"You can't sleep?" she asked.
"No."
A long silence; then:
"Are you juggling ideas too?"
He mumbled a vague reply and buried his face in the pillow.
Every moment of every day and night he was able to take the measure of his failure now. Even his family's poverty, which for years he had refused to admit, began to grow familiar to him, but like the memory of a companion that one has left behind. Rose-Anna. . . She'd been a young girl at his side, then tired, then overwhelmed, and here she was sleeping beside him on a kind of pallet, on the floor. He could hear whimpers from the children in their sleep.
He rolled and tossed again, and Rose-Anna said:
"Don't think so much. It gets you nowhere. You tire yourself out for nothing."
On her elbow beside him, she began to talk as she did to her children when they couldn't sleep:
"We're still together, Azarius. We've still got our health and strength. What worse can happen to us now? We'll get along, and we'll use our two pairs of arms to do it, believe me. Juggling ideas won't help. That's foolishness!"
She had to stop speaking for a moment. Her baby was very active inside her this last while.
She tried to find a more comfortable position; feeling sleep approach in spite of everything, she said in a voice that was growing heavy:
"Sleep, my poor man. Sleep, if you can. Sleep helps you to think straight. Sometimes a good sleep does the most good."
A little later, at about dawn, when he had fallen asleep at last, she got up courageously to explore their new home. Barefoot, she went from room to room. Then she dressed and put on her shoes.
At six in the morning, when a pale ray of sunshine had made its way through the sooty windows, she had been working for a long time already, on her knees on the floor, damp locks sticking to her forehead, and in front of her a big pail of dirty water.
TWENTY-FIVE
Emmanuel left the train at St. Henri station around nine that Saturday evening. The night air was fresh and pleasant, with distant stars that shone through a lattice of clouds.
It was a warm, languorous evening, pierced regularly by the siren's wail, and perfumed by the biscuit factory. Along with this insipid smell, but very faintly, a whiff of spices rose from the lower regions along the canal and rode on the breeze to this slight elevation in St. Henri.
An evening such as you wouldn't see twice a year in the suburb, and never in the neighbouring areas, which remain unvisited by these odours of spice, these whiffs of illusion. Yet it seemed to Emmanuel that he remembered a host of such evenings in his youth as he wandered these parts. It was an evening when the poor population of spinners, mill hands, puddlers and working women seemed to have deserted their houses with one accord and taken to Notre Dame Street in search of some adventure. Emmanuel, too, had often wandered through such evenings, searching for some undefined joy as spellbinding as the vault of the sky above his head.
He walked to the end of the platform, taking in the familiar sights and smells of the suburb. His village in the big town! For no part of Montreal has kept its well-defined limits or its special, narrow, characteristic village life as St. Henri has done.
Children were playing hopscotch near the station and their shouting pierced through the whistle of the locomotive. It was picking up speed between the tiny fenced-in backyards, the thin trees and the loaded clotheslines, which make up our glimpses, swift and depressing, of the intimacy of poverty as seen from trains when they enter great cities.
Emmanuel saw the steeples of the parish church above the clouds of train smoke. His neighbourhood carried on with its everyday life, indifferent to the constant gaps caused by travel and departures. On Notre Dame the woman from the fruit store was wrapping vegetables. Her busy form went to and fro behind the store window. The vendor of French fries passed with his van drawn by a wretched nag with a long, sad neck. The bookseller nearby was selling cards. In front of The Two Records, passersby slowed down to hear the radio, its voice pervading the street. Housewives were hurrying, hugging large bags of provisions. Above the roofs the switchman in his cabifT leaned out from time to time through a sooty window to see the crowd pass by from his bird's-eye vantage point. All the windows were open, and the sounds of living, clattering dishes and conversation floated in the air as if the partitions of the world had been abolished and human life was on display in all its warmth and poverty.
Below sail the flat lighters, the freighters, tankers, the Great Lakes barges, the grey canal boats, bringing St. Henri the smells of all the products of the world: the great pines of the North, tea from Ceylon, spices from the Indies and nuts from Brazil.
Nearby, in the rue du Couvent, St. Henri also shelters a life that is closed and provincial behind a certain grill: that of its nuns, who file past two by two when the parish church bells ring the forty hours devotion or Sunday vespers.
In daytime there is the pitiless reality of labour. But at night there is this village life, when chairs are pulled out to the sidewalk or people sit on door-sills and the talk passes from one threshold to the next.
St. Henri: ant-heap village!
Emmanuel, who had travelled now and matured rapidly in a few months, returned to the suburb with the clear eyes of an observer. He saw St. Henri as he had never seen it, with its complex yet open weave. He liked it all the more, as we like our village after returning from some expedition, simply because everything is still in its familiar place, and everyone says hello!
In high spirits, he slung his duffle bag to his shoulder and was on his way.
What an evening! he said to himself, as we sometimes congratulate ourselves on the weather or our own good humour.
Then he stopped, uncertain. On store fronts and street corners he could see the news bulletins bearing the brave, pathetic orders of the day from General Gamelin to the French troops:
Defend your positions to the death.
He was suddenly plunged back into the absurd. Scenes of blood and suffering appeared before his eyes. For a moment he ceased to see the tails of smoke that rose so straight from the chimneys into the clear sky. He ceased to breathe easily, as if the air had thickened. A subtle malaise that hung over the suburb became perceptible to him. He noticed the gravity of the workers, their lunch boxes under their arms, their caps pulled down, going about their business with more anxious looks than usual, as if concerned over a disaster without yet perceiving that it could touch their lives. At the same time Emmanuel noticed how few young men were strolling the main street, and how many of those were in uniform.
Frowning, he went on his way. He came to the Five and Ten store, and thought of Florentine. He stopped a moment to glance in at the restaurant, but the crowd was so thick around the counter that he couldn't see her. He would have loved to go in and speak to her. But in that crowd, he thought, how could I get a word in? Then he considered waiting outside until closing time, which was not far off. But he was dusty from his trip, and thought a wash wouldn't hurt before seeing her. He flushed with pleasure and went on toward his home, whistling Amapola, which the nickelodeons were blaring as he passed. His whistling turned to the kind of stubborn reassurance to force one's good humour or persuade oneself that all is well.
Ten minutes later he was hugging his mother and his sister Marie. His duffle bag dumped on the living room floor, he showed them pictures of his regiment. While they passed the snaps around and tried to pick him out of the groups, he slipped away to his room. It looked out on the square, and the trees, not far from his window, were full of the chirping of birds. The fountain sang its liquid song.
Emmanuel leaned out the window and took a deep breath of air perfumed by lilacs, then turned to his ablutions. As he shaved, he thought affectionately of this small room, and wondered at the pleasure he felt at being in it. Only last year he couldn't wait to get away, execrating the insipidity of civilian life. Now this room was thoroughly pleasing. His ties were hanging from a ring in an orderly wa
y, bright ties, gifts from his sister, which he had thought ugly. He wished he could wear one tonight; maybe the blue one with the polka dots or the red one with black stripes. He noticed his pipes in their rack on the dresser, and found it odd that he used to smoke a pipe — when he was very, very young! About eighteen, in fact!
There were so many things, so many memories, that took him by surprise as he touched a pipe or an ashtray that still gave off the musty smell of cold tobacco, or a snapshot of himself stuck in the mirror frame. How ridiculous he looked, there in the country, with his naive and miserable air! What a boring young man he must have been!
He returned to the window, still whistling Amapola which he couldn't get out of his mind, then, suddenly serious, went to the mirror of his clothes cupboard and began to examine his face. Florentine! Would she like him? Would she see anything pleasant in these features he was inspecting so critically? Would she see from them that he was sincere, very fond of her, and above all miserable without her?
He saw himself as one sees a stranger. His mouth was thin and serious. A certain shyness made him look younger than he would have liked. But in the lights of his grey-blue eyes passed shades of thoughtfulness, of boldness, of sadness. A lock of blonde hair fell over his forehead. He pushed it back impatiently and tried several ways of combing his hair to make himself look older.
Then he went again to the window and leaned his elbows on the sill. Florentine! He was torn between the desire to run to her and the desire to stay here and dream about her in the soft spring air. When had he started loving her? Was it the first time he had seen her in the restaurant? Or when he danced with her until they were out of breath? Or in the army camp when, in the evening, she would appear in the clouds of cigarette smoke that hung in the canteen? Little by little she had become for him a familiar ghost, when, broken with fatigue, he would stretch out on his narrow bunk for hours, his eyes closed. Oh, Florentine! Had he been wrong about her all those evenings when he had, in his fancy, danced with her, chatted with her, explored the city with her, eaten and laughed with her! Did she correspond to his dreams, to the strange creature who had haunted his hours of boredom; or was she quite different, and would he have to teach her to love him? The Florentine of his dreams loved him already. She followed him in every step taken by his thoughts. But the live Florentine?. . .
Downstairs in the living room Marie Létourneau's soft laughter could be heard from time to time. Emmanuel listened for this fresh, delicious laugh that was his sister's. She almost never laughed. Perhaps it was his arrival that brought about the change, and she was trying to keep him in the house with her gaiety, becoming quite a different person. His heart went out to her with infinite fondness. Yet he knew that, though he had just come home and despite the affection he felt for his sister and mother, he was already impatient to go out. It was as if he had only one evening of happiness ahead of him, and in that evening he had to spend a treasure of emotion to last a lifetime.
Finished at last with his toilette, he went down the stairs four at a time. With a quick, embarrassed "Good night" he was outside, and felt as if he had escaped from a prison. Oh, a pleasant prison, to be sure, but one that got on his nerves at times. Rid of his heavy bag, he took off at a fast clip. The thought that his mother might find out where he had headed for annoyed him for a moment. Then he thought she would have to know some day, promised himself that he would speak to her at the first opportunity, and brushed off the thought with a toss of his head.
His stride was lithe and rapid. His condition had improved with military life. His head was now held straighter. As he reached Beaudoin Street he was happy, self-assured. For his first visit to Florentine, marking the beginning of their new relationship, it seemed appropriate to appear at her home, like a serious suitor. He smiled at these words, which had always inspired him with an unholy terror.
He recognized the house, though he had been there only once, on the morning — how he remembered it! — when he had brought Florentine, half asleep, home from Mass. He knew the house, indeed, but saw for the first time that it was a very small, very poor house. The discovery enriched his love: how could she live in such a place, spruce and vibrant as she was!
He found no bell, grew impatient, and began to knock. He stuck out his chin and ran his finger around beneath his tunic collar. His forehead broke out in a light sweat. He wiped it self-consciously and smiled at himself and his nervousness.
A woman, tired and nervous, opened the door.
No, the Lacasse family didn't live here anymore. They moved. No, she didn't know where to. Maybe her husband knew. Yes, she could ask him.
After a long wait she came back with an address scribbled on a piece of brown paper. Emmanuel took it and left, stammering his thanks. He had trouble finding the new house, but passersby directed him to a blind alley opening on the rue du Couvent. No sidewalk led to the building. It was stuck right beside the railway tracks, a hundred yards from the station. From the platform's end where he had stood, thought Emmanuel, he had been a stone's throw from Florentine's house.
He didn't know at first if he should try the front door. The soot from the railway was so thick, it looked as if this door hadn't been used for months. But he tried his luck, and shortly after Rose-Anna came hurrying out. She recognized him, though she hadn't seen him since the days when she was a cleaning woman for the Létourneaus. Her face lit up.
"Oh! It's you, Monsieur Emmanuel!" she said.
She was dressed in an ample housecoat and there were streaks of dust on her face.
She wanted him to come in and sit down. She insisted, leading the way into the only room she had managed to brighten up and make inviting. Here the portraits of the ancestors and saints recreated an atmosphere that had been resuscitated a dozen times. He couldn't refuse this mark of politeness and esteem, but all the time he was sitting there he suffered from uncertainty on the one point that interested him. Finally Rose-Anna broached the subject.
"Was it to see Florentine?" she asked, catching his eye.
Emmanuel nodded quickly, with a smile.
"She's not back yet," she said, and looked down.
There was silence between them. Rose-Anna, disappointed, was trying to find a way to explain her daughter's strange conduct without hurting the young man's feelings, and especially without putting him off. But how could she say that Florentine now came home only to eat and sleep, and that even then she kept the most frightful silence? How could she tell him that Florentine was no longer the carefree, happy girl he had met one evening? Yet she could read in his face such frankness, such strength of character, that she felt ready to confess many things to him that she would never have told her own husband. And perhaps Emmanuel could give back gaiety to Florentine. Maybe he was the one she missed so much, without really knowing it. Because Florentine had really told her nothing the day she ran away. And when she returned the next day she merely said she had been too tired and nervous to know what she was doing.
Rose-Anna felt a faint glimmer of hope.
"Did you try at the store?" she asked. "She may be working later than usual. It's Saturday, you know. . . . w
He smiled, knowing she couldn't have stayed so late at the restaurant. Rose-Anna tried something else:
''Sometimes she spends the night with her girlfriend. Marguerite L'Estienne. Maybe that's where she's gone tonight. Sometimes they go to a movie together, or they go for a walk, I suppose, when the weather's fine."
She stopped, embarrassed at the idea that Emmanuel must find it strange, her not knowing where her own daughter was. Partly to change the subject, to thank him for his visit and show how it had pleased her, and partly to express the esteem in which she held the Létourneau family, she began to ask news of each of them.
"Your sister Marie, and your mother. I hope they're well? Please tell them I've not forgotten them."
"And they haven't forgotten you," replied Emmanuel warmly, not thinking much about what he said: of all that Rose-Anna had told
him he had remembered just one thing: Florentine must be with her friend Marguerite.
He stood up without rushing his departure but with an impatience so obvious that Rose-Anna understood and didn't prolong the parting. She accompanied him to the door and repeated, rather awkwardly, her good wishes for his family. Then, as country folk do, she stayed in the doorway a moment watching him go, and called after him:
"Now you know the way, come and see us. You may have better luck next time."
Suddenly she remembered her farewell to Azarius long ago, when she had been leaning like this on the door frame, calling into the wind which bent all the weeds in the yard: "You can come back, now you know- the way. . . .
She was so moved that she went inside hurriedly, blinded by she knew not what regret or what small surge of youth.
Emmanuel had almost disappeared, kicking up the gravel of the path with his heavy boots. At the intersection of the railway tracks with the rue du Couvent he stopped to reflect. Then his decision was made. He walked toward St. Zoe alley, for he recalled a Marguerite L'Estienne in that distant part of the suburb. Perhaps she was the friend of Florentine's. As he hurried along he felt a growing anguish. What if he had to spend his whole evening without Florentine at his side? He had so little time. Two weeks' leave were soon over. Every minute had to count double.
Marguerite was not at home. Her aunt didn't know where she had gone.
In his heart Emmanuel had dreaded this moment, knowing well that cold reason would get the better of him and assail him with a host of doubts: after such a brief friendship, could Florentine still care for him? Hadn't she made other friends in his absence?
He wandered down Notre Dame, exposing himself to doubts like an undefended land. But he no sooner gave up hope than he returned and clung to it again. In a way he was certain that he would see her this very evening. He stared at the girls out walking in groups, then limited his inspection to those with boys. He chewed over Rose-Anna's words until he fancied he had found a hesitation hinting that Florentine was out with someone else. He thought of Jean Lévesque and frowned. The way those two nagged each other, could they be friends? But such things happened. People continually at each other's throats, hurting each other, but irresistibly attracted. Yet she was so proud, and Jean so biting and sarcastic — it was impossible. And anyway, Jean had written a note to say he'd left St. Henri for good, and was going to work at Saint-Paul-l'Ermite. He had added in English as a P.S., "Out for the big timel"
The Tin Flute Page 26
