Frowning, he took a deep drag of his cigarette. But then he threw it down and crushed it with his heel. Looking out the window, he said without turning around:
"I'm a bit short, Ma. You couldn't let me have a few bucks? There was the trip, and all the extras, you know. ... "
His slim hips were silhouetted against the window. Rose-Anna trembled. Her heart went out to him at once as it had when he was a little boy and asked her for a nickel, his face turned away from her as it was now, looking out at passersby in the street.
"Sure," she said. "But all I've got is those ten dollars, and a few bits of change. Maybe I could scrape up fifty cents for you. . . . "
Eugène's eyes glittered. He moved quickly toward her.
"No, no, don't leave yourself short. Just gimme the ten, I'll bring you the change."
His request was like a bullet. Was he going to leave with all that money, weak as he was, and with no sense of its value? She saw her bitter, stubborn plans come crashing down. Then she reassured herself. Lord, how she jumped to conclusions! Of course Eugène was just going to run down to the corner and bring her back the change!
She opened the buffet drawer where she kept her purse and took out the crisp new bill.
"It's your money, after all," she said. "If you hadn't joined up we'd never have had it. But . . . Eugène . . . please don't spend it all."
This time she held his gaze, her eyes supplicating, her hands stretched out toward him.
He took the bill, impatient with all these nagging demands that were such a torture to him.
"Hell," he said, "I'll pay you back. It's payday soon, and you'll get this back and more."
He became confident once the money was in his pocket. Everything was going to change in this house. It was his turn to take things in hand. His father hadn't been able to do a thing to save the family. Well, it was up to him now.
"You know. Ma, we're not going to be poor much longer," he said. "I'm probably goin' to be promoted, and it'll be more than twenty bucks you'll get then, you just wait. You'll have enough to live on. Ma. You won't have to scrape all your life, the rest of us'll see to that."
The colour came back to his face and his eyes glowed as he invented such a fine future. He bent to kiss his mother's cheek and murmured affectionately:
"What would you like, anyway : What can I buy you? A dress? A new hat : "
Her smile was pitiful, she had seen enough, she was cured of false hope. Her voice was soft, and her words followed a single, humiliated train of thought:
"It's for the rent, you know."
Her hands fell to her sides in a gesture of total dejection.
He jammed down his wedge cap on his wavy hair and went over to study his reflection in the mirror over the buffet.
"What! You're not staying for supper!" she cried.
His face took on an expression of regret. His sensual mouth, with its soft, feminine lines, tightened, and again he was indecisive, sad and confused.
"Well, you know ... er ... I got some people to see. Tomorrow for sure, eh : "
And he started out very quickly, away from his mother's hurt look.
"Gotta see some people. But after that. . .
He had his hand on the doorknob when the noisy gang of children burst in.
"Hey, Gene
In a second they were hanging from his arms and legs. Lucille and Albert were searching his pockets, and Gisele was pulling at his sleeve. Lisping, she asked:
"Did you bwing me a pwesent, Zent : Philippe, in the doorway, watched his brother enviously.
"How about a few cigarettes, if you got too many?"
Eugène was laughing, obviously flattered by the welcome. Even this artless admiration was pleasing to him.
"Here, ya little bum! ,,
He threw an almost-full package to Philippe. Then he took out a handful of change and tossed the coins one by one into the air. He missed his mother's stern expression as he did this. Lucille and Albert caught them in the air or scrambled under table or chairs to fight over them.
Gisele, less active, was sniffling:
"Zene, I din get any!"
And she stamped her feet, ordering him around in her shrill, thin voice:
"Give to Gisele!"
Eugène took her in his arms, wiped her nose with his big khaki handkerchief and put a shiny new penny in her fat little hands, which trembled with pleasure.
"There now. That one's all for you."
The house had become noisy, excited, happy. The children pushed at each other as they counted their coins, ready to deal a foul blow. Rose-Anna, surprised and embarrassed, watched them rush off to the corner store. Eugène slipped out after them.
Alone with the little girl who was singing now, safe beneath a chair, Rose-Anna leaned on the table and indulged in a moment of piercing regret. It had hurt her terribly to see that money flying through the air.
TWENTY
Eugène's hangdog look disappeared the moment he left the house, and he went off whistling toward Notre Dame Street. At the corner of Beaudoin he took a deep breath and smiled to himself at the success of his ruse. He touched the ten dollars in his pocket to make sure it was safe, then unfolded a scrap of paper with a name and phone number. He thought of a pair of very red lips, eyes that were bold and full of mischief, and a small beret cocked over long, tangled hair.
His cheeks burned. He saw again the railway station crowded with soldiers, a girl off to one side who had smiled ever so slightly at him as he passed, smiled with her eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes which were raised almost imperceptibly. A moment later he was sitting beside her, daring to ask her name. As he stared, she crossed her slim legs and laughed softly.
"Does your mamma know you're out?"
He'd show her that he wasn't such a baby as she thought. He crumpled the scrap of paper torn from her address book. If only she hadn't been fooling, if only this were the real number!
He hurried to the nearest cigar store and into the phone booth. Panting a little, he dialled the number. A moment later he was surprised to hear an unfamiliar voice. Someone was asking who he wanted to speak to. "Yvette," he managed to get out, terrified that more questions would be asked. There was a pause, then the sharp voice he knew sounded in his ear. He was so relieved that he laughed nervously, then gave his name and took the plunge:
"Wanta get together tonight?''
There was a silence, then a peal of laughter. At last:
"Okay!"
"Where?" he asked, barely able to speak.
She named a place and time for their meeting. Eugène's voice faded to a murmur. He hung up, stayed for a moment with his arm resting on the small shelf, then emerged, his face red, throwing his shoulders back as if he were on parade.
In the street, he reflected that he had two hours before meeting Yvette. What a nuisance! How would he kill the time? He hesitated at the curb. For a second his mother's sad, tired face appeared in his mind's eye. Sullen, he set off walking to escape her image. Approaching The Two Records, he went in and asked for cigarettes.
Sam Latour was listening to the news, leaning close to a small radio that he had placed among some cardboard displays on a shelf. He was grumbling as he came over to the counter:
"Son of a gun! Things are bad there in Norway!"
His voice was excited.
"When are they going to stop those damn Krauts?" he said, talking to himself, as if the news were a personal affront.
"Just you wait till we get there!" cried Eugène. Nonchalantly he snapped his ten-dollar bill and tossed it on the counter.
"By gosh, you're in the money today!" said Sam. "Those ten-buck bills don't seem to stick to your fingers, young fella!"
"There's more where that came from," said Eugène.
He picked up his change very casually, and stuffed the bills in various pockets. Then he lit a cigarette.
"Yep," Latour went on, "looks like you're doin' just fine, my boy."
"About time," said Eugè
ne, leaning on the counter, his legs crossed, looking toward the door, in a posture that seemed to mimic Azarius.
Beneath his low forehead with its growth of thick, wavy hair, his eyes glinted with vanity. They were the same shade of blue as his father's but, closer to his short, thin nose, they gave his face a different expression. The father's gaze was open and enthusiastic; Eugène's was shifting, liquid, changeable and ready to take flight.
"Yep," said Sam Latour again.
A customer came in, then two workers stopped in front of the shop and, hearing the newscast, entered. From time to time Sam nodded or shifted his weight with his shoulders to punctuate the broadcast, or tightened his belt with an aggressive gesture. He had undergone a change since his futile discussions with Azarius Lacasse. His indifference had given way to outraged astonishment. He heard the description of the invasion of Oslo with bent head, savagely chewing at his cigar. His good-natured, peaceful character could turn, when he was moved, to a sudden, childish rage. Incapable of anything underhand, any tale of trickery troubled him.
There was deep silence at the end of the broadcast. Sam switched off the radio. At once a hubbub of voices filled the restaurant.
"Those sneaks!" said Sam Latour. He came out to serve his customers, head down like an angry ram. "Sneakin' into a country dressed up like the local folks and then grabbin' everything off before they know what happened! Those treacherous bastards!"
As he handed out cigarettes, gum or cokes, with hard blows to his cash register, he emitted an uninterrupted flow of invective.
The passing customers were in no hurry to leave. A few near the door were reading the papers for more details. Others were studying a map of Europe which Sam had pinned to a wall.
"Norway!" mused one. "They're good people up there. They never went lookin' for war."
"No more than we did," said one of the workers.
"It was a very advanced, modern country, too," said another who seemed well-informed.
"And they still had their traitors," roared Sam Latour.
"Traitors!" said the first customer. "Seems like they're all over the place. Funny business, that, selling your own country."
"What do you expect?" Latour broke in. "There's people who'd sell their own mother for money or a bit of ribbon."
He chewed away at his cigar, straining at his collar like a restive horse.
"I just wonder if they can stop them," said a thin young man, looking up from his newspaper.
Eugène assumed a theatrically aggressive stance. He had noticed that these working men, full of common sense and moderation, glanced at him occasionally with unspoken admiration. He was carried away as he saw himself through their eyes, proud to represent that valiant, bellicose youth in whom the older, more mature, the weak and undecided saw their salvation. A defender of women, of the aged and oppressed, that's what he was. The avenging arm of society outraged. A fighting spirit shone in his eyes.
"You bet we're goin' to stop them," he said loudly. "Just like this "
He made a savage motion, as if to stab a bayonet through the wall. His face was tense, his lips tight, as if he had met with stiff resistance. Then, with a grunt, he removed the imaginary weapon, stood straight and looked around him, highly satisfied with himself.
"Yep," said Sam Latour.
"Yeah!" said Eugène.
The door opened. Leon Boisvert came in, decked out in new clothes, a newspaper tucked under one arm, his manner cautious and affected, putting out his feelers before venturing farther inside. He wiped his feet carefully on the mat by the door.
Eugène stared at him, mockingly.
"What! You're still in civvies, are you?"
Boisvert was disconcerted. Five weeks ago he had succeeded in landing a job as bookkeeper in an office nearby. His fear of conscription had become a constant obsession that tormented him even in his dreams. He had always had a frightful notion of war, seeing bodies pierced with bayonets and himself pursued by men trying to thrust a weapon into his hands. To all this was now added the fear of losing his precious job, the first good luck in his life, which he had sought for years. An unhealthy pallor pervaded his features.
"When you can't get a job there's always the army, that's true," he said disdainfully.
Eugène strutted, an arrogant smile on his lips.
"It won't be long till they have the call-up," he said. "I'm in a good spot to know these things. Only one thing you can do: head for the woods. ... Or get married," he added mockingly. He butted his cigarette on the counter.
"But I'll tell you this," he said, "it's the guys who volunteered that'll get the good jobs after the war."
Swaggering, he took his leave.
Outside, the air seemed light and heady. He felt that he was master of his life and floating sky-high. No more indecision or scruples. What the heck, he thought, life owes me something, what with the risk I'm taking. With his long, easy stride he made for the streetcar stop and elbowed his way to the front. He felt that the weary crowd was looking his way, paying attention to him. His joy rose higher, higher. And his demands on life soared. He thought, they shouldn't charge us for anything, it's a darn shame. If they've got no worries, all those people, it's because of us.
The wait by the Maisonneuve monument on the Place d'Armes seemed interminable. His nerves on edge, he smoked cigarette after cigarette. Yvette was late. He saw from the clock on the Aldred Building tnat he'd been waiting a good ten minutes. And all that he had coming to him, his youth, its amusements and giddy pleasures, were due this minute, no time to waste. He began to pace to and fro, and suddenly, very clearly, saw his mother's face as she had given him the ten dollars.
He took out what was left of it, counted the bills, and felt a feeble urge to go home.
"Ma," he murmured softly, with a touch of tenderness, imagining now that he wanted nothing so much as to console Rose-Anna and win back her admiration. He saw himself returning what remained of the ten dollars, and his mother, reassured and proud of him, going to lock it up where she had kept it. The greatest thing was not his mother's profound relief, but his own part in the transaction, his generosity, and Rose-Anna so sorry that she had doubted him. She really was scared I'd spend it all, he thought. And he fondled his good intentions in a maudlin way as if they were already made good, and was just as pleased with himself as if it had been true. At that moment a streetcar coming from the west opened its doors. He saw Yvette, dressed in a long, full coat that hung open to reveal her slim hips in a clinging, bright-red dress fit to knock his eye out. Rose-Anna had lost. He threw away his cigarette and, whistling, crossed the square to meet this bright, skintight, flashy dress. . . .
TWENTY-ONE
Florentine had grown more or less immune to the charms of spring. April was gone, May was making a timid start in the neighbourhood of St. Henri, and the old trees along the streets, imbedded in cement, had budded and grown green without winning a single glance from her as she walked twice a day between her home and the store. But tonight, as she left the Five and Ten, she couldn't help stopping in wonderment at the softness of the air, as if she had awakened to a transformation that had taken place while she was absent, missing its different stages. The sun still warmed Notre Dame Street, despite the late hour. Above the cobblers' shops, the fruit stores and other small establishments, apartment windows opened on interiors which added their intimate murmur to the sounds of traffic outside. Between the loud passage of a train, a heavy truck or a streetcar, the faint sound of a distant church bell might find its way into those open windows.
Beside St. Henri's railway station with its little tower, a few flowers had forced their corollas up through the coarse earth. High above, beyond the church steeples which escaped from the layers of drifted soot, rose the mountain with its green slopes woven like a living network of pale, floating leaves. It was indeed spring, all around her, verging already on the dust and heat of summer.
Florentine was now obliged to recognize this flight of time. Her
fear began to sound an alarm within her like a runaway bell that refused to stop, ringing louder than all the church towers in the city — the fear that she had long felt approaching, perhaps even since Jean was at her house.
Could she subdue it? That would have been as impossible as trying to quiet the great bells pealing out over the rooftops. She knew it well: she couldn't use arguments or reason against the unceasing rattle of this alarm. Today she'd have to do something. But what? For a while she'd had one thought in mind: to tell Jean what she suspected. But she had rejected this. Now it came back to her. Instinctively she began to walk in the direction of St. Ambroise Street.
She had no real plan of action. She still refused to admit that all she had done to get in touch with Jean had been in vain. Now, overcome by fear and misfortune, she imagined that luck would be with her today and she would meet him at last. But even without this hope she had drifted toward the part of the suburb she associated with his life, with no guide but this mysterious intuition.
At Atwater she turned down toward the canal. The open taverns on her way exhaled their smell of stale beer, and the snack bars, frequented by newspaper vendors, mostly small, tired-looking Jews, gave off an unbearable rancid odour of fried food. As she turned the corner of St. Emilie she spotted the familiar rig of the tobacco man, an old farmer from whom Azarius bought his strong, bitter smokes; then came the marketplace with its bustling crowd around the stalls of the country folk. Flowers, plants — there were hundreds of them in the sunlight in their fragile shallow crates; ferns waving their frothy green in the sooty air; jonquils, pale yellow, bent by the slightest breeze; bright-red tulips bursting with life; and behind this garden scene the stalls with their ordered displays of apples, blue onions veined with violet, fresh lettuce glistening with drops of water. . . .
Florentine turned away, wounded by this feast of colours, this abundance of good smells in which she could take no pleasure. Oh, spring was taking its vengeance for her neglect! It spread all its riches before her eyes, wafted toward her the living perfumes of greenery from the hothouse, of the sugar bush, of docile animals caged for the market. The thick, golden syrup, the maple-sugar cakes, the long-legged hares suspended by their hind paws, their fur thick with blood, the terrified clucking of hens whose red combs projected between the slats of their crates, and the round, anxious eye of the one that was tossed on the scales: everything was here to tell her that life is good to some and unkind to others.
The Tin Flute Page 22
