explode, bend over, grab a handful of snow, make a sloppy snowball, and you throw it and you yell, and you throw other snowballs at them, they bolt, back to their cars, and speed away, and you keep throwing projectiles at the cars by now out of range, then you stop, a ready-made snowball in your right hand, look around, see your neighbour Michel there, using his lunch hour to make a snowfort for his children, his three children playmates of Béatrice’s, he’s there, outside, his shovel partly buried in the snow, paralyzed, dismayed, you hold his gaze, as though challenging him, finally he stammers a few words, he saw it in the newspapers, he mumbles words like “dreadful, ” “horrible,” your expression softens, an inaudible “thanks” escapes your dry lips, you take it all in, the half-built snowfort, Michel’s house, his three children’s sleds, you slowly pulverize the snowball in your hand, then you walk, no, you run away to your car, Michel’s voice behind you “if you need anything . . .”, you slam the door on the absurdity of his words, take off, feeling as though you’re about to vomit all over again, but the feeling passes, highway, north bridge, the City, downtown, your brother-in-law’s large architect’s office, you sit facing him, he has bags under his eyes, he’s in a sorry state, he tells you the viewing at the funeral home is scheduled for Thursday and the service for Friday morning, many more details about money, inheritance, technicalities that barely register with you, too busy contemplating the high-tech design, the modern art on the walls, the window with its view of the City, and when Jean-Marc holds out several documents for you to sign, you look up, your eyes uncomprehending, but your voice calm, almost
- But I did the same as you. Not the same job, that’s true: you studied and all that, me I’ve got no education, but I worked hard, I opened my store, I succeeded. I did what I had to do, just as much as you . . .
clinical, he gulps, straightens one of the few strands of hair on his balding pate, blinks in discomfort, and the words he utters in a
- I guess that . . . that’s no guarantee . . .
quavering voice make your eyebrows shoot up, your jaw drop, as though you’re struck by a revelation, and I think that is when you understood, even though there’s really nothing to understand, nothing at all, and you don’t move, don’t speak and Jean-Marc has to hold the documents out again before you react, bend over, sign them unread, then he gives you the funeral home address, it’s not far from where you live, finally you leave, you head out, you take off, your cell phone rings several times but you don’t answer, you’re back at the house by three, you step out of your car, then notice the red van in front of Michel’s house, a van that doesn’t belong to your neighbour or to his wife Lucie who doesn’t work and is a stay-at-home mom, you walk up to your front door, a piece of paper taped there, a message from a neighbour Rick explaining he dropped by to see how you were doing, that he’s heard the news, saying you can call him anytime, you crumple the paper, step inside, sit in the living room, study what’s left of your breakfast, long minutes pass, movement in the street glimpsed through the window, you take a closer look, a guy seems to be leaving Michel’s house, a man in his thirties who walks to the red van, looks around suspiciously, gets into the van and starts the engine, you turn to look at your neighbour’s house, a quiet house, a normal house, you walk to the bathroom, stop, return to the living room and urinate in a corner, you sit back down and you do nothing, a quivering in your eye, a stirring inside your head, the slow shifting of quicksand, then people walk by, children return home from school, you don’t get up to look out the window, you lie down on the couch, you curl into a ball, you close your eyes, you hide them with your fists and you weep, you weep in a silence that buries all living sound, seventy-five minutes, you get up, put on your coat and boots, make your way to the closest restaurant, a thirty-minute walk or so, but once there, you don’t dare go inside, and I think I know why, you used to come here with Judith and the children, once a fortnight, you keep on going, you stop at the next restaurant, a chic Italian eatery you’ve only been to once or twice before, you step into an elegant dining room, more than a dozen customers including a married couple, vague acquaintances in fact, both wave with a smile, clearly still in the dark, you stare at them, expressionless, not responding to their greeting, they frown at your stony silence, mutter to each other then ignore you, you eat exceedingly slowly, then do nothing, not even once you’ve finished, not even when the bill is brought to you, total inertia, the waitress returns to ask if you’re all right, you say yes and don’t move, twenty minutes, vaguely you notice the curious glances the couple sends your way, the waitress returns, polite, makes it clear you must go, other customers are waiting, you can plainly see the many empty tables but you don’t insist, you get up, you pay and you step outside, it’s dark and cold out, you don’t do up your coat, you take the longest route home, impossible detours, ninety minutes instead of forty, you’re frozen to the bone when you finally step inside, lock the door, roam through the house, stop to stare at your twenty-six sports DVDs purchased over the past three years, then you give up on choosing one, just turn on the big 50-inch TV that you bought yourself two months ago, lie down on the couch and, remote in hand, you listen to the news, the economic crisis, a look back at Haiti’s earthquake, the rape and murder of a young woman, the main suspect an escaped prisoner from Donnacona who’s been on the loose for a number of years, but when your story comes up, you change the channel, then switch from one channel to the next, never stopping for more than thirty seconds on any given show, then around midnight you come across a channel showing nothing, all done, all dark, you drop the remote, cross your hands between your cheek and the armrest of the couch and stare at the black screen, you fall into the screen, you close your eyes and dream of that darkness, that emptiness, and the nothingness turns out to be the worst possible nightmare, and when you awaken around ten, your face is wet with tears, you sit up, you’re cold, but you don’t turn up the heat, you light a fire in the hearth, twigs, newspaper, logs, flames shoot up, but you decide not to close the fire screen, you back up to the middle of the room, you watch the flames, then a spark shoots out from the fireplace, lands on the old newspapers scattered across the floor, the paper starts to smoulder, but you don’t respond, you don’t intervene, you watch, the small flame simply scorches the paper before dying out, you sigh then and leave the living room, finally you listen to all your messages, those at home and on your cell phone, friends, store employees, your brother crying asking where you are, whether or not you’ve told Dad and Mom in Florida, he begs you to call him, they all want you to call, they all exclaim how horrible it is, they all offer their help, but you make just one phone call, to your store, you speak to your manager, advise him you won’t be back for quite a while, he asks for instructions, but you tell him to do whatever he wants, he says he’d like to have some specifics and even though you can tell how unnerved he is, you say again that he can do whatever he wants, that it doesn’t matter at all, not in the least, not at all, and you hang up, the doorbell rings, you can make out two silhouettes behind the glass, you panic, hurry down to the basement, the doorbell rings again, you can even hear the sound of the doorknob being turned several times in vain, finally silence, you look around you, children’s decorations, shelves full of toys, posters of cartoon heroes, dolls, trucks and figurines, and in a corner your elliptical trainer that you’ve not touched in three days, you who normally trains every morning before work, you get on the elliptical and start to pedal, a firm grip on the handles propelling your arms back and forth, and you pedal, and you row, you jack up the resistance as far as it will go, and you pedal, and you row, and you go as fast as possible, you grimace, you perspire profusely, you clench your teeth, your limbs begin to tremble from the strain but you don’t slow down, you keep on pushing and pushing, ten minutes, then fifteen, then twenty, thirty, forty-five minutes pushing yourself to the limit, without respite, your body sticky with sweat under your sopping clothes, your face crimson, your breath wheezing, you slow down again
st your will, you grunt, you cry out, you don’t want to stop, but suddenly you flatten your hand over your heart and groan in pain, you collapse to the floor, on your back, convulsing, gasping for air, clenching and unclenching your fingers on your burning chest, but the pain lessens, your heart starts beating normally, the heart attack didn’t want you after all, your breathing stabilizes and you close your eyes, you lie there, thirty minutes, silence, silence, you get up, your legs rubbery, take the stairs, bathroom, a long hot shower, then you throw on the first clothes you come across, you return to the main floor, two o’clock, you step outside, without a coat, your slippers on, it’s cold out but the sun is shining, you walk to the sidewalk and look at the houses on the street, orderly, pretty, well-kept, peaceful, and the red van is back in front of Michel’s house, you narrow your eyes, then you return inside, look up a phone number, dial, give your neighbour’s name to the insurance company receptionist, then Michel answers, surprised and a bit awkward at your call, so you tell him there’s no point to it all, but he doesn’t understand, you continue, your voice
- Your house, your kids, your family, your job . . . It’s all for nothing, Michel.
a monotone, he says again that he doesn’t understand, fumbles as he asks you what he can do to help, you tell him he’d better come home right away, immediately, then he’ll understand, you hang up, examine the mess in the kitchen, go outside, still coatless, walk over to the sidewalk, your hands in your pockets, and you wait, ten minutes, fifteen, then Michel’s car drives past, Michel steps out of the vehicle, Michel stares at you in concern and suspicion, Michel asks what’s going on, and you turn your head toward the red van, your neighbour sees it now too, a flicker of doubt in his eye, he quicksteps to the house, ninety seconds, shouts and exclamations burst from within the pretty bungalow, so you return inside, stop in the living room, look at the fire in the hearth, several sparks have singed the wooden floor, but that’s all, you sit down on the couch, see the red van speed past the window, the phone rings, this time you do answer, it’s your brother Alain, whom you’ve barely seen since he moved to Drummondville, Alain shouting, chewing you out, asking you why you didn’t call back, and you simply say you didn’t want to, he bursts into tears then, he apologizes, he asks if you’ve told Dad and Mom in Florida, you say no, then he announces he’s coming to stay with you right away, you say that’s out of the question, you’ll see him at the funeral home tomorrow, you give him the address and the time, finally he backs down but insists that tomorrow he’ll stay with you until the service on Friday and even all weekend, he, Marie-Hélène and the children, they’ll be there for you, they won’t abandon you, you say fine, provided they all make it there tomorrow, he’s surprised, says of course they’ll be there, without fail, but you insist, without a trace of irony or
- That’s if your house doesn’t burn down tonight. Or if a burglar doesn’t rob you overnight. Or if your children come home from school this afternoon. Maybe they’ll be attacked on their way home. Maybe some maniac will kidnap them, torture them for hours then kill them.
malice, and the silence stretches on and on, interrupted only by Alain’s breathing, but finally he speaks, his voice disconcerted, a tad resentful, he understands how despair might make you say things “that make no sense,” but his last words make you scream, spit, splutter into
- Why wouldn’t it make any sense? Tell me that! He gives fuck all whether something makes sense or not! He doesn’t give a flying fuck!
the phone, and a frantic Alain asks who it is you’re talking about, but you don’t reply, you might not even know yourself, at least not clearly, and you throw the phone at the wall, and you go back to the living room, and you glare defiantly at the fireplace, but the fire is almost out, so you add more logs cursing unintelligibly, you stir the embers, and the fire springs back to life, flaming, triumphant, once more you don’t close the fire screen, coat, boots, then out you go, leaving the front door wide open, and as you back your car into the street, you see Michel, furious, emerging from his house, he strides to his car with Lucie on his heels, Lucie in her dressing gown, Lucie in a panic, Lucie in tears, begging and imploring, but you’re not interested, you drive away, you pass your friend Alexandre coming in the opposite direction, no doubt on his way to your house, and Alexandre must have recognized your car too because in your rearview mirror you see him pull a U-turn, probably in the hope of catching up with you, but you get a good head start, you lose him, and make your way then to the closest hotel, you book a room, you watch TV, you don’t answer your cell phone when it rings a half-dozen times, and you fall asleep, extremely late, an anguished and turbulent sleep, peopled with screams and fury, and you wake up at ten, eat in the hotel restaurant and return home, the front door still wide open, you walk inside, astonished to see everything still in order, nothing has been stolen or vandalized, and the fire in the hearth is out, and nothing has burned within, so you go back outside and your cries tumble down the
- But this was the time! Why not now? Hey? Why not now?
street, deserted but for a woman farther down staring at you, you give her the finger, you go back inside and close the door behind you, and you cry, wander, and you cry, for two hours, and you end up upstairs in your bedroom, black pants, black suit jacket, white shirt and black tie, you study yourself for a moment in the mirror, indifferent, then go out, closing the door behind you this time and locking it, and just before you start up the car you stare at the house for a long time, a long, long time, as though your eyes already knew something your conscious mind had yet to grasp, then you drive, ten minutes, the funeral home, already four or five visitors seemingly embarrassed to see you show up a half-hour late, the three caskets, closed, you go from one to the next, your jaw clenched, thin-lipped, then the handshakes, the condolences, the sobs, the curses against fate, Judith’s mother who’s in such deep despair she has to be held up, and you say almost nothing, then Jean-Marc and his family, Jean-Marc who whispers in your ear that everything is under control but you need to meet with the funeral director before the afternoon is out to sign some papers and settle up, then your brother Alain and his family, his wife who can’t stop crying, her tears on your neck, Alain who says he’s told Dad and Mom, who’s surprised they didn’t call, but you tell him you haven’t picked up your messages since yesterday, and Alain shakes his head, says that Dad and Mom will be on the first plane, assures you they will no doubt be back by tomorrow or even tonight, then still other people who gradually appear, including a shattered Alexandre, who swears he drove to your place on several occasions, and you remain silent, withdrawn, your cousin Juliette approaches, thin, her face already all wrinkled at the age of forty-eight, her wheelchair propelled by her husband Normand, her eyes full of compassion, and what she says to you
- I know it’s hard to accept, but everything happens for a reason . . .
lights a furtive but intense blaze in your pupils, you open your mouth to reply but a friend of Judith’s steps up to hug you, then other people, more and more, finally you ask Jean-Marc how it is that so many people know when you told no one, but Jean-Marc thought of everything, Jean-Marc placed a notice in two daily newspapers, Jean-Marc started a couple of telephone trees, you nod, look around you, all the people, all the faces, some just a blur, some you don’t recognize, then you spot cousin Juliette again, over there, and you head in her direction, eyes hardening, but she speaks first before you get a chance to, says she wants to go out for a cigarette but Normand has gone to the bathroom, would you be good enough to take her outside if it’s no bother, you help her on with her coat, you slip on your own coat, you push her wheelchair, people step back respectfully, outside the cold is mild, the sun bright, you head for the disabled ramp and start to wheel her down slowly, making an effort to ease the chair down the incline, then you lean over so your cousin can hear you, you say that, if you’ve understood correctly, the accident that crippled her at the age of twenty-seven happened for a reason, and she nods, swears she�
�s stronger now, you nod, the weight of the wheelchair too much to hold back, and suddenly you don’t anymore, the chair heads down the ramp on its own now, picking up speed, your cousin asking what’s going on, and you do nothing, the wheelchair heads straight for the street with Juliette yelping, Juliette fumbling in vain at the wheels with her feeble hands, Juliette coming to a standstill at last right in the middle of the street just as a car slams on its brakes, and a second car rear-ends the first, and at last you walk over to Juliette, you lean in from behind, and your voice
- What about now, do you feel strong now?
is low, so low, and you notice that Juliette is gasping, Juliette’s eyes are wide, Juliette is about to pass out, and at last you look around you, the woman driver in the first car transfixed with fear behind the steering wheel, the driver of the second car stepping out of his vehicle, a hand up to his bloody nose, your friends and family streaming out of the funeral home, including Normand who races to his wife’s side, panic-stricken, yelling for someone to call an ambulance, Juliette’s having a heart attack, and everyone rushes about, asking questions, turning in circles, and you watch the chaos in fascination, motionless, a steadfast rock in a storm-swept sea, but someone grabs you by your arm, your brother Alain, eyes rolling, asks what happened, but you disengage yourself gently, take a few steps back as though to better grasp the whole debacle, as though to burn it with a branding iron on your mind, as though to photograph it in pixels of fire, then you turn on your heel and walk away, ignoring your brother’s calls, and you climb into your car, and you take off, you call Sylvain from your cell phone but there’s no answer, you don’t leave a message, your fuel gauge shows next to empty, stop at a gas station, fill up, you go inside to pay and on your way out, you notice the bank machine in a corner of the gas station, you walk over and withdraw the maximum the machine will allow, a thousand dollars, and you’re off again, you drive toward the City, you cross the north bridge, fifteen minutes, you park, you enter the bar Le Maquis, the server greets you warmly, she remembers you even though you only come once every five or six weeks, you ask if she’s seen Sylvain, yes, last night, he seemed quite down, she says you don’t look too good yourself, you order a beer and sit down at an empty table, happy hour has started, lots of customers, men and women in their thirties, talking, laughing, arguing, drinking, good humour, your cell phone rings often, each time you check the caller, each time you see it’s not Sylvain, each time you don’t bother answering, but after an hour, you can’t stand the ringing anymore so you turn it off, another beer, happy hour’s over, fewer customers, the clock shows eight, you leave to pee, you return, another beer, your fourth, your eyes on the door, then for the first time you study the people around you, a young woman on her own over there, in her thirties, pretty, long chestnut-brown hair, she looks at you insistently and even smiles finally, you look away immediately, as you’ve done whenever a young woman starts to flirt with you, and I know you’ve developed the reflex to avoid temptation and trouble and disorder, yes, to avoid all that, and suddenly Sylvain appears in a black shirt and dark jacket, he sees you, is reassured, walks over to sit across from you, he’s come from the funeral home, everyone’s looking for you, your brother and your brother-in-law have been trying to reach you on your cell phone, Sylvain himself tried to call you three times, so why didn’t you answer, why did you leave the funeral parlour, why are you here, and your silence starts to annoy Sylvain, finally you say that you want to get loaded, Sylvain calms down then, orders two beers, he tells you he understands your confusion, tells you that and much more about the absurdity of life and suffering and injustice, but you’re not really listening, you watch the waitress as she brings both your drinks, her suggestive grin in your friend’s direction, her firm buttocks in her figure-hugging short skirt, and you interrupt Sylvain to ask if he’s ever fucked the waitress, he’s taken aback, but he does answer yes, and, with no hint of a smile, you ask him if she likes it hot and dirty, and he, still more disconcerted, says yes, quite a bit, you nod, staring into space now, slowly you start to speak, your voice distant, you explain that Judith didn’t like it hot and dirty, at least hadn’t for several years, you still made love once a week, sometimes twice, but it was much tamer, especially since the children’s arrival, and she was often tired, or in a hurry, or both, so sex never lasted very long, not to mention you always had to check first, no spontaneity, nothing impromptu, but from what your other couple friends have said, you told yourself that all things considered, the two of you were within the norm, yes, the norm, you repeat it several times, the norm, and Sylvain doesn’t interrupt you, stares at you in silence, alarmed, then you sigh, look around and declare that you would like to do it hot and dirty with someone tonight, and you say the words with an odd lassitude, and Sylvain points out this is definitely not a good time, you get worked up a bit then, you
Against God Page 2
