The plains stretched into hillsides scattered with sage and dry bushes. In the distance, we began to notice conifers. The sun was beginning to go down and shadows were slowly spreading over the parched ground.
We’d been driving for more than an hour and hadn’t yet reached another town. The windshield was still streaked with blood, but it looked like traces of mud. Through sunglasses, the light seemed more golden than it was. The only intersections we passed were dirt roads that lost themselves in surrounding woods, looking for water.
A light wind seemed to blow across the landscape as if over too-hot soup, and the high grass on the sides of the ditch joined hands thanking the sun for sparing them for the night.
Checking the gas level, I noticed that the engine temperature was abnormally high. I slowed down and listened closely. It was too hot outside and I didn’t feel like walking. Especially in this part of the world. The needle was still climbing. I turned towards the woman. We have to stop, we have a problem.
I slipped the car into neutral, turned the engine off, and let the car glide to a stop. I opened the hood and leaned over the engine. It was crackling slightly, but it didn’t seem to be overheating. I examined it carefully. The oil level was right. More or less. The belts were in the right place, still tight. The radiator’s fan wasn’t stuck. There was still enough liquid in the cooling block. But the problem had to be there, somewhere. I got on my knees and looked under the vehicle. Nothing. Except for the usual droplets of oil.
The woman joined me. We needed to wait until the engine cooled before I could do anything. She ran a hand through her hair and told me that we needed to move on from here before it got dark. I knew that.
While I dug through one my toolboxes, a truck went by in the other direction. Without slowing down. I shrugged. If it wasn’t the radiator’s thermostat, it could be the water pump. In the first case I’d simply need to take the thermostat out and plug the wires back in. The radiator would then be able to cool the engine as usual. In the second case, I would need replacement parts. For that, I’d need to drive to the next garage, stopping every fifteen minutes to make sure the engine didn’t seize up and leave the car a useless carcass.
I couldn’t take any undue risks. And I couldn’t delay. I slipped under my vehicle with a pair of pliers and electrical tape, took out the radiator’s thermostat, plugged the wires back in, making sure I didn’t burn myself on the still-boiling metal, stood back up, and said that it was okay, we could go on.
We got back in the car. I turned the key, blasted the heater on, and slowly accelerated, keeping an eye on the dashboard indicators. A few moments later, the woman asked whether we’d make it. Yes. But we would have to be patient if we didn’t want to walk the rest of the way.
KILOMETRE 2852
The town was forty kilometres up the road. It took us two hours to make it without leaving the car behind. And a bit of luck. We reached a gas station standing guard at the outskirts of the town. I turned off the engine, glad it hadn’t overheated. And that night hadn’t yet fallen.
We stepped out of the vehicle. A few cars were moored in the parking lot, next to a tow truck. Four people smoked cigarettes in front of the door to the gas station that doubled as a convenience store and post office. A bit farther off, in the garage’s shadow, two men seemed to be working on a Jeep engine. I walked towards them.
One of them quickly turned around and made his way towards me. I asked him if I could get some gas here, and whether he might have a water pump. Keeping his eyes hidden under the visor of his cap, he signalled that I should come nearer. Under the persistent gaze of one of his companions, he asked me a few questions. I answered.
I’ve come from out west. I’m tired and I have a lot of road ahead of me. No, there was no power when I left. Yes, the road is serviceable. Except for a police roadblock a few hours from here. No, my radio doesn’t work. No, I’ve got no weapons on me. Yes, I have money, enough for a tank of gas and a water pump.
The man lifted his cap and signalled I should follow him. I accepted, knowing that the woman would stay in the car.
When he turned around, I noticed what was likely the shape of a revolver under his shirt, tucked into his belt. Pulling away, he told me that he wouldn’t make his offer twice. I followed him into the darkness of the garage, vaguely nodding towards the scrawny kid working on the Jeep. The place looked like a battlefield. Shelves were pushed to the ground and emptied. Parts and tools were strewn all over the floor. The man told me they’d found the place in this state. He took out a flashlight and illuminated the spilled mess on the floor. You know anything about engines? I told him that if I found the parts I needed, I could figure something out.
Kneeling on the ground, I searched around for a water pump and a radiator hose. The man stood behind me. He shone his light, saying nothing. Moving a box of drive belts, I noticed a few shells on the floor, among the bolts. Despite that, the smell of humid concrete, oil, and metallic dust reminded me that I was in my element.
A few minutes later I came out of the garage with a water pump model that would probably work with my old car. The man escorted me to my vehicle and watched me drain the cooling system and quickly get the tools I’d need together. I removed the traction belts and hoses connected to the radiator. With an economy of movement that came from experience, I immersed my hands in the engine, unbolted the water pump, and took it out. The man came closer. He was taking off and replacing his cap. I examined the piece I’d just taken out of the engine. The small turbine that moves the antifreeze had come out of its axis. I tried to turn it with the edge of a screwdriver, without success. It was a rare type of mechanical failure, but it happened. I held it out to my observer, who took it without knowing what it was. I bent over the engine again to install the new water pump, but it wasn’t the right model and I had to jury-rig a few hoses to install it correctly.
When I finally straightened up to put water in the cooling system, I realized that now six of them were watching, saying nothing. I gathered my tools and started the car to make sure my repair held. Looking at the engine turning, I wondered for a moment where my co-pilot was.
It looked fine. I closed the hood and turned off the engine.
I made my way towards the group and asked whether they had gas. They told me that nothing was working anymore. That you had to pump the gas directly from the cistern. Like we used to do with water, a long, long time ago, the guy said. While I wiped my hands on the work shirt that I’d thrown in the back of my car, the man with the cap noticed the dried blood on the cloth. You had trouble too? No, nothing serious. The man nodded a few times, then told me I owed him a hundred dollars for the parts and two hundred for the gas. I looked through my wallet, my face going blank. Two hundred, that’s all I’ve got. You’re a mechanic? Yes. Good, we need someone like you here. I can’t, I’ve got to keep driving. It’s three hundred or you’re not leaving here.
I looked at him for a moment, then changed my mind and got the money from my stash under the seat. He counted up the bills then gestured to one of his companions. The young man disappeared behind the garage and came back with two full jerry cans, which he emptied into my gas tank. I was offered a cigarette and a lighter that I discreetly dropped in one of my pockets. We smoked without saying a word, watching the dull, immobile landscape. Deserted houses. Our dirty faces. The last few rays of sun of the day. A van broke the silence, dragging a dust cloud behind it. The man with the cap took advantage of the movement to ask me a new round of questions.
So there’s no power at all, even out west? Right. It’s been a while? I don’t know, three days, maybe. Here, it’s been fifteen days, at least. Uh huh. It’s pretty serious, more than half the people I know have left. Because of the outage? Yes and no, when the radio signals went out and phone lines stopped working, some people got scared. Right. Then there was the problem with the garage owner: he didn’t want to sell gas. To anyone.
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br /> I said nothing. When I threw my butt on the ground, the man stepped on it and advanced towards me.
I hear it’s chaos in the cities. Especially out east, where they haven’t had power for even longer than here. People are afraid. Things are getting more tense. You have to be careful. And even if a lot of people are running, we prefer getting ourselves organized here and not spending too much time on the roads. We’ve got everything we need here, except for a real mechanic …
I thanked them politely and offered the hint of a smile. Turning around, I was happy to see that the woman was already in her seat. She gestured for me to get in. My bones popped and readjusted themselves to the dusty, smelly habitat and, a few minutes later, the garage was nothing more than a flickering stain in the rear-view mirror.
KILOMETRE 2915
I thought about what had just happened. Nothing important in the end, considering that car was repaired and we had gas to drive through the night, as well as a new lighter.
We shared dry bread and a few sardines. The woman prepared bite-sized pieces for me that I swallowed almost whole. The road began drawing curves among sharp green hills, almost yellow. Like the colour of my eyes, hanging on to the road. Like those of my father, hanging on to the names of things.
I asked my companion whether she believed what people were saying. About the power outage, about what was happening out east. She answered that often people like to imagine the worst. To see it in everything. As if imagination could decide the course of things.
In fact, I was most worried about my father. Even if we had a lot to say to each other, I knew he could be difficult sometimes. And that he saw me as a stranger. Sometimes I had the impression that his illness was some confabulation, that it was simply convenient. And that I was the one heading straight for a wall.
I didn’t think I’d actually spoken, but I realized too late that I’d thought out loud. The woman spoke softly in my direction, telling me that everything would be okay, that I would know what to do when the time came. With some effort, I managed to smile. I felt the weight of the food I’d eaten in my stomach, beginning to ferment. I hoped it would pass.
I looked at my hand, clasping the wheel. It seemed light years away from my body. I could use a beer. I turned towards the woman. In the heart of my weariness a thousand words came to mind but I couldn’t find a single one to say. She was so beautiful. I finally told her I didn’t have much money left. She assured me that she’d help out. I didn’t need to worry about it. Then, she put her head out the car window and let the evening wind dance in her hair. I mostly looked at the small eddies that timidly lifted her loose shirt.
The sky was pink, orange, red.
After leaning back in she looked at me, hiding behind the tangles that had appeared in her hair. I concentrated on the road as if I’d never stopped looking at it and slowly pulled the car back between the lines.
She suddenly confided that she couldn’t take being anonymous anymore. That she just wanted a bit of recognition. That she was tired of being a nobody. That she was like a bird that knew how to imitate the calls of wild beasts, but it wasn’t enough. That she no longer wanted to hide the scars on her heart. That it was because of this, really, that she’d left and found herself next to me.
It was dark now. Night had fallen. Before us, only the weak light of the headlights pushed against darkness. The woman said that her former partner had always sought to live his life without ever needing to kneel before a master. Together they tried things that had exhilarated her at the time, but meant nothing to her now. I thought about the mask of sobriety I had put on and told myself that, on my end, the only glory I knew was the slightly dull one of waking up each morning.
The woman stretched out, and between two yawns told me that I’d been driving for a long time now and that I must be exhausted. I told her that she could trust me. That I knew what I was doing. That I was made of sterner stuff.
She didn’t push the issue. Her deep, slow breathing cradled me until thirst came back to haunt me. I drove at irregular speeds. Each time my eyes wandered to the dashboard, I pressed the accelerator once again to catch up with lost time. I wanted to drink something fresh. Something strong. Something to help keep me awake. When I listened carefully, I could almost hear the sound of a beer being opened. I no longer watched the clock. I thought of other things.
Shadows weakened under my headlights and we moved through the abstract landscape of night, following the reflectors that lined the road. Occasional passing cars reminded me we weren’t alone. It reassured me. The woman slept. I wanted to lay my hand, softly, on her thigh. But I feared she would open her eyes. Curse me out. I remained still, grasping at the wheel like a thief at his prison bars. In any case, with my callused hands, I would have never been able to sense the softness of her skin.
KILOMETRE 3106
My arms were weak. I could barely keep the car in the right lane when we passed a semi-trailer. It felt like my car was too light. That it could, each time it crossed paths with a truck like that, be pulled into its slipstream.
The woman fidgeted in her sleep, then opened her eyes. We were deep in the night, but she told me she hadn’t slept. She bent over, found her bag, and took out a few notes.
She said we should stop in the next town. That we should find a motel room for the night. That she would pay, that she had money. That I needed to sleep.
I knew she’d end up slowing me down.
I told her that I didn’t have the time. That it was risky. That I preferred to go on. That I wanted to see my father. That I could still drive. Sleep could wait. Dreams as well.
She answered it was crazy. Crazy and dangerous. I told her I was a big boy. She said I looked like a ghost. I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror. But I only saw the pallor of my face and the shadow of my three-day beard.
She offered to take the wheel.
I repeated that everything was okay.
She refused to listen.
I insisted.
She said, You’re lying.
So what?
KILOMETRE 3112
I was pinned under the weight of my blankets while my eyes wandered across the desert of the ceiling. I studied the immense surface as if I needed to cross it.
The woman slept next to me. We had found a room in an abandoned motel. Almost abandoned. Not a light, not a sound, but a few cars in the parking lot, including one parked sideways, its hood up. I parked mine in the back, so it couldn’t be seen from the road. There was no one at the front desk and the room keys were hung on the wall in front of us. Without asking any questions, we just walked into the small, simple room. A door, a window, a bathroom, a bed. A bed where I felt the heat of the woman slowly flow over me despite the imaginary border that separated us.
Night followed its course. The sheets slowly imbibed my sweat. The room filled with my breath. When I closed my eyes, I saw myself at the wheel of my car. Sleep had given up on me.
I sat back up and lit a cigarette. I could imagine the woman’s body under the white sheet. I could guess her curves. Her thighs. Her ass. Her breasts. But her face was hidden by the black of her hair.
Head against the wall, I took a deep drag of my cigarette as if I was inhaling myself from the inside. I watched the cigarette tremble at the tip of my fingers. Exhaustion was a scar in the depths of my eyes, but I gazed at that small red ember burning in the night. In the darkness of the room, I could almost believe it was an emergency exit.
I swept my eyes across the walls, scanning the enclosed space as if something hid here, around me, somewhere. An animal, a stranger, a monster. Something. I almost looked under the bed to quell my fear.
Suddenly, on the other side of the wall, I heard breathy cries and a squealing mattress. We weren’t alone. The door was locked, the drapes pulled. And nobody knew we were here. I didn’t need to worry about people fucking as if nothing i
n the world existed. As if life was beautiful. I closed my eyes and tried to think about something else. When I opened my eyelids and took a long drag of my cigarette, I heard my insomnia whisper that it was my cigarette that was smoking me.
A draft. It came in and out of the room, moving the drapes. Without making any noise, I pulled myself out of the bed, put my shirt on, and looked outside. Except for a few muted laughs from the next room over, everything was calm. I left the room and tiptoed along the side of the building until I reached the restaurant adjoining the reception. It was dark. I bumped into the side of a table, stopped a moment, listened. Nothing. I lit my lighter and walked towards the counter on which a few stools were placed, legs pointing at the ceiling. Behind the counter, I found the beer refrigerator. All in all, I found a dozen bottles that I deposited in a box. Before leaving, I looked the place over, drinking a beer. Everything was strangely clean. As if the small restaurant would open tomorrow. A few candles on the counter and the absence of a cash register betrayed that impression. I left the restaurant and returned to the motel room with care, not wanting to clink the bottles together and attract attention.
Everything was silent in the darkness of the room. The woman hadn’t moved. I lit a candle from the restaurant, opened another beer, and closed the bathroom door behind me. In the mirror reflecting the flickering flame, my red eyes burned like embers in the middle of my ashen face. My veins popped on my forehead, on my neck. I leaned over the sink, two inches away from my own face. Ten years. Ten years of brushing my teeth every morning and seeing, in one mirror or another, my face hardening with the passage of time, my face like a fortress, with squinting eyes and lines left like cracks in weather-beaten stone. I lifted my chin and observed the small scars that neither the shadow of night nor my three-day growth could mask. My beard in which a few white hairs revealed my age. How many times, returning home at dawn, had I closed a bathroom door behind me to shave? Despite my clumsy gestures and the cuts, my face exposed by the razor blade always made me feel younger, less drunk.
Running on Fumes Page 6
