The man stared at her from under the peak of his cap, which almost covered his forehead.
"Lévesque? The machinist? Yes, ma'am — mademoiselle — he must be in the forging shop."
Then, after a pause:
"Do you want me to go and get him? If it's urgent. . . "
Florentine shook her head hastily.
"No, no, I'll wait."
Collecting her courage, blushing, she added:
"D you think he'll be long?"
The man shrugged.
"Don't know. There's an awful lot of work these days."
He touched his cap and went on his way.
Soon other workers came out in groups, probably apprentice casters and polishers, as Florentine judged from their harsh comments on working conditions. As their voices faded down St. James Street, Florentine saw a single form silhouetted in the doorway of the shop. From his thin waist and powerful shoulders she knew that it was Jean. Her heartbeat grew faster and her forehead broke out in sweat. She waited until he had taken a few steps, then came out of the shadows to meet him.
She found not a word to say, but stood in front of him with a silly smile, her breast heaving.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
He stared at her with a touch of impatience, frowning.
She began to trot along beside him.
"It's a long time since we saw each other," she said. "1 was just going by this way tonight, so. . . "
He said nothing to help her along, and she cut off her explanation, realizing it meant nothing to him. Her hands clutched her bulging purse of imitation leather. Avidly she searched Jean's face for some reaction. His jaw-line was hard, though it weakened at times as if from fatigue.
After a time Jean rubbed a hand across his forehead and slowed his pace. Then he spoke listlessly:
"That's right, it's been a while. We're working double shifts these days. I even did thirty-six hours in two days this week. A guy doesn't know if he's still alive or turned into a machine."
He shrugged, and talking to the empty night in front of him added:
"They stuck me with four new apprentices again. Guys that hardly know a thing. And then they complain. They're never satisfied. 'What're you chewing the rag about?' I asked them tonight. 'Before you came here you were getting fifteen or twenty cents an hour. Now you get thirty, and forty cents when there's overtime.'"
He stopped, out of breath, so beaten by fatigue that he had trouble finding words. He repressed a yawn.
"Oh, it's a funny life! Either you earn peanuts and you've got lots of time to spend it, or you get twice as much and you haven't time to enjoy a cent's worth."
"Is it as tough as all that?" she asked, saying anything to get his attention. She knew that he was not talking to her but to himself.
He glanced at her furtively and went on with his indifferent monologue.
"And now I'm the boss of my department."
Without really admitting to himself that she was there, he asked:
"Did you know that? ..."
But he didn't wait for an answer.
What use to him now was the admiration of this girl who'd come pestering him? Before, when he was less sure of himself, he might have found her tolerable. God, was he tired! Could hardly think straight. But his head was busy with a hundred things, so many that it was a bother. Head of his department! That was a good start . . . and if he had to give up his studious evenings, it wouldn't be to the detriment of his promotion.
"Yeah, these days," he went on, "they judge a man by his competence, not by a piece of paper. I'm not afraid of anybody. It takes a war to show people up."
Totally disconcerted, Florentine glanced at him hastily, anxiously. Under a street lamp she noticed that his eyes were drawn like those of a man who has not slept for a long time.
"You've really had it, eh, Jean?" she said.
She tried to take his arm, wanting to seem kind. Her hand caught empty air. Jean had pulled away.
"Why did you come here tonight? I thought you were great pals with Emmanuel! What about that? A little war bride! A ten-day marriage! A pretty wee soldier! And then a pretty wee pension from the government. ..."
He laughed cruelly and then, after a moment, added without even seeing her, or so it seemed:
"You know, you'd be better off with a guy like me, a guy with a head on his shoulders, eh?"
She said nothing. Then Jean noticed the girl's shadow gliding behind his own. And the morsel of pity he felt, ! along with a touch of jealousy, impelled him to renew his attack:
"Emmanuel, there, you kind of threw yourself at his head that day in the Five and Ten."
"I don't hate Emmanuel," she said in a strangled voice. "But he means no more to me than that."
She tripped in her attempt to keep up with him, and her chin trembled.
"But why did you come, though?" he insisted.
A humble smile crossed her face, but he didn't see it because he was staring in front of him. The smile left no trace except in the girl's clumsy phrase: "They told me you were working late tonight. An' I just thought I'd wait for you. I don't know, we hadn't seen each other for a good three weeks. An' you didn't come to the party at the Létourneaus either, like I said. . . "
She prolonged her thoughts with an awkward gesture, then licked her lips and said with ail the daring she could muster:
"Sometimes I thought maybe you were mad at me."
He flinched. Then she pushed humility down to a level she would have thought impossible. She begged:
"Did I do something bad to you, ever, not intending?"
He shook his head emphatically.
"Never," he said, "but I'm not your boyfriend."
He was walking quickly. She had to hurry to keep up, almost running, but her shadow still glided behind his.
She was angry with herself for not having found a better explanation. It was so hard to explain what she had done on the spur of the moment. But she wasn't sorry, though a small voice told her: He doesn't care about you. You don't count for him. But this was advice that she didn't want. She had to stick to her plan. She tried to start up the conversation again.
"Even if you're not my real boyfriend that's no reason to stay mad."
So much candour and tenacity made him smile. It was such a cruel smile that Florentine, when she saw it, lost all her self-control. The little pride she still had rose in revolt. She bit her lips and her nostrils flared.
"But you don't need to worry," she said. "I'm not going to run after you, you'll see."
She added, as the tears began:
"You were the one started it."
At this he took her arm.
"Good," he said. "Now you're here, you're going to have supper with me." It was his turn to hurry after her, for she was tripping along, her head high, her teeth biting at the edge of her lip. She kept trying to break loose, and at times her eyes blurred so that she could barely see where she was going.
From a large window bright lights shone just ahead of them. They went into a brand-new restaurant which still smelled of paint and wood. Jean led her to a table at the back and helped her off with her coat. She was passive, saying not a word, but her lips were working. It was then that something changed in him.
Florentine ceased to be a troublesome, tenacious shadow tagging along at a time when he wanted to be alone, and became a living creature trembling in the glaring ceiling lights. Her maroon sweater clung to her body, outlining her small, pointed breasts. She was wearing none of her costume jewellery tonight, and hardly any powder. For once she was there before him with no affectation, no defences, and her whole being took on an unaccustomed life, fearful and almost submissive. Stripped of artifice and coyness, she awoke distant memories in him, memories filled with sadness. He was more embarrassed by all this than he was surprised.
For the last three weeks his work had helped him to banish the thought of the girl. And, seeing Emmanuel drawn to her from their first meeting, he had r
esolved never to see her again, content with a solution that put an end to his indecision, left a clear field to his best friend and gave him the illusion of unselfishness. In fact, on the evening of the party he had walked back and forth a few times under the brightly lit windows and then had left. After all, he wasn't such a bad fellow as people made out. He'd pushed Florentine Emmanuel's way - a guy who could really love her. But he hadn't foreseen that they might meet again . . . either by chance or in the Five and Ten. And still less at night in a deserted street. He began to look at her with some annoyance, and a half-formulated thought flashed through his mind: Her tough luck. It's her own doing.
She had caught the change in Jean's expression. She laid one hand on the table, a hand that offered itself to him. Already she was preparing a new plan. She would no longer disdain the slightest advantage. Her hand crept across the table. He took it in his.
"You're not scared, Florentine?"
Scared? Yes, she'd been afraid, madly afraid that Jean would turn away from her, but now that she saw him agitated and less able than herself to hide the fact, her self-assurance returned.
"What of?"
She was smiling vaguely, as in those dreams where one is guided by an unknown hand; and as she shook her head with a free and graceful movement, her hair fell loosely over her shoulders.
"Scared of a guy like me," he said.
Her eyelids fluttered and her shining eyes devoured him. Yet as she watched him so closely it happened that she saw with perfect clarity that the more he desired her the fewer illusions he had and, perhaps, the less he liked her.
In her silence she heard Emmanuel:
"With Jean you'd be running after your own unhappi-ness." That was important, and worth thinking about. But not now, she thought. Oh, not now! Not now, when after such a long time of boredom, waiting and regret she had begun to breathe again! Anyway, what had she to fear? If he was the dashing fellow he pretended to be, wouldn't he have tried to take advantage of her? Instead of that, he'd taken her home and his kiss had been no more than gentle. Whether he liked it or not, he was going to be her boyfriend, her real one, her steady! They'd laugh together at the movies every Saturday night, maybe twice a week! And a lovely life would open out before her if only she was stubborn enough and not too proud just now! Later, she could get things under control.
Her hand was trembling in his, and suddenly she lifted it to his mouth and pressed hard, turning in her palm to the caress of his lips.
The restaurant owner appeared at their booth. Jean made a movement to pull her hand away but, grown bold, she held it there. She was no longer afraid to be seen with him like this; for her these demonstrations of tenderness — almost in public — were a kind of homage. And in any case, she was carried away by a moment of real passion. Believing herself so close to Jean, she was entering on a total solitude. Her passion had already made her blind.
They ate little. From time to time he looked sharply at her, occasionally with a tepid smile that played over his lips for a second and then disappeared.
When dessert arrived he moved around beside her. He encircled her wrist with his hand, seeming to measure its thinness. He dug in his fingers near her small, swollen veins, then looked at this bruised wrist as if fascinated. Then his hand slid up the inside of her arm to the elbow and stiffened as it reached that smooth flesh. She felt his hand burn her. Her eyelids grew heavy and she leaned her head against his shoulder, her hair brushing his face. It was then that a darkening mist surrounded her.
"Let's get out," he said suddenly.
She took her coat and hat like an automaton, smiling, her eyes glazed. Once outside, the breeze, which had turned bitter, brought her back to a certain calm.
"You know, it wasn't just to see if you were mad at me that I came tonight," she murmured, leaning against him.
She looked up at him, a little intoxicated, and pulled at the sleeve of his overcoat. Touching his clothing, breathing the smell of hot sand, of the forge, of the cooling moulds, left her helpless with emotion.
"I came to invite you to my place. Tomorrow. Sunday," she added dreamily.
In spite of everything, she was still able to concentrate on the importance of following her plan through to the end: persuading Jean to visit her on Sunday while her parents were away, so that they would be free to kiss each other. It was a daring plan. She suspected that his desire for her would be provoked beyond measure, but thought she could be sure of his respect because of the trust she placed in him. Her plan was only half conscious but firm, and it pleased her.
"Will you come?" she insisted.
He replied with a slight pressure on her arm. In silence they emerged into Sir Georges Etienne-Cartier Square. Among the elms and maples, stiff with cold, a few shadowy forms passed, two by two, then returned. The benches were empty. This March evening, half winter, half spring, forced lovers to walk slowly with only brief and furtive stops where the dark lay thickest.
Jean was on the lookout for a dark spot. He saw a great tree that cast a pool of shadow near the corner of the square. He disappeared with Florentine into the black arabesques projected by the branches.
At once Florentine shut her eyes. She held up her lips. But in that moment he was struck by the fragility of this closed face and murmured, with fright and shock:
"My God, you're thin!"
He let her go abruptly. And withdrew from her. She opened her eyes and saw him in front of her, a few steps away, his hands deep in his pockets. So that it was she who had to run to him, leaving the shadows, emerging in the half-light, throwing her arms around his neck, dreading the idea that her plan was falling through and Jean might still escape her. Almost sobbing, with the little strength that remained, she burst into plaintive explanations that came out in fragments, as if through a nervous laugh:
"I love you so much, Jean. It's crazy, it's not my fault, but I love you so much!"
His arms hanging at his sides, he was looking over Florentine's head, over the rooftops, over the square, at the pale crescent moon in the sky. His eyes were hard and dry. The expression of his mouth was nervous, irritated. He was deeply, intolerably embarrassed by this unforeseen drama.
"What good will it do you if I go to your place tomorrow?" he asked.
But without looking up she made a sign with her head that she wanted him to come, and wanted nothing else. At every movement her chin dug into his chest. He felt her growing quiet. She was sure now that he would come to her house just to get out of this ridiculous dilemma.
He held up her chin and forced her to look at him. Then, almost gently but aware that this was the last time he would be patient with her, he said:
"I'm not your boyfriend, you know. Don't go getting ideas just because I took a little shine to you at the store. Because marriage, for me, you know. . . "
He was on the alert for some withdrawal on her part, and was hoping for it. But she held him ever tighter with her thin arms. She stood on tiptoe so that her cheek could touch his chin. Her breath mingled with his and she smiled at him feebly through the tangled hair that veiled her eyes. Jean, afraid that a passerby would see them like this, and filled with a sudden cowardly urge to put a speedy end to the scene, promised evasively:
"All right, if I don't have to work all day tomorrow, I'll come and see you."
FIFTEEN
To the children's eyes the countryside was nothing but snow-covered space, greyish-white, with occasional patches of bare earth, and tall, dark-brown trees rising in their solitude. But Rose-Anna and Azarius often exchanged a glance, smiled with complicity and seemed to share each other's daydreams.
"Remember, here?" one would say.
"Yes, it hasn't changed," the other would reply.
Small memories that led to small, pleasant reflections.
Rose-Anna delighted in the pure air that came in the open window. She had lowered it as soon as they left Victoria Bridge behind and taken a deep, long breath.
"Now, that's clean air for yo
u," she said.
They were making good time along the highway. Despite her night at the sewing machine, Rose-Anna didn't look too tired. Her eyes were a little heavy, but the lines around her mouth were relaxed.
One by one she recognized the villages along the Richelieu Valley, and something like her youthful joy prompted remarks that only Azarius understood.
Then, suddenly, she was silent. With a powerful, mute greeting from her heart she recognized the river that tumbled past the foot of Fort Chambly, and from then on was on the watch for every curve in the road, every turn that brought them closer to the Richelieu. Hills and rivers alone had little attraction for her, except when they were associated with her own life. The St. Lawrence thus meant little to her, but she knew everything about the Richelieu because it had flowed through her whole childhood. She didn't hesitate to tell her children, "It's the most beautiful river in the country." Or, describing a landscape, "It's not as nice as the strips of land down home, down beside the river."
As soon as the Richelieu appeared on their left, she sat nn straighter. Her hands on the edge of the open window, she leaned out and shouted the names of the villages they passed through, bumping along in the livestock truck: Saint Hilaire, Saint Mathias, Saint Charles. The riverbanks lay ever lower and the water flowed so quietly and with such restrained force and life that you could only guess at its great, dark depths beneath the thin crust of ice.
Now here's Azarius, half turning toward the back of the truck where the children huddle on their blankets, and shouting:
"Look there, now, you Lacasse kids! Your mother and I came here once in a rowboat!"
And Daniel, whom they'd kept between them in the cab so he wouldn't get too cold, wide-eyed, still a little feverish, stretched to have a look. "Where's the river?" He was too small to see out the windows. For him the Richelieu could just as well be the strip of blue sky that he saw flying by through the windshield, with occasional arabesques of dark twigs and branches.
"And what's a rowboat?" he asked seriously and with a great effort to imagine it.
From time to time he tried to sit higher on the scat in order to discover and understand all these things his parents were talking about. Yet somehow the Richelieu must have remained in his memory as a strip of azure high above his head, such a blue as he had never seen, with streaks of snow-white clouds which might be rowboats.
The Tin Flute Page 17
