by André Alexis
But after the death of your wife, you never told your “ghost story” again.
Still more time passed . . .
Work was the principal thing that freed you from loneliness and longing: work and travel. Over the years, you visited England, Africa, Thailand, Australia. You travelled on a whim or on business. But you visited Europe no more than two or three times, to see Budapest, Munich, Luxembourg. Nor did you think of Mylène all that often. You had managed to put that “strange dream” behind you. Until, finally, wishing to see Paris again, you returned to the city in late summer so you could have the streets “to yourself.”
And one afternoon, as you were walking along the Seine, it began to rain and you went into the Bistro Matin Doré. It looked a little down at the heels from the outside, and that suited you fine. Over the years, you had developed a tolerance for places where the food is indigestible, the wine has an aftertaste of chalk, and the lighting is carnivalesque. You do not seek these places out, but the life within them interests you. So, you were slightly disappointed when, on entering, you saw that the Matin Doré was elegant, well lit but intimate, a bistro of exceptional quality.
You sat in a booth, ordered a confit de canard and a red wine from Cahors, and stared mindlessly out at the falling rain.
— Excuse me, but I believe we know each other.
Beside you, suddenly, was an elegantly dressed woman in her sixties or seventies. Her hair was grey, recently permed so that it looked as if she had just gotten out of bed. She was slim and self-assured. There was something familiar about her, but not enough, until she said
— Your name is Robert, isn’t it? You see? I have not forgotten you.
Your name has never been Robert, but the woman’s smile was mischievous, and it was by this that you recognized Mireille. The odd thing is that, although she knew your face, she did not know who you were. That is, she knew you had been intimate, but she almost certainly had you confused with another of her lovers, one with whom she’d had a memorable affair. Yours had not been memorable, save for her having given you the telephone number of her cousin, Mylène. Still, you stood up, kissed her hand, and invited her to share the booth with you.
— You don’t mind being seen with such an old woman?
— You look so much younger than I, you said. I should be asking you the question.
She smiled again.
— You’re a vile flatterer, she said. But I’ll stay for a tisane. I have to meet my husband in half an hour. It’s hard to believe he’s still alive, isn’t it? Sometimes I think he holds on just to give me something to complain about. Oh, I love him, certainly I love him, but the way one loves a cat, you see? I wouldn’t like to see him run over by a car, but when his time comes I’ll be grateful for the peace and quiet.
— A successful marriage? you asked.
— The most successful. I’m quite proud of my marriage but, after a while, it has a life of its own, not so? I hear news of it at times like this when I have to meet my husband. But tell me about yourself. Did you ever marry your Polish countess?
You considered telling her who you actually were: a man with whom she had spent a few days thirty years previously, indulging her erotic whims. You did not, because she would almost certainly have been embarrassed, given the reality of your affair. And then there was the matter of Mylène. You wanted to know what had happened to her, and you weren’t sure Mireille would tell you if she were reminded that you were a man who had stolen from her. So, you lied about the countess (with whom you said you had had two children) and then gently you brought the conversation around to Mylène.
— Who? Mylène? How do you know my cousin?
— You told me about her, you answered.
Mireille frowned, and you were afraid you had pushed your luck. But before you could change the subject or, at least, suggest you leave it alone, she said
— Mylène was always such a fantasist. She had the strangest ideas. She thought she was possessed by spirits. Did I tell you that?
— No, not at all. Look, if the subject is unpleasant . . .
— It’s not unpleasant, my dear little Myshkin. In fact, it’s amusing. A long time ago, when my husband and I lived in Montmartre, Mylène moved into a house in Neuilly. My aunt asked me to look out for her, but Mylène was always a little . . . uncanny. Frankly, I couldn’t stand her for more than an hour. The hair on the back of my neck would stand up. I made sure she had what she needed. You’re going to think I’m very rude, but I used to send her men, so she wouldn’t be too lonely. Then one day, without the least warning, she left Neuilly and went to Formentera. Why? Because she was obsessed with one of the stupid little gigolos I’d sent over. Can you imagine?
— Well, that’s a reason, you said.
— Yes, if the man she was after had been on Formentera. But he hadn’t. Seems she never saw him again, but she stayed all the same. Honestly, it broke my poor aunt’s heart. And do you know, Mylène has never come home, not even for her parents’ funeral. And do you know why? Because she can sleep through the night on Formentera. And why is that? Because she’s convinced the spirits that used to haunt her cannot travel over water. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?
Mireille laughed.
— Oh, the power of the human mind, she said. First she believes she’s possessed, and then because some medium tells her that spirits can’t travel over water, she believes she is free. I’ll tell you something, my dear Myshkin, I myself have never valued sleep so much that I’d live on Formentera for it. She has her parents’ fortune. She does nothing but dabble in watercolours and walk around the island. It’s all she’s done for years and years! But this is all quite absurd. Let’s talk about something else. I seem to remember you were easily aroused, in the old days. Is this still true? Now that I’m an old woman, you can tell me these things quite openly, you know?
You spoke on for a while as she drank her tisane and then, true to her word, she went off to meet her husband, leaving you with her card and an invitation to lunch the following day. You finished your duck and your wine, by which time it had stopped raining and the sky above the city was visible through the clouds.
As you walked along the wet streets towards your hotel, you thought of going to Formentera yourself, of searching for Mylène as she must once have searched for you. Of course, Mylène would not have looked for you out of any kind of love. If she had looked for you at all, it would have been out of desperation, a final hope for sleep. But why should you look for her, an old woman who had found peace? Why should you seek her out? What would you say if you found her?
— I am sorry for this. I am sorry for that. You have taught me something valuable, though I can’t quite name it . . .
And, in fact, what had your short time together brought you? Shame, terror, the first inklings of the other world, of death, and an unguarded moment: Mylène tending to your broken fingers. What had your time together brought her? Formentera. An expensive prison, and sleep. Well, that was something, wasn’t it? Yes, but in the end, you had no desire to cross the seas and carry the past back to her. You would only have reminded her of terrible things. Your coming would have meant “Georges.”
So, as you walked to your hotel, you were easily reconciled to the thought that you and Mylène Saint-Brieuc would not see each other again. Not in this world.
KAWABATA
In late April, Bernard Crowe volunteered to lead a few men north to survey the brush around Nagagami Lake. He left for Hornepayne days before the others, to see about lodgings and transportation. Years had passed since his wife’s death, but the need for solitude, a need that had come with her funeral, sometimes overtook him and he often travelled to be alone.
On his first day in Hornepayne, he woke early and walked about the town’s black-snow-gritted streets. He took the Lake Road halfway to the lake and then bac
k. The walk was exactly what he’d wanted: bracing, the sun coming up to brighten the rocks and trees. There was more snow than he’d expected, snow coarse as rock salt, white beneath the trees but dark closer to the road. The trees were dense and green or black and skeletal. He walked on grass that had survived the winter — or had not survived but stood up anyway.
On his return to the bed and breakfast where he’d rented a room, he was met by his hostess, Mrs. Vetiver, a large woman, her hair fixed so it was like a dun hat with grey threads. She wore a white pinafore with red and yellow sunflowers over a blue summer dress.
— Oh, Mr. Crowe, she said. I’ve made grits with maple syrup and back bacon. There’s freshly squeezed melon juice and a blackberry compote. I hope you like it.
— I’m sure it’ll be great, he answered. Thank you.
For the rest of the day, Bernard did little. He made certain that reservations had been made at the hotel for himself and his crew. He walked about Hornepayne, quietly pacing its dozen or so streets, and he was charmed by a snowfall, flakes wispy as dandelion fluff, melting as they touched his skin. The town was modest and plain, but as all places are beautiful immediately after a harsh winter, it was also beautiful.
At supper that evening, there were three people: Bernard himself, Mrs. Vetiver, and a pale woman, her brown hair held up by a black band, the down along her neck translucent.
— Mr. Crowe, said Mrs. Vetiver, this is Mrs. Andrews. She’ll be with us a few days. Almost as long as you, now I think of it.
Bernard, who had taken the chair beside Mrs. Andrews, said
— Pleased to meet you.
Mrs. Andrews raised her head, turned towards him, and smiled politely. Three deliberate motions. Her eyes were lovely, though it was as if she had been crying or had recently awakened.
— Nice to meet you, she said.
They ate their meal in a quiet broken only by Mrs. Vetiver’s commentary on the day she’d had and the dishes she had prepared. Once they’d eaten and had coffee, Mrs. Andrews rose and, taking Bernard’s hand, wished him a good night’s sleep.
— Thank you, said Bernard.
He would have said more, but Mrs. Andrews looked away and left the dining room. Mrs. Vetiver insisted on clearing the table herself, so Bernard went to his room, climbed up the stairs thinking of Mrs. Andrews’s eyes. They were somehow familiar: blue-green with long, light lashes.
Bernard’s room had once been a playroom. Its walls were robin’s-egg blue, with a gold band running above the quarter-round. His bed was good, not too soft, and there was a large window that looked out on a rise in the land, beyond which was the rough, darkening forest. He was not tired, but he felt a kind of peace, a near absence of longing. For a few hours, he tried to read a book someone had recommended, then fell asleep without turning off the light on his night table.
The next morning, as he went out for a walk, Bernard saw Mrs. Andrews on the street before him. Quickening his pace, he caught up and they walked together. Mrs. Andrews was as reserved as she’d been the night before. They exchanged few words until they turned back to Mrs. Vetiver’s and Bernard asked if she (Clara Andrews) was in Hornepayne on business. After a moment, Mrs. Andrews said
— Yes. And you?
— Yes, me too. I work for the federal government.
— You must be from Ottawa, she said. My father was from Ottawa.
For the next while, Mrs. Andrews kept to those subjects (her father and Ottawa), deflecting questions that might lead elsewhere. Bernard did not mind, because it had been two years, two years almost exactly, since he’d had anything like an intimate conversation with a woman. Still, there was something forbidding about her choice of subjects and, after a while, his mind wandered and he looked up at the morning sky, which was grey, though here and there the sun came through, illuminating patches of town and forest.
As they approached the bed and breakfast, Mrs. Andrews suddenly stopped speaking. Contrite, she said
— I’m so sorry. I’ve been going on and on.
But before Bernard could demur, she asked
— Are you working today? Maybe we could explore the town together.
It was Saturday. He had nothing in particular to do, but as for exploring the town — that would take little more than an hour, an hour if they went slowly. No matter. He agreed to “do Hornepayne” with her. He went upstairs to bathe and shave. When he came down half an hour later, Mrs. Andrews was on the phone in the front hall.
— I changed my mind, that’s all . . . I don’t care.
She saw Bernard, turned away, and spoke more softly before hanging up. When she turned back to him, her smile was grim.
Mrs. Andrews was not interested in the town. They went first to the statue of the bear and cub, wandered along a few of the side streets, and then walked to Hornepayne Cemetery. She asked him about himself, but now it was Bernard’s turn to be evasive. He spoke of his life in the most fleeting way. And by the time they arrived at the cemetery, they had fallen back into silence.
The sign above the cemetery was like that above a corral: a double arc in which the words HORNEPAYNE and CEMETERY nested, looking very much like a stencil. The white crosses and tombstones were not in strict rows, but there was order. Behind the cemetery, the trees of the woods stood shoulder to shoulder, but they were thin and bedraggled.
— This is the first week they could dig graves, said Mrs. Andrews. The ground’s too hard in winter.
— Oh, are you from around here? Bernard asked.
— No, she answered.
Mrs. Andrews lowered her head, and her shoulders began to shake. Bernard thought she had begun to cry but she was laughing.
— What is it? he asked.
— Nothing. I’m in a cemetery in a horrible town with a man I don’t know. It feels like I’m dreaming. But I’m glad you’re here. Do you mind if I hold your arm?
Bernard gave her his arm, and they went slowly back to the town centre. A small wind ruffled the trees and brought pieces of paper to life. The weight of Mrs. Andrews’ arm in his was both comforting and a source of distress, the distress one feels on being handed something fragile. It was almost a relief when they came to the coffee shop and stopped for tea.
The shop was small and a little grimy, but as if this were the place and moment she’d been waiting for, Mrs Andrews began to confide in him, sharing the details of her life. She was in town for her father’s death. His funeral was for the next day. She was not sure she should have come. She had never liked her father, had felt nothing for him but disgust since she was six years old. She did not say what, exactly, had disgusted her, but for an hour her world (like a planet) came darkly into view as she sat before him. Bernard studied Mrs. Andrews’s face. It was, even when she was distraught or confused, appealing.
As they returned to the bed and breakfast, Mrs. Andrews again took Bernard’s arm.
— You’ve been very kind, she said. I don’t know how to thank you, but I wonder if . . . I shouldn’t ask, I know, but I don’t think I can go to my father’s funeral alone. Would you come with me? Please. I don’t have anyone else to ask.
He would have preferred to avoid people, and the last thing he wanted was to attend a funeral. But it was not in his nature to turn away from those in distress.
— Yes, of course, he said.
The following day, Bernard went with Clara to her father’s funeral. The sky was bright blue. No clouds, little wind, a stillness that penetrated so deeply it was almost odd to find other people in the church. There were not many. There were a handful on one side of the aisle and a smaller handful on the other, all of them near the front. The stained-glass windows on one side of the church were sun-touched and brightly coloured, but their illumination did not reach the centre of the church, which was in mottled shadow. Clara and Bernard were to the right of the altar, thre
e rows back. In the row before them, alone, was Clara’s sister. In the row before that, Clara’s mother sat. On the other side of the aisle were darkly dressed aunts and uncles. In all, eight people had come to the funeral.
The coffin was in the aisle not far from the altar.
Before they entered the church, Clara had spoken to no one. Nor did anyone seem interested in speaking to her. Clara had entered briskly, as if there for some other business. She had told him the names of those in the church, speaking her mother’s and her sister’s names with a contemptuous whisper. Hearing Clara’s voice, her sister turned around, stared at Bernard for a moment, then turned away.
The priest began the service. There were two altar boys with him, genuflecting, rising, kneeling, bowing awkwardly, out of sync. Their faces were pale. When it was time for the eulogies, the priest said a few words about Mr. Johnson’s life — hockey, broken knees, devotion to his lovely daughters, amen — and then Mrs. Johnson spoke of him — hard life, bad knees, love for his daughters, amen. Mrs. Johnson spoke clearly, but her emotions were not clear and there was a hint of defiance in her attitude. She held herself straight, as if expecting a challenge to her words. At the end of her mother’s eulogy, Clara nudged Bernard’s arm and, having his attention, rolled her eyes and shook her head.
When the mourners had knelt a final time and wished godspeed to the soul of the dead, six young men entered from the sacristy and took up the coffin. They were not as awkward as the altar boys had been. They were freshly scrubbed. The hair on the tallest of them looked pasted to his forehead. Everyone followed the young men out. They watched as the coffin was put into the hearse and the doors closed. In the brief lull after the hearse’s departure, Clara’s mother spoke to her.
