"Yeah, temptations, that's what they've given us," he went on. "Nothing else but. This whole cheap show of a life is fixed to tempt us. And that's how society gets a hold on us, the cheater, and gets us good. Don't fool yourselves, you guys, we'll all be sucked in. It doesn't take much of a temptation either to make us decide to give our little beggardly lives. I know a guy went to join up, do you know why?"
He searched in his pockets and came up with a toothpick which he stuck between his lips.
"So he'd have a winter coat. That kid, he'd had enough of buying his clothes from the Jews on Craig Street in a rag shop that stinks of sweat and onions. That kid, it just hit him all of a sudden, he had to have an overcoat with brass buttons. And you can bet he's rubbing and shining them right now, those brass buttons of his. But look what they cost him, eh?"
He stared for a second at Emmanuel.
"Do you want to hear another one?" he said. "Another of my stories?"
An impatient smile flickered on Emmanuel's face. He knew that it was as hard to interrupt Alphonse when he had a bee in his bonnet as it was to draw him out of his morose silence at other times.
"Go to it," he said. "It's not dull, anyway. You're off the track a bit sometimes, but you're always funny."
"Sure I'm funny," Alphonse agreed with a bitter smile. "I'm funny to look at and funny to listen to. And I'll make a real funny corpse one of these days."
He opened wide his sickly eyes, a thing he seldom did, and his whole face was transformed. Strangely enough, all the interest of this wretched face had fled into its eyes which were deep, almost tender at times, dark violet in colour.
"All the ones that are still good for anything, don't worry, they'll volunteer on their own," he went on bitterly. "It won't be long. Look, I know another guy. He joined up to get married. Listen to this now, isn't this terrific? Ten days' leave and then a little allowance for the lady and the guy goes off to get his head bashed in to pay for the wedding. For five years that guy went to see that same girl and wandered around the parks and back streets, no place to sit."
"You forgot one thing," the young soldier said after a pause. "You forgot the biggest temptation."
"Now you don't say!" murmured Alphonse. "Is that right?"
"The temptation," Emmanuel went on, "of animals in a cage or dwarfs in a circus. The temptation to break the bars and get out into life. A temptation you've forgotten: the temptation to fight."
"To fight!" said Boisvert, furious. "What the hell for?"
"Because," replied Emmanuel, looking him in the eye, "it's your only chance to be a man again. Come on! Don't you see?" His voice grew violent. "That's why you have to
fight."
He was growing heated, and in his effort to convince and sayjust what he meant, his fists clenched, he hesitated, frowned — then his eyes lit up with enthusiasm and his voice rose, trembling:
"Don't you see that the guys that go and fight this time are goin' to want something better than little copper medals?"
Alphonse looked up slowly, indolently, at Emmanuel, and sneered: "Yeah, and what are they gonna get? Lots of luck, just like before. Millionaires up on the hill and guys out of work down below, fighting with each other."
A fleeting smile played over Emmanuel's face. Boisvert was no longer in the conversation. He had flopped on one of the tables, and emitted the occasional dull groan.
"No. They'll get life," said Emmanuel.
"Life in a shell hole, with grenades bursting!" Alphonse exclaimed. "You've thought of everything!"
"Aw, shut up," Boisvert barked suddenly. "You're talkin' to hear yourself. We've just got one chance. That's if enough guys like you join up, there'll be more room here. That's what we need, room! Too many people on earth."
Three strokes of his hand and his hair stayed up. He smoothed it, and looked arrogantly around at the others.
"No, go on, Manuel," Pitou shouted, "you're right. I'm listening anyway. Go on."
"Well," said Emmanuel, now talking only to the redhead, "you know, Pitou, what keeps us all in the circus behind bars, it's money. The guys who have the money decide if you're going to work or not, depending how it suits them. But the war, this war, it's going to destroy that damned power of money. You hear them say every day, the countries can't go on spending I don't know how many millions for ships that go and get sunk, or planes that get shot down or tanks that last three days. Money invested in destruction destroys itself. Great! That's just fine! 'Cause money isn't wealth. Wealth is our arms and our brains, the masses. And that's the wealth that'll last after the war. That's what's going to feed the world, and all men, in justice."
His voice growing softer, he went on: "We've always given all we had to give, in wars. We'll do it just once more. But not for nothing this time. Some day we'll have to settle our accounts." And then, as if his thoughts had stumbled on something and he was unable to give form to his conviction, he hesitated, smiled and finally dropped his sentence.
"Yes," said Alphonse, who had noticed this hesitation, "there's a lot would like to believe the same thing, but. . . "
His eyes wavered. He was silent; then, seeing that Emmanuel was about to leave, he hoisted himself to his feet.
k 'Vait for me," he said haughtily. "I'm goin' your way."
He mumbled as he went for his coat: "All that's a lot of malarkey anyway. What good does it do a guy who needs a buck or a mickey. A buck and a bottle of Scotch, that quiets your mind."
Emmanuel leaned over the counter to say good night to Ma Philibert. She had just dozed off, her elbow bent, one finger supporting her sagging double chin.
He made for the door, followed by Alphonse. Behind them, Pitou's voice rose, soaring, oblivious, in a song that told of the soft prairies, the freedom of the deer, gentle fawns with wide, innocent eyes, the quiet elk coming to drink at sundown among the reeds, the splendid horizon of loneliness. He sang the words to the sketchiest accompaniment on his guitar.
The plaintive music followed the young men for a minute or two, then was lost in the wild cry of the wind.
Winter had returned to whip the passersby with its fine, icy thongs. Alphonse took Emmanuel's arm to get a little borrowed warmth.
"If you're not in a hurry, come with me," he said. And he went on, with no transition: "Pitou's a lucky little guy. He's always got his music. Boisvert, now, when he's finished picking away at himself, he goes back and minds his business. But all he really wants is to make his comfy little spot in life. He's okay, that guy."
He walked faster, keeping up with Emmanuel. "But you and me, we think too much. And where does that get you?"
His brief laughter had a snarl in it.
"There's three good ways," he said, "to give up thinkin'. The first way is to go out in a rowboat, all by yourself. The second is to empty a bottle of Scotch. But that's nothing for the down-and-out. Maybe there's a third way. ..."
"What then?" asked Emmanuel, intrigued.
"I'm gonna tell you in a minute," said Alphonse. "Don't want to get your hopes up till I know I can deliver."
They turned onto St. Ambroise Street toward the grain elevators, which rose up suddenly out of the storm and faded again behind heavy gusts of snow.
After a moment Alphonse forced himself to speak.
"You got any money on you?"
"Come on, out with it, how much do you want?"
"One buck," said Alphonse, resentful. "I never borrow more than a buck at a time, what do you think I am? I'd get into debt!"
Emmanuel opened his greatcoat to take out his wallet.
"No hurry," grumped Alphonse.
He was puffing by fits and starts, pushing Emmanuel from behind to speed him up.
They turned into an ill-lit street. Alphonse slowed down. He was looking at the house numbers. A feeble light shone in the second floor of a shoddy building. Downstairs was a laundry. When he saw the reddish glow behind the shutters, Alphonse gripped Emmanuel's arm. He seemed not to feel the cold now. He had even opened h
is wretched coat and mopped his forehead several times. The wind blew his clothes tight to his thin body and spilled around him in a torrent.
"Well! It's a go!" he said. "Old Charlotte hasn't moved yet."
Then Emmanuel understood. He hesitated a second, gave Alphonse the dollar bill he had been holding in his hand, and went silently on his way.
He came to Notre Dame Street, and went on walking straight ahead without a goal. A need for tenderness had come over him. He tried to recall the features of the girls he had taken to the movies or met at parties. He could easily remember their names, but their faces remained a blur. "Claire, Aline, Yolande," he murmured to help his memory. No emotion stirred. They all seemed like phantoms from another life, the carefree life he had as a young man, a lightweight life, perhaps, which he had left for good when he put on the uniform. It was true. He'd never really been in love. Sometimes he'd thought he was drawn to a pretty face, but each time a dream took shape in his mind, asking him to wait.
The farther he walked the more conscious he was of a need for friendship, something new and unforeseen, measuring up to his strange expectations. Was it really friendship he was searching for? Or a part of himself which he only half understood, and which would become clear in the light of friendship? However it was, he felt so isolated and exasperated that he would gladly have spoken to strangers in the street. And he knew from fellow soldiers who had told him of it that this need grew stronger on each furlough, more acute and urgent.
Suddenly he thought he recognized Jean Lévesque walking ahead of him. He hurried to catch up with him. At school they had been inseparable. Since then, despite their differences of opinion, their odd comradeship persisted because of this very attraction of opposites.
The dark shape ahead of him hesitated, then went into a tavern. Emmanuel followed. There, at a table in the back, he found Jean.
"Hey!" said Levesque when he saw him. "1 was just thinking about you — the volunteer! Doing some recruit- ing in St. Henri?" he joked, his cynicism softened by friendship.
"Yeah, I've come for you," Emmanuel jibed.
There was a pause, then Jean, his forehead between his hands, said softly:
"There's one big difference between you and me. You think it's the soldiers who change the world. And, well, I think it's the guys that stay home and make money out of the war."
Emmanuel, provoked, waved away the other's remark. Nothing would make him regret his decision. He felt emptied of everything except a trembling of anxiety. His previous lengthy explanation of his reason for joining had only released his natural tendency to cheerfulness, tenderness and joy, but he could see before him not the slightest prospect of happiness or affection.
He ordered two Molsons and turning to Levesque suddenly remarked, his voice a little sad:
"I've been home for three or four hours and I'm bored already."
"What about Fernande, and Huguette and Claire and Yolande?" Jean rhymed off the names, poking fun at him.
Emmanuel looked down to hide a twitching muscle in his face.
"Did you ever . . . did you ever meet a real girl, a real one?"
"There's no such thing," said Levesque.
He gulped at his beer as soon as the waiter had put down the glasses, then stopped in a daze. He had had a mental glimpse of Florentine running toward him in the wind.
"Aha!" said Emmanuel, who had caught his expression. "Who were you thinking about?"
Levesque lit a cigarette. He was on the point of saying Florentine's name. But he broke his match into splinters and threw the pieces in the ashtray. He was frowning, but smiling at the same time, showing his strong teeth which gave the impression that he was taking his bite at life.
"About a girl in the Five and Ten," he said. "A waitress. Too thin, but cute just the same. Her waist's like that," he added, with a descriptive gesture. "And she's as full of hellery as a drowning cat."
Emmanuel looked away. He was remembering, he didn't know why, nor why he felt a catch at his heart, a waitress he'd seen in a railway station restaurant, pale, harried, thin. . . And to keep her tips coming, or maybe just to keep her job, she had for everyone the same sad, tired, humiliated smile. A hard life, he thought. Leaning toward Jean, envious of his detached, nonchalant air that the girls liked so much, he asked:
"How far have you got?"
Jean sat back in his chair and burst out laughing.
"Come on, are you kidding? You know the kind I like. No, no," he protested, so vehemently that he was surprised at himself. "I know her name, that's all. I just mentioned her for fun, just for laughs."
"Oh! Just for laughs!" said Emmanuel. His voice sounded strange. "What's her name?"
Jean hesitated a second.
"How long are you staying in St. Henri?"
"A week."
"Okay, come and have lunch at the Five and Ten some day next week. You can have a look at her. . . "
Then he leaned his head against the back of his chair and gave the half-full ashtray a petulant shove.
"Let's talk about something interesting," he said. "What about this war, eh? If I could find something in the army that paid better than the munitions, I might go in myself. Maybe. But with my specialty in mechanics, I'm not worried about them coming after me."
And as he talked he drew designs in the spilled beer on the table.
FIVE
Not far from Rose-Anna Lacasse the children were sleeping on the two sofas and the pull-out bed in the dining room. She herself, on her bed at the back of the double room, dozed off from time to time but always to wake with a start and check the small clock on her bedside table. She was not concerned about the little ones sleeping under her care, but about the others who had not come home. Florentine! Why had she left so suddenly tonight, without saying where she was going? And where did Eugène spend his evenings? And Azarius, poor fellow, he'd never learn, what new idea did he have up his sleeve? True, he was working and bringing home his pay — not much, but enough to make ends meet. Yet day after day he was dreaming up new projects, wanting to quit his job as taxi-driver, try something else— as if you could be choosy when you had children to feed, 'and fresh worries at home every minute of the day. As if you were free to say, in such a case, That job suits me, I have no use for this one. . . But that was Azarius all over, always ready to give up a sure thing for something new, his whole life long!
All the little everyday cares were reinforced tonight by Rose-Anna's mistrust and terror of the unknown, which for her was worse than sure misfortune. Depressing mem- ories, still heavy to bear, came to seek her out in the shadows where she lay defenceless, her eyes closed, her hands abandoned on her breast. Life had never seemed so threatening to her, and she couldn't have said what she feared. Some undefined misfortune it was, stalking the little house on Beaudoin Street.
Finally she heard a man's footsteps thumping in the entry of the narrow building. At once her haste to know the worst or be reassured impelled her to get up. She put her hands to her heavy waist and stood stretching in the dark.
"Azarius, is that you?" she asked, keeping her voice low. All she heard was a man's breathing in the hall behind the door-curtain, and, in the low room, dimly lit by a night light, the regular breathing of the children.
Weary 7 , unsteady, a little giddy, as she often was after a few minutes lying down, she moved forward to pull back the faded curtain. She saw Eugène, her eldest son.
"Oh!" she said, with a sigh of relief. "You frightened me, you know. Somehow I thought it was your father and he didn't want to let me see him because of bad news."
The wind was moaning loudly. You could hear it rattling a pail hung from the barrel outside the kitchen door. Rose-Anna wiped her damp forehead.
"I must have been dreaming," she said apologetically. "I thought for a minute your father was coming with bad news. The things you imagine when you're all alone and the storm's outside!" she said, confiding in this tall young man as she had not done for a long time.
As she looked at him she was astounded to see that he had almost become a man. It was a fact that they felt like strangers, this young man who only came home to eat, and herself, who these days saw nothing of him but the clothes she mended. Now her instinct to recapture him spoke louder than all her fears. She thought rapidly, in a kind of panic, He's been growing up for years, and we've drifted apart like that and I never even noticed it. And he surely has worries too, and I haven't a notion of them!
"I must have been dreaming," she said again, "and I don't know if it was about you or your father. Well, it was your father," she admitted. "And that tells me he's going to lose his job."
At last the young man broke the strange, suspicious silence that followed him like a secret transgression.
"That figures," he said harshly. "He's going to lose it, too, if he goes on shooting his mouth off in the restaurant across the road instead of looking after his customers. The boss has just about had enough of our father. And on top of that he tries to set everybody straight. . . "
They were standing face to face, speaking softly so as not to wake the children. In any case, there was nowhere in this tiny, cluttered house where they could have been alone. All their lives they had talked like this, hastily, cramped, whispering in secret. Confidences waited for silence, dark, the night-time. But it had been a long time since Eug&ne had come like this, seeking out his mother in the dark. The last time, she remembered, was when he had stolen a bicycle. It's always when he needs me for something, she thought. And this time she wanted to anticipate the confession he was contemplating.
"Listen," she said, thinking it was his enforced idleness that bothered him, "your father told me this morning he wants to go into the taxi business for himself. He thinks he can make more money like that. And give you a job."
The young man was working up to his confession. But he didn't yet dare to make it, precisely because of his mother's confidence in him. Confidence! How could she cling to such a slim hope?
"Another crazy move, Mother," he said. "Where's he going to find the money? Why can't he stay still? Hasn't he put us into enough misery? He had his relief, why couldn't he stay on it?"
The Tin Flute Page 6
