much anymore but he watches. He offered me a huge cup of coffee and told me that the last anim
al he hunted was a narwhal. He was laughing like crazy, slapping me on the back. At first, I did not really believe him, but it is true that Erninnguaq is a formidable hunter. He also told me that, nowadays, narwhals are difficult to catch, to kill. The water is now so warm that unfortunately the killer whales arrive way before we do. Back in the day, narwhal fishing was synonymous with pride; now, it’s an exploit, you become a legendary hero. He says his cousin sells narwhal teeth for an outrageous price. But I don’t think his cousin is still alive, his memories are a bit mixed up. Honestly, Ana, you should be here, right now, there aren’t words for all this. It’s not just a party, it’s a whole celebration of nature. The sun is all around all the time, it follows us. I will write you until you come, that will let me be with you, a little more each day. Imaru.
Imaru finishes his letter, his body charged, a happiness massaging his head, stimulating his nerves. He doesn’t feel like sleeping, his body won’t let him sleep; he daydreams, head in the sun, of reunions, of his love nearby. He refuses to entertain any negative apprehensions, he thinks of the flower between the book’s pages, of the auks’ white feathers, of Barbara, Sara and Jim's daughter, of her sweet smile when she brings him a cup of coffee, her hair tousled by the wind, her pink cheeks, an almost unearthly pink, so perfect, pink like the flesh of salmon. No, pinker, pink like a rose. She wanted a sip of coffee, like the adults, she said. She sucked her thumb, she wants to be all grownup, she wants to know everything and to talk adult talk.
A Blanket Against Darkness Page 2
