- I’m sorry . . .
cross your dry lips, silence, then a small smile appears on Mélanie’s lips, and the hope in her eyes is no longer just a shadow but has taken on a tangible form, real and alive, an incongruous ringing, the telephone, Mélanie leaves the bedroom, you stare at your breakfast then bite into the toast, chew diligently, suddenly a cry from Mélanie, followed by an agitated discussion, then she reappears in the bedroom, beside herself, on the verge of tears, she explains, her words tumbling over each other in her hurry, that was Guy, one of the group members, the Youth Centre was torched again last night, a burned body was discovered in the rubble, perhaps Father Léo, the police don’t know yet, now her tears fall, she paces the room, exclaims how terrible, how awful, the project was so important, near completion, and the corpse, Oh, Lord, that corpse, and you look at her, and you are petrified, and you can’t swallow the food rotting in your mouth, and for the space of a second Mélanie examines you in shock, as though a grim doubt has just crossed her mind, but she shakes herself, declares she wants to be with the group, share her sorrow with the other members, she leaves the room, you push away the breakfast tray then, fold your knees up close, hug them tight, your face contorted, Mélanie returns, wearing her coat, anguish, sorrow, but great resolve as well, she says she’ll be back in an hour or two, but she already knows what the group’s decision will be, she has no
- We won’t stop. We’ll start over, that’s all. I’m sure everyone’ll feel the same. Even if that was Father Léo who died in the fire, it’s what he would’ve wanted: for us to continue.
doubt in that regard, and her certainty makes her more beautiful than ever, and you stare at her, your mouth ajar, as though her words have paralyzed you, you clear your throat then, you take a big breath then, and your voice
- If you do start over, I . . . I’ll help you.
trembles, as do your limbs, as does your heart, and it’s Mélanie’s turn to take a deep breath, Mélanie is moved, Mélanie nods, all suspicion gone from her eyes, finally she turns to go but you call after her, you say that when she comes back, you have something to tell her, so much to tell her, but she turns back toward you, her expression solemn now, she mumbles you need feel no obligation, you say you want to, yes, you want to, Mélanie says nothing, leaves, the banging of the front door, you stay seated on the bed, your face visited by a thousand conflicting emotions, twenty minutes, finally you get up, you wince slightly as you feel the pain in your right shoulder, you stare at your filthy clothes on the floor, you walk to the bathroom and look at yourself in the mirror, your gaze appalled, you turn on the tap then, slide under the shower and close your eyes, you let the water splash over you until it turns cold, finally you wash your body, you wash your hair then you step out, for a moment you contemplate a razor as though thinking of shaving off your beard, but you drop the idea, you return to the bedroom but only pull on your pants, you rummage through Mélanie’s drawers, find the biggest T-shirt she owns, plain white, you slip it on, a bit tight but it will do, you find a pair of socks and pull them on, you pick up your coat and head for the living room to drop it on the armchair, but you seem to remember something, you dig through the coat pocket and pull out the revolver, you open the cylinder, there’s still one bullet left, you give the weapon a sharp look, then you slide it under your T-shirt, you shrug into your coat, step outside, the snow has stopped, you turn into the alley beside the building, make sure no one is watching, then throw the revolver into a trash can, return to the building, to Mélanie’s apartment, to the living room, you sit in an armchair and don’t move, one hour, one long hour, sixty minutes during which your strained features slowly relax, little by little, line by line, wrinkle by wrinkle, and at the end of the process you get to your feet, and you walk over to the phone, you pick up the phone book, you find the number to the closest police station, and you read the seven digits several times, a deep heaving sigh, your hand reaches for the telephone, your fingers touch it, and just then the phone rings, you give a start, pull your hand away, hesitate, then dare answer, Mélanie’s voice, she wanted to know if you were still there, she’s relieved to see you are, she tells you she’ll be back very shortly, she’s leaving in five minutes’ time and she wants to be sure you’ll wait for her, that you
- Wait for me, don’t do anything that . . . Wait for me, Okay? Promise!
won’t leave, you moisten your lips, you promise, she hangs up, as do you, your eyes on the police number, then you close the phone book, wander through the apartment, look at your surroundings, dirty dishes in the sink, you find some soap, wash all the dishes, your face impassive, then you resume walking around the apartment, the two framed pictures in the corner of the living room, you step closer, there’s a hammer on the floor with two boxes of nails, a pencil, some duct tape, your face remains expressionless, but something flickers in your eye, a signal, permission, encouragement, so you take a frame, hold it against the wall at various heights, as though trying to visualize where it would look best, then you take the pencil, trace a mark on the wall, set the frame down, your face relaxed, the way it was when you used to putter around your house, in your other life, you open one of the two boxes of nails, but they’re too small, you open the other box, the nails are much bigger, you choose one, pick up the hammer with your other hand and straighten up, you place the tip of the nail on the pencil mark, ready to hammer but you stop, your expression dissatisfied, as though the nails seemed too big now, you look to the floor then, no other nails, you walk to a cupboard, holding the hammer and the nail in the same hand, you open the cupboard, rummage inside with your free hand, find another box of nails, but they’re as big as the one you have in your hand, you return to the living room, open the first drawer in the buffet, rummage through it with your free hand, nothing, second drawer, you come across a calendar open to the current month, you pick it up with your free hand, there’s nothing but loose paper underneath, you cast a careless glance at the calendar before you go to close the drawer, then you frown, you lean over for a better look, a short newspaper clipping glued to the top of the page, a short text with three names that leap out at you, you pick up the calendar then, remove it from the drawer, the clipping is a funeral notice showing the names of your wife and your two children, the funeral home address, its business hours and viewing dates, February 25 and 26, and your lips open slowly, you squint uncomprehendingly, you examine the dates on the calendar page then, a few insignificant jottings on certain days, but there, on the small square for February 21, the date burned into your flesh, the day chaos reminded you who the true master is, on that date written in ink “High School Reunion,” with an address and the name of a town, and I know what you’re thinking as you recognize the name of the town, you’re thinking it’s not far from the place your family returned from that night, that the same route leads to both places, yes, the same road, and your eyes skip from the note in ink to the obituary, and you are no longer breathing, the sound of a door opening, closing, you turn your head, still not breathing, Mélanie stands there, Mélanie takes off her coat and lays it down on a chair, Mélanie says she was right, they’re going to continue in spite of everything, in memory of Father Léo, because the burned body is most likely his, and she smiles in spite of it all, she draws near, but finally she sees the calendar in your left hand, she stops then, her smile evaporates then, she closes her eyes then, and everything comes to a standstill, and nothing happens for a long while, then she opens her eyes, looks you straight in the eye, walks toward you slowly, her voice calm and low, she had had too much to drink at the party, she’d been drinking too much for months to forget her futile and empty life, and she shouldn’t have been driving, especially given the long road ahead of her, but she was so irresponsible, she took that damn curve too wide, too far outside, she failed to see the approaching vehicle, she failed even to see what became of it, of that car, she was too drunk and too happy that she’d missed it, just as she failed to glance back in her rearview mirror, at l
east she doesn’t remember doing so, you have to believe her on that score, she insists, you have to, it was only the next day reading the newspaper that everything clicked, and then she panicked, then she fell apart and she didn’t know what to do anymore, she thought of calling the police a thousand times, but she couldn’t do it, she simply could not do it, she even seriously entertained the thought of killing herself, then after two days she remembered the group that she’d visited several times with little conviction, Father Léo’s group, so that was where she went, like a lost child running toward the light, and this time everything was different, everything had changed, yes, everything, and as she speaks she draws closer to you, now she’s right next to you, trembling with equal measures of distress and hope and you listen without moving a muscle, a wax figure posed in frozen abomination, and she continues speaking, she found the funeral home notice, she drove there, stayed in the background, and saw you, and since then she hasn’t left you, followed you in her car when you fled from the funeral home, entered the bar Le Maquis shortly after you did, watched as you spoke to Sylvain, all the while wondering how she could approach you, because her decision had already been made, but in the end you were the one to approach her, because Father Léo was right, those who are suffering recognize each other, and you recognized her, consciously or unconsciously, you recognized her own suffering, she is sure of that, this she says three or four times, finally then you start to breathe again, a deep, painful, rasping breath, the calendar slips from your hand, the same hand that you lift to your eyes, the same eyes that you cover as you clench your teeth, the same teeth from which a hiss of the asphyxiated escapes, but Mélanie doesn’t stop, her gentle hand on your cheek, the crack of her broken gaze and in her
- It was a sign, you’ve got to see that! A sign I could save you! And by saving you, I could save myself! We could save each other! Believe it! We can save each other! We’ve already started, I know it! And you know it too! We’ve started!
voice, you lower the hand covering your eyes then, your pupils flooded with black tears, your lips pulled back in a grimace of unspeakable suffering, your free hand steadily pushing Mélanie back to the wall beside the shelves, and she lets you, until her back is flat against the wall, and in her eyes misery and hope still coil around each other, into tragedy, into her voice more gentle than
- I already said it, I won’t abandon you.
ever, your breathing rasping, your right hand still holding the hammer and nail, then your free hand picks up Mélanie’s left wrist and slowly, ever so slowly, you lift it up and lay it flat against the wall, then you switch the nail to your other hand, place the tip of the nail against Mélanie’s wrist, and she doesn’t struggle, doesn’t protest, just whispers that you can save each other, both of you, one saving the other, and slowly you lift the hammer, and the hiss that escapes through your lips is now one continuous moan, a moan becomes a sharp cry the moment the hammer hits the nail, and Mélanie scarcely reacts, a small gasp of pain, and your eyes still locked on hers, you swing again, four times, with each blow your frozen tears fall, and still Mélanie does not cry out, Mélanie whispers again and again that you both can, yes, you both can, you need to believe her, and when her left wrist is firmly fixed to the wall, you bend over painfully, water the floor with your tears, choose another large nail from the box, and you straighten up, and you take Mélanie’s right wrist in your shaking hand, and you raise it to the wall at shoulder height, then you begin again, and this time your sobs tear at your throat, you’re obliged to stop twice to wipe the mist from your eyes, while Mélanie recites in a calm but broken voice her desperate litany, finally, it’s done, the hammer bounces off the floor, you take deep gasping breaths to choke back your tears, and Mélanie’s voice, hovering, unearthly, refusing to stop, swearing the two of you can, you can, so you bend over, pick up the duct tape, tear off a wide strip that you smooth over Mélanie’s lips, her voice smothered finally, you look at the woman crucified to the wall whose eyes never cease their pleading, you bring your face close to hers, and now you’re no longer crying because your eyes are two craters erupting, desiccating forevermore any future tears, and the harsh caw of your voice rises from the bitterest of chasms, and your words
- Live . . . and suffer.
hit Mélanie full in the face, her eyes flood with despair then, finally you retreat, such tremendous heaviness, shouldering your coat, digging through Mélanie’s coat, retrieving the keys to her car, you hear her calling in her voice muffled by the gag but you have no eyes for her, you leave the apartment, closing the door slowly behind you, and you take the stairs down, yes, down, to the street, and you return to the alley, and you find the trash can, and you dig out the gun, and you slide it into your coat pocket, return to the street, the sun blazing down, the street clear and bordered by huge banks of snow, you find Mélanie’s car, you climb in and set off, you drive eyes straight ahead, take the south bridge out of the City, find yourself on a country road you’ve never travelled before, ninety minutes, the engine cuts out, no more gas, you have just enough time to pull over to the side of the road, then you step out and, without a glance back, you begin walking, along the road, along the deserted road that stretches into the countryside, your eyes an abyss tunnelled deeper with each step you take, and so you continue waging your war
against me
Author’s Acknowledgements
Thank you to Karine Davidson-Tremblay, René Flageole, Alain Roy and Eric Tessier for their comments.
Thank you to Michel Vézina for the invitation.
Thank you to Sophie for everything.
Translators’ Acknowledgements
Our thanks to Patrick Senécal, John Calabro and Beatriz Hausner. In memory of Katie Ouriou and Nora Alleyn.
Other books by Patrick Senécal
Sur le Seuil
Roman
Alire, 1998
Aliss
Roman
Alire, 2000
5150 rue des Ormes
Roman
Alire, 2002
Le Passager
Roman
Alire, 2003
Les 7 jours du Talion
Roman
Alire, 2002
Oniria
Roman
Alire, 2004
Le Vide
Roman
Alire, 2007
Sept comme Setteur
Roman pour la jeunesse
Éditions de la Bagnole, 2007
Hell.com
Roman
Alire, 2009
Madame Wenham
Roman pour la jeunesse
Éditions de la Bagnole, 2010
QUATTRO NOVELLAS
The Ballad of Martin B. by Michael Mirolla
Mahler’s Lament by Deborah Kirshner
Surrender by Peter Learn
Constance, Across by Richard Cumyn
In the Mind’s Eye by Barbara Ponomareff
The Panic Button by Koom Kankesan
Against God Page 8
