I remembered my father as he was that spring when the insomnia of grief printed itself on his face. One day, I went to the garage. It was around dinnertime. I saw him from a distance, standing in front of his auto shop. He hadn’t yet seen me when he made his way towards the carcass of the car that had been towed to the garage after my mother’s accident. I knew he spent long hours staring at the twisted metal, his fists in balls. I walked in his direction, his back still to me. He clambered into the car through the space where a window had been. He started the engine which, strangely, still worked. Then he pressed the accelerator, his hands tight on the wheel. The engine ran hard, pistons clanging loudly. I stayed completely still, my face contorted and hands sweaty, listening to the thundering noise. I imagined the needles and gauges whirling senselessly. The whole scene seemed interminable. I feared everything might explode. Then the engine’s sound changed. Like teeth grinding together before breaking. A strident, dry sound was heard. And everything stopped. Not a noise left, now, except for the whispering of white smoke flowing out from under the hood of the car. My father didn’t move. I advanced a few steps and called out to him, timidly. At the sound of my voice, he clumsily extracted himself from the vehicle and came to me. He asked how my day had been. Fine, I said. And we walked back home as if nothing had happened. That night, he swallowed his meal in two bites. When he lay down on the couch, I heard him murmur something. There, it’s done, it’s done. Then he slept for two days.
Before me, the road became confused with undergrowth. Not a soul in sight. I zigged and zagged over the dotted line. From time to time, my small steel mule shook its head and brayed, all the while stubbornly persisting through the wasteland of kilometres. Deep in my seat, I kept slowing down without realizing it. I had to press down on the pedal to keep myself awake. I was eating kilometres like a wild cat, a few bites at a time, tearing apart its prey.
Suddenly, in the distance, in the shy twilight, at the moment where everything becomes uncertain: a silhouette. At an intersection in the middle of nowhere, a shadow with its arm out, thumb raised high. At the deepest moment of the night when you believe the sun will never manage to pull itself over the horizon, at the coldest hour, at the moment when I felt the most alone trying to push through the distance before me: someone else.
KILOMETRE 2055
I neared the silhouette. The sun was on the point of rising, but it was still dark and I couldn’t distinguish it well. I noticed only a large travel bag at its feet. A shame I had no room. Or time to stop. It was better if I travelled alone, anyway. A passenger would just slow me down.
As I neared, she slowly lowered her arm, as if guessing I was a lost cause. A gust of wind.
I braked and stopped the car on the side of the road. The cat started moving around in his box and managed to free himself. In the rear-view mirror, I saw her approach my car. I tried to catch the cat but he was too agile for me. She ran to my window, coughed once or twice, and knocked. A woman, thirty years old, more or less. Black eyes, black hair, long black shirt. With a large green duffel bag.
I signalled to her she should wait, giving me time to grab the cat, but she didn’t understand my disorganized gestures and opened the door. Before I could say anything, the cat jumped between her legs and disappeared in the roadside grass.
I looked at the woman. She was pretty. Pale under reddened cheeks. Very pale. She bent forward at the waist and, in a breathless voice, asked where I was going. Without answering, I told her to catch the cat. I got out of the car. We searched the tall grass, looked in the ditches. I scanned the fields around me. I whistled after him. Then we waited.
He wasn’t coming back. I knew that. But I couldn’t just leave him here, like this.
My cat.
I shook my head and told the woman I was going east, very far east. She answered that she had a long way to go to get to the city, and that a long way east was fine with her.
While I tried to find some room for her on the passenger seat, she glanced at the chaos that reigned in my car. Sorry, it’s a total mess and it smells like cat. She climbed in next to me and placed her bag between her legs. She fussed over her hair for a moment and thanked me.
I told myself that the imaginary beast that followed me would probably stop for a moment here, lift its snout to smell the air, prick its ears as it frothed at the mouth, raise a cry, eat my cat to satiate its appetite, and continue its quest with increased fervour.
KILOMETRE 2058
We started up again. Each time, it was the same thing. The clutch was capricious and I needed to push the engine hard before changing speeds. My hands trembled on the wheel. I didn’t know whether it was the irregularities of the cracked asphalt, the hesitant direction of the car, or because my entire body was quivering.
The woman next to me caught her breath, letting out a few sighs. From the corner of my eye, I could see her chest rising, falling. You’re okay? She said yes yes, I’m okay. And both of us fell into the abyss of the road opening before us, with the uncertain whistling of the air on the car’s chassis slowly increasing, a rising tide of silence.
The sun was slow to rise. You’ve been waiting for a while? The woman said yes, not really, well maybe a little but not that much. Then she blew on her hands to warm them.
You’re cold? She gestured no, adding that the morning’s humidity took her by surprise, was all. What are you going to do in the city? Without looking at me, she said she was going home. But that it was a long story and she’d appreciate if I didn’t ask her about it. Not right now, anyway.
The dried-out fields were laid out before dawn like a great sacrifice. The sun, finally ready to emerge, dragged with itself a sky dipped in blue. Birds left their temporary perches and once again formed asymmetric sails ready to defy the plains. At my side, the woman watched the prairie flow alongside the car.
I was no longer alone.
We drove. When the sun finally showed itself fully, its light assaulted me. For all my squinting, the sun forced me to avert my eyes. The woman went through her bag and took out a pair of sunglasses. She handed them to me saying they would help. Good idea, thanks. And, in fact, I put them on and the sun backed away, a single step. I smiled and charged towards it. I glanced at the rear-view mirror. I had black eyes. Black and anonymous. The marks of weariness were gone. Even if the morning’s sun leaned into my forehead with all its strength, and even if the afternoon sun would be worse, I felt better.
The woman eyed my pack of cigarettes that slept between the windshield and the dashboard. Help yourself. I lost my lighter, but the lighter socket worked. Behind my sunglasses, my eyes darted back and forth. I tried to remain anchored to the dotted line while watching her light a cigarette. Following the curls of smoke slowly rising from her mouth before slipping through the half-open window. She was beautiful. Her face was tight with tiredness or something I couldn’t quite identify, but she was beautiful. She had small, delicate hands, resting on her thighs. Her legs seemed strong, toned and rounded. The skin of her neck disappeared under the large collar of her shirt. And the curves of her breasts could be guessed despite the dark cloth.
Already, the sun was high in the sky and the horizon shivered with heat as if it was about to break. But I was no longer alone. And even if we said very little, it would erode the mountain of time still left to drive, just a bit faster.
KILOMETRE 2361
The road ahead shone in the light of the day, and the dotted line now climbed into us, as if we were smoking the same cigarette. I had the impression that if I closed my eyes, the car would stay on course. All around us, nothing but fields besieged by pitiless drought. For two months now, it hadn’t rained on the country’s vast prairie. Beneath the yellowing grass, we felt the ground pulsing in waves of heat.
The woman turned towards me. She mentioned the scratches on my cheek. I told her it was nothing. She answered that she’d never liked cats either. Then she a
sked me what I was doing here, at the helm of the car. Surprised, I lifted my foot from the accelerator a bit. Our bodies were propelled slightly forward. Her voice resounded in my head. I’d been alone for so long that a physical presence next to me seemed impossible. Her eyes. The lines of her face were fine and dark. Her skin was pale and delicate. Her eyes. Her immobile lips were pink and defined. Her slightly hollow cheeks betrayed her last few nights spent under the cold blanket of anxiety. Her eyes.
I told her I was going to see my father. That I hadn’t seen him in some time. That he was ill. His memory in pieces. He’d known what had been coming for a few years now, but had said nothing. I guessed he’d made lists. Hundreds of lists. A man like my father couldn’t conceive that he’d forget everything, one piece at a time. That he would have to die twice.
Just over the horizon, we could see the next town’s water tower. I’ve always loved the tall steel structures. So large and yet so frail, seen from afar. As if always about to topple over.
The woman was still looking at me. She kept the conversation going, and asked whether my trip had something to do with the power outage. No, well I don’t think so, I said. But like everyone else, I couldn’t ignore it. Everywhere, people were on their guard. Gas was expensive, and at night, not a single light to show the way.
She told me that her life had been so filled with the slow death of routine that she progressively developed a taste for catastrophe. Sometimes she’d dream about witnessing some serious accident. Other times, she would imagine herself able to cause chaos by intent, by simply looking at things. She’d stare at planes as they flew overhead, hoping they’d explode; gaze at the foundations of bridges, hoping they’d crack. She always saw storms in dark clouds. She hoped she would be in a great city when all the lights finally turned off so she might hear the shrieks and cries in the distance while, in the sky, the stars would finally regain their rightful place. She paused a moment before adding that all of it was a ridiculous fancy, really, and nothing ever happened.
She said that in the small town where she’d been living, the power didn’t just fail all of a sudden. There’d been cuts here and there for a while. Especially at night. People had started getting used to it. The blackouts would last a few hours and then the power would come back on. Until, one morning, it just didn’t. And food started rotting in refrigerators. Telephone lines stopped working. Prices increased rapidly. People locked themselves up in their homes, worried and suspicious. But that wasn’t why she left.
She told me that she couldn’t deal with the desert of her apartment anymore, of the familiar disorder of her kitchen and the quicksand of her bedroom. That she couldn’t wait anymore for a man who came in late at night and put his gun on the bedside table. That the daily life of a trafficker, the drunken nights playing the hero, and the dirty sheets stained with nicotine and sweat were too much. She was tired of doing nothing more than rolling empty bottles on the floor. She didn’t want anything to do with this life. So she left like a wild thing in the night. Three days ago. Early in the morning. Without saying goodbye. Before he returned home, even. She took with her jewellery that she grabbed out of a drawer and the money that had been left on the bedside table. And she was thankful for this power outage that gave her a chance to disappear without a trace. Hidden in the baggage compartment of a bus.
She told her story without once moving her hands. Only her lips moved. And the blacks of her eyes trembled. She finished by saying it’d be best if she never saw him again, him or any of his friends. They were crazy enough to try anything. I stayed silent for minutes after that. Until I saw police lights flashing on the road ahead.
Shit.
KILOMETRE 2363
Three police cars blocked the road ahead. There didn’t seem to be an accident. I took my foot off the accelerator and told the woman that my papers were somewhere in the glove compartment.
I lowered my window and stopped my car at the roadblock. Five officers were milling about. There was no one and nothing else in the area. The closest town was some ten kilometres away.
An officer came over, scratching his head. The others remained leaning against their vehicles, continuing their conversation. The officer bent over to look through the window, scanned the bazaar of my car’s interior and took off his sunglasses. I kept mine on.
Where are you going? East. To do what? Visit my father. You’ve heard about what’s going on? Yes, a little. Given the situation, we’re asking everyone to turn around.
I looked at him and didn’t add anything. The officer sighed. He seemed more tired than I was. My seat belt wasn’t buckled, but he didn’t seem to care.
And your trip is important? Yes, my father is sick, I’ve got to see him.
A truck rumbled up from the other direction. The officer turned his head towards it while one of his colleagues made his way up to the door on the driver’s side. I looked straight ahead, seeing the single police car I’d need to get around to resume my journey. The truck slowed down, the driver stuck his head out of the cab and yelled something, and the policemen signalled him to continue. The officer turned back towards me.
Okay well, be careful, avoid cities and hope your car doesn’t break down. I’m a mechanic. Good for you, just go, go on if you must. Okay, just a question, though, what’s going on exactly?
We’re not sure. We’re having problems with our radios. We haven’t had power for more than a week. The police force here is overwhelmed. And we’ve heard that they’ve had trouble keeping crowds under control in the cities. Total confusion. Some people are taking advantage of the situation and looting. Others take the law into their own hands. We’ve received the order to filter outbound traffic and block new entries to the territory.
The policeman stopped talking then, his eyes downcast, he seemed to carefully weigh his words.
The latest news from the city is worrying. The army has taken over. We haven’t had contact with our superiors for forty-eight hours now. The only advice I can give you is to turn around. If you keep on, all I can say is be careful.
The officer straightened up and knocked on the hood of my car. I started the engine, drove around the police car, and accelerated to cruising speed.
We drove quickly through a lifeless town. A few sleepy houses and three shops beside a crossroads and a rail line. The woman said she was looking forward to seeing what was happening in the city. I watched her from the corner of my eye, without adding anything. The silence of the road engulfed us. Like a sealed letter.
KILOMETRE 2694
We were driving at full speed on the deserted road while the afternoon spread over the car roof. A few hills began to appear beyond the carpet of the prairies and the colour of the landscape was slowly changing from yellow to green. The asphalt flowed ahead in long curves. Stunted conifers, here and there, punctuated the horizon.
Despite what the officer said, everything seemed normal. Houses on the side of the road. High-tension lines. Cows grazing in fields next to barns. Whether it was some revolutionary coup, a nuclear accident, or a technical problem, the ditches, telephone poles, signs, and bales of hay seemed deeply indifferent.
The day progressed and we sank gradually into the fabric of the seats. As if the journey didn’t need us. Grasping the wheel, I felt my vision blurring under the weight of exhaustion, but I didn’t let it show.
The woman attempted in vain to find an FM channel that still broadcast. She was raging against the machine, insisting she wanted to listen to music. Any music. Just to give us a bit of pep. I remembered a car I once drove that broke down in similar circumstances. We’d been driving for a while, music blaring. The cooling system gave out and we didn’t notice. Then the cylinders failed because of the heat. We only understood what had happened when the car simply stopped, all of a sudden.
A roadside sign indicated a hundred kilometres to the next town. The woman asked me whether we could stop soon. That
we’d been driving for a long time now. That she needed to go. That it wouldn’t be long.
Suddenly, she gasped and pointed towards the sky. I leaned over the steering wheel and saw thousands of birds darting and racing in the sky. White on one side, black on the other, they zigged and zagged as if not knowing which wind to trust. They twisted and turned and continually changed directions. In perfect concordance and utter disorder. The woman said it was a beautiful sight, mentioned how close they flew to each other. She loved the movement of birds. She said that usually it was towards the end of autumn, just before the great migrations, that you saw these sorts of gatherings.
We were bowed under the windshield to watch the air show passing over and over again before us, skimming the fields. Then, a black line, a muted sound, and a slick of blood decorated with feathers. I turned the wipers on. The whole windshield awash in red. The woman receded deep into the cushions of her seat. My heart tightened, and despite my squinting I couldn’t see a thing. I stepped on the brakes. The worn disks squealed and did what they could until the car stopped on the shoulder’s gravel.
We stepped out, not looking at each other. Not a vehicle in sight. The sun was heavy. The air stagnant. On the windshield, the blood was already coagulating and browning. With an old work shirt I wiped away what I could. And while the flight of birds moved on under the hard sky, the woman stepped into the fallow field, told me not to look, and crouched to piss.
KILOMETRE 2812
Running on Fumes Page 5
