Against God

by Patrick Senécal

  - Is it a murder then?

  challenging him, but the officer repeats wearily that he can’t say, and you keep on staring at him, as though your eyes could convey a message, but he ignores you, casts a bored look round, you nod then, you turn on your heel then, you take off then, seventy minutes, back to your new neighbourhood, you head straight for Le Losange, you’re the only customer, you settle in at a table, drink one beer, then another, a few other customers dribble in over the course of the afternoon, you don’t even look at them, you don’t look at anything, nothing at all, at six o’clock the server’s shift is over and she’s replaced by another waitress, from the other night you recognize Guylaine, who seemed to know Mélanie, you eye her up and down for a minute, lost in thought, she glances your way as she prepares her cash float, gives you a vague smile, not that she has recognized you necessarily, you take a sip of your third beer, indifferent to the four or five other customers looking as lonely as you, and suddenly in comes Mélanie, she isn’t wearing her work pants anymore, she sees you, she’s happy, she comes over to sit at your table, you let her sit down without saying a word, she’d been to your place, saw you weren’t in, thought you might be here, you still say nothing, then she invites you out for dinner but to a restaurant this time, nearby, oh, nothing fancy, she doesn’t have much money, she’s been on welfare for months now, but the food is good, the atmosphere friendly, and you shoot her a puzzled look, you toy with the idea, you shake your head, and yet you accept, making a show of indifference but you still accept, Guylaine comes up and Mélanie explains that you’re just leaving, the waitress’ pout of surprise, then Mélanie heads for the exit and invites you to follow, outside night has fallen, just a few minutes later you enter a restaurant, a modest little place, gawdy decorations, soppy music, a room half-full, you take a table at the back, she orders the skewers, you order a bunch of stuff, way too much, Mélanie looks at you uncomfortably but says nothing, then she talks about Father Léo’s project, the Youth Centre renovations are coming along nicely, within a week’s time everything should be ready, she’s excited, passionate, elated, you listen wordlessly, the meals arrive, you eat, she keeps talking about her group of volunteers, then asks you why you didn’t stay today, you chew your souvlaki dripping with sauce, you say it doesn’t interest you, she isn’t offended, she’s disappointed but not offended, claims that certain people can be resistant at first, just like she was during her initial visits a few weeks ago, she only truly started to get involved a few days ago, but you sigh, you say it’s not the same thing, from the start she was looking for help, whereas you aren’t looking, you’re not looking for any help, you’re not looking for anyone, and your voice is curt, your voice is harsh, your voice carries on propelled by its own lack of resonance, Mélanie responds that you just think you’re not looking for anything, you take a sip of the cheap wine you ordered, mutter as you ask why she wants to help you so badly, then she says again that she’s doing it for herself too, like all the people you saw this morning at the Youth Centre, they too are doing it as much for themselves as for the underprivileged youth, that’s what you have to understand, but you’ve already finished eating, you swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, staining the sleeve of your increasingly worse-for-wear shirt, state with a certain tone of aggression that you don’t want any help, but she’s not discouraged, and her smile returns, gentle and sad, as

  - All the same, you move into my building, go to bars with me and come to dinner with me, even though I won’t sleep with you . . .

  always, she must notice your irritation because she takes your hand, you give a start, Mélanie says it doesn’t matter, Mélanie is patient, Mélanie will wait for your anger to cool, you pull your hand away then, you mutter that if she knew what you’d done last night, she would be a lot less conciliatory, but she doesn’t look away, she murmurs that everyone does awful things, you pull a sardonic

  - But I don’t give a shit what I do.

  grimace, she shakes her head slowly, her exasperating smile, and she murmurs one word, one only, “liar,” in a breath that brushes your cheek like a metallic feather, you stand up then, she asks where you’re going, you say you’ve finished your meal, there’s no reason to stay, she asks if you’d like to go for a drink somewhere, you turn her down curtly, bid her goodbye without thanking her for the meal, start walking toward the door, she says nothing, doesn’t try to detain you, you find yourself outside, the temperature surprisingly mild, you walk over tamped-down snow, a furious gait, your jaw clenched, and you stop, and you think for a moment, and you hail a cab, the driver asks where you’re going, you give him the name of that dangerous district that’s so often in the news, the car starts moving, fifteen minutes, stop at an intersection, you pay the driver, get out, you start walking, you look around you, closed dingy-looking shops, housing bordering on slum dwellings, dim light through windows, the streets quiet even on a Saturday, a few pedestrians here and there who don’t even spare a glance for you, ten minutes, then four people, men and women, a small group in front of a bar, you draw near, a brazen expression on your face, they see you coming, walk off, slip into an apartment building, disappointment flits across your face, for a second you contemplate the entrance to the seedy bar then keep on walking, five minutes, two guys farther up exchange something, shoot furtive glances left and right, you draw closer, but they move away as you approach, your exasperation grows, you carry on, pass more indifferent pedestrians whom you stare at insistently in vain, then you stop in the middle of the deserted street, your hands on your hips, your head cocked, the same pose as this morning on Andréane’s balcony, and you wait, and you wait, then noise, sounds, an altercation nearby, by that clothing store, you start in that direction, voices coming from out back, you walk around the store, the only light back there comes from a naked bulb on a third-floor balcony, but you can make out silhouettes, five of them, and they’re yelling at each other between two buildings’ walls, you’re a few metres away by now and you study them intently, you manage to deduce that three Latinos are arguing with two white guys, they’re discussing drugs, rates, they’re young, twenty at the most, and there’s a girl with the white guys standing off to the side, silent, subdued, then one of the Latinos finally spots you and asks what the fuck you’re doing, the guys stop talking, the guys stare at you, but the guys look a bit frightened too, you keep your answer short, you say you’re defying logic, the Latino who spoke approaches then and the others follow suit, they’ve forgotten their fight, the girl takes a few steps too, you examine her attentively, the girl who’s still just a teen, fifteen or sixteen, pretty but looking so indifferent, and without meaning to your eyes fill with despair, and without meaning to you murmur words that

  - Would Béatrice have turned out like you some day?

  you seem to regret almost instantly because you rub your face furiously, you turn your eyes back to the gang, especially the Latino, up close by now, studs in his nose and eyebrows, his worn leather jacket, gel spiking his short hair, his expression striving for menace but still oozing childhood, he asks if you’re looking for trouble, and you shrug, you say it doesn’t matter what you’re looking for, you might not find it, what’s supposed to happen doesn’t necessarily happen, and more of

  - Like last night . . . Like tonight . . . How can you know?

  the same, the other guys shoot each other a puzzled look, and then the Latino closest to you pulls a revolver out of the pocket of his jacket, the Latino points the weapon some fifty centimetres from your face, the Latino says you’d better bugger off, and quick, but he’s nervous, but he’s trembling slightly, and you stare at the weapon for a second, expressionless, you state that logically you should run away, of course, but since logic is useless, the question is what will end up happening, they don’t get it, nerves, tension, the armed Latino cocks the hammer, moistens his lips, tells you again to clear off, you grab the wrist of his raised hand, you pull him toward you then, until the barrel of the gun rests a
gainst your forehead, and the Latino’s eyes grow wide, horrified, and he stammers that he’ll shoot if you don’t let go, yes, he’ll shoot, hear that, he’ll gun you down, but his voice lacks conviction, fear has taken up all the space, you squeeze his wrist even tighter then, the Latino squeals in pain, drops the weapon that bounces off the ground, and they scatter, every man for himself, including the girl, including the Latino who threatened you, they bolt, they disappear into the night, once or twice you hear a “fucking psycho” in the distance, then silence, the firearm on the ground glowing in the light of the naked bulb, your eyes curious, your hands scoop up the revolver, close inspection of the weapon, the cylinder that you eventually open, two out of six chambers loaded, and that fact brings a glint to your eye, a sudden illumination, you spin the cylinder then, close it again, cock the hammer and place the barrel against your temple, and you hold your breath, and you don’t hesitate, and you squeeze the trigger, a click, that’s all, no gunfire, you observe the revolver with satisfaction then, slide it awkwardly into your pants, under your coat, start walking again, back to the street, fifteen minutes, you’ve left the neighbourhood, seventy-five minutes, you walk by the fast food joint where you abandoned your car the other night, you notice the car’s still there, you continue, twenty-five minutes, you recognize your new neighbourhood, you find an open convenience store, you buy a bottle of cheap wine, the sales clerk at the counter tells you the price, you stare at him for a long minute, you reach toward your pants, for the gun, but you end up pulling out some bills and you pay, you notice you have about fifty dollars left, outside, bank, cash machine, you insert your bank card but a message pops up telling you you cannot withdraw any funds from this account, you try another account, same message, you stare at the screen for a long while, you insert your credit card, hoping for a cash advance, but a message tells you that the card is no longer valid, you sigh, leave, look for another bank, try another machine, same scenario, same refusal, you grit your teeth, punch and crack the screen, you hurt your hand, just a bit, you leave, outside, five minutes, your building, the stairs, the door to your apartment, you swing it open, but on your way inside you glance toward the stairs, toward the steps up to the next floor, you chew on your lip, I’m sure that part of you wants to climb the stairs, but in the end you enter your own apartment, you lay the revolver down on the kitchen table, then nothing, hesitation, thinking, then you frown as though at your own idiocy, and you leave your apartment, the bottle in hand, you climb the stairs, it’s eleven o’clock but there’s still light coming from under the door, you knock, Mélanie opens the door almost immediately, not in her pyjamas, Mélanie’s still dressed, Mélanie is happy, reassured, Mélanie invites you inside and you comply like a slightly shamefaced mutt, you find yourself in the living room, the bottle of wine open, you each drink a glass, the TV’s on but you both ignore it, then Mélanie asks if you’d like to go back to the Youth Centre with her tomorrow, a second chance, and you don’t answer, you notice once more the modest decor, the pastel colours, the framed paintings still on the floor in the corner of the room, and Mélanie repeats her question, all of a sudden you ask her to lend you some money, she seems surprised, you explain that your bank accounts have been frozen, your credit card too, because you haven’t been in touch with anyone for three days now, because you owe the funeral home, your family must have asked the police to freeze your accounts to force you to resurface, they must know you’re in Montréal since you paid for some DVDs with your credit card and they must imagine you’re wandering around aimlessly in a state of shock, they’re convinced the lack of funds will force you to return in short order, Mélanie listens, her legs tucked beneath her, glass in hand, then she says they could be right, you get annoyed then, it’s not at all like that, she hasn’t understood a thing, you’re not in a state of shock, you’re not wandering aimlessly, you’re waging a war, and Mélanie asks against whom, but you don’t answer, you drain your glass, you pour yourself another, Mélanie suggests you go to pay the money owed, reassure everyone, then explain that you don’t want to hear from a single soul, and that would be it, you could come back here, but your patience is wearing thin, and as you speak you

  - I don’t wanna go back, not even for a few hours! I don’t wanna see anyone again! No one!

  thump your thigh, and you finish your glass, then you calm down, ask if she plans to call the cops, she says no, with her sad and gentle smile, says again with compassion that she is here to help you, you hold her gaze, then your lips move, stretch out and up, take the shape of something resembling a smile, I’m not even sure you’re aware it’s happened, and Mélanie’s face lights up as though she’d just received a Christmas present, but serious now, she explains she can’t really lend you any money, she’s been living on welfare since she lost her cashier’s job six months ago, she lowers her eyes then, confesses she used to lead a dissipated life, lots of partying, a lot of irresponsibility, collecting lovers, and suddenly you’re listening very closely, but she stops short, her head down, embarrassed, you stare then at the glass you’re rolling between your palms, your expression solemn, something hangs there suspended, hovers, quivers, and when you speak your voice is a

  - If you tell me your story, I’ll tell you what happened to me too . . .

  whisper, she keeps her eyes down, tormented, her long hair draped on either side of her face, then she lifts her head and asks again if you’ll come tomorrow, you drain your glass and pour yourself another, the switch in topics makes you surly, you grunt probably not, you make as though to get to your feet and leave but she points at the TV, where a Hitchcock movie has begun, she says she loves the oldies, she invites you to stay and watch with her, she insists, her big eyes, her sad gentle smile, and you stare at her, your resentment remains, and yet you settle back, and the two of you watch the movie in silence for half an hour, you drink alone, your gaze in the middle distance, scarcely aware of the movie, and at times your eyes glisten with rage, and at others they fill with infinite anguish, at still others they dive down into the abyss, then finally you realize that Mélanie has fallen asleep, you get to your feet, you look at her for a long time, your eyes admiring her body, her legs in their form-fitting jeans, her pretty yet sad face even in sleep, then finally you do walk to the door, the half-finished bottle in your hand, your apartment, your couch, alone, you drink the rest of the bottle, then you do nothing for a while, you put on your coat then, slide the gun into your pants, leave the apartment, walk to Le Losange, one thirty, only a couple of customers, two men talking at a table, Guylaine now replaced by a vapid, miserable barman, disappointment flits across your face, you sit down alone at another table, half a dozen beers, two forty-five, you’re the only one left in the bar, the barman is reading a video game magazine, you toy with the gun under your coat but you don’t pull it out, you look out the window, all of a sudden your eyes fill with tears, and you bite your lip so as not to cry, and you pound the table so as not to cry, and you grit your teeth so as not to cry, and when the barman pronounces a weary last call, you stand up, you pay and you leave the bar, you lurch into the street, you come to a standstill, you pull out the revolver, there’s a pedestrian down the street, you open the cylinder housing its two bullets, spin it, close it again, then raise the weapon in the direction of the pedestrian, you aim at him for a long time, and he keeps on walking oblivious, crosses an intersection, disappears, then a car passes, you level the gun at it until it too is out of range, then you aim at a window, then finally at the sky, you point at the sky for a long, long time while a broken, barely audible moan dribbles from your lips like snot, then you lower your weapon, then you walk into your building, then you climb the stairs, you enter your apartment, lie down in your bed, fully dressed, your face turned to the ceiling, and you guide the barrel to your temple, but you don’t pull the trigger, but you don’t budge, but you do nothing, and finally you fall asleep in that position, you dream of Andréane, her screams, her terror, the table dropping onto her face,
and you dream of me as well, but in a muddled fashion, then you’re awakened by a knock at the door, it’s morning, the gun lies on the floor, your head is pounding, you lie there for at least ten minutes, then you get up painfully, the knocking stopped a while back but you make your way to the door anyway, open it, a note on the floor, it’s Mélanie, she writes that she knocked but no one answered, she gives the address to the Youth Centre, she invites you to meet her there, you slip the piece of paper into your pocket without thinking, the time is nine ten, you go to the bathroom, fill a glass with water but at the last minute, you decide not to drink it, then you look into the bathroom mirror, your greasy hair, your beard long enough to show several grey hairs, your clothes filthy and stained in spots, you sniff under your arms, you can smell your shirt, you grimace in disgust, yet a certain satisfaction is discernible too, you walk to the living room, boots, coat, revolver, outside, it’s snowing, cars inch forward, you head for the closest restaurant, you scarf down three muffins and two cups of coffee, only three other customers, two of whom read the newspaper, an idea seems to cross your mind, you fetch a paper, bring it back to your table, leaf through and finally find on page seven a shortish article explaining that you’ve disappeared, you were last seen at the funeral home, there’s even a small picture of you, smiling, you’re barely recognizable, but when the article starts to recount the tragedy, you stop and snap the paper shut, then you watch the other two read their papers, no one pays attention to you, you dig through your pockets, a twenty-dollar bill and a few coins, you head for the exit, the girl at the counter calls after you looking for payment but you don’t even bother turning around, you step outside, the snow is thicker now, the wind stronger, pedestrians raise their coat collars for protection and you do the same, a long walk, sixty minutes, you’re across from Sylvain’s duplex, whipped by falling snowflakes, you raise your head to look up at the apartment, reluctant but resigned, you climb the stairs then, you ring the doorbell, Sylvain opens, Sylvain in shock, Sylvain’s mouth ajar, and you do nothing, say nothing, stand there, your hands in your pockets, finally Sylvain stammers for you to come in, you comply, doffing neither boots or coat, and in the living room-cum-dining room find a pretty girl in her twenties sitting at the table eating breakfast, she’s wearing Sylvain’s robe, she greets you shyly, and you recognize the girl from the other day, the day you broke the news to your friend, and you’re stunned to see her a second time, but Sylvain draws near, Sylvain takes you by the shoulders, Sylvain asks where you’ve been, everyone’s looking for you, everyone’s worried, and you let him talk and when he stops to catch his breath, you make it clear that you hate being here, in this apartment, with him, and Sylvain is speechless, then finally he remembers the girl, stupidly introduces you, her name is Sarah, and her expression, on hearing your name, positively drips with compassion, as though she knew you already, you eye her disdainfully then ask Sylvain since when does he have his flings stay for breakfast, Sarah looks embarrassed, Sylvain flinches but doesn’t falter, asks again where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing, and he tries to convince you to call your brother, your brother-in-law, your store, everyone, because they’re all worried, he keeps on repeating it, he’s genuinely distressed, says you need to get a grip and assures you he’ll help, and you listen and stare as though he were a creature from another planet, as though he were speaking to you in a foreign language, you interrupt him then, point out that the only reason you’re here is to ask for money, but he doesn’t understand, how can that be, you have more money in your bank account than he could ever earn in a year, you lose patience then, explain that your accounts have been frozen, and Sylvain says that’s understandable, given you’re on the run, but he doesn’t finish his sentence, you yell that you’re not on the run, a brief emotionally-charged silence, then Sylvain takes you by the shoulders again, you stiffen at the unwanted touch, he switches tactics, orders you to sit down, tells you the two of you will talk, there’s no rush, but you shrug free stating you’re not interested, you don’t want to listen to anyone, you don’t want a family anymore, relatives or friends, and you’re sweating in your coat, and you sigh, and you take a few steps back, Sylvain is bewildered, Sylvain says he’s there for you, he’s still your friend, but you say no, that too is over, you say again just how difficult it was for you to come, you’re only here for the money, end of story, Sylvain’s expression changes then, despair and frustration, he plants his hands on his hips and asks whether you think he won’t call anyone, the police, your family, to tell them you’re here, in the City, that you’ve gotten in touch with him, you feel all confused, you scratch your head, so itchy it’s as though your scalp harboured colonies of ants, you mutter you didn’t expect him to tell anyone about your visit, he barks out a bitter laugh, asks by what right you would think that, but you have no answer, you keep scratching your head, your frigging head, and Sylvain, in a fury born of dismay and helplessness, asks again by what right you would think that, not because of your friendship on which you’ve turned your back, so why, dammit all, why, and you grimace, you sweat even more, you concede he’s right, you should never have come, you make as though to leave, but Sylvain grabs your arm, Sylvain has already forgotten his outburst, Sylvain speaks in a tone of distress, he understands your confusion, your revolt, but it’s absurd, they lead nowhere, and his words