The Tin Flute

by Gabrielle Roy

  He had thought of all the clothes he would like to buy her since she was so fond of dressing up. He imagined going with her into stores and helping her make her choice. He felt very daring as he said, "Florentine, you may think this is a bit odd, but would you let me buy you a really nice dress before I leave, as a going-away present?" He hesitated, almost certain that she would refuse. But to his astonishment she grasped both his hands and said with real joy, "Oh, Manuel, you couldn't do anything I'd like better."

  She made him hold her gloves and handbag while she put on her hat, a little toque covered with greenery and stiff flowers.

  "What about my hat? Do you like it too?" And she threatened: "You better!"

  She took her handkerchief from the bag he was still holding, smiled briefly at him — a slight apology for the delay — and began powdering herself again before the wall mirror. How stupid he must look, he thought, with all these women's accoutrements, the open bag for her to rummage in, and her scarf, her gloves. . . But it was precisely this, he knew, that he would remember later: standing behind Florentine, waiting for her to turn around and tell him she was ready to take her place at his side.

  They resumed their walk by the river. They had left St. Henri without any idea how they would spend their day. Florentine had said, "Let's go up on the mountain," but t on the way had changed her mind: "Let's go to Lachine." At first he had thought she shared his feeling of wanting to go everywhere on his last furlough. By now he realized, from a few chance remarks, that she had no interest in the landscape and didn't even see any part of it, missing the unusually clear sky, the movement of the ships and sailboats on the river; and farther out, the enchantment of the islands, half inhabited or deserted, which had always fascinated him. He had tried to interest her by telling her their names and something of their history.

  Earlier in the afternoon on the boardwalk at Verdun, among the noisy, colourful crowd, all that had interested her was searching for faces she knew. "I don't know a soul here," she had said, as if irritated and astonished. Unable to bear the idea that he might enjoy the sight of the promenade, she had grown mutinous and insistent: "There's nothing to see here. Let's go somewhere else, Manuel!"

  Each time she laid her slim, ungloved hand on his arm Emmanuel saw the gesture as a timid expression of her desire to touch him, and it made him happy. It made him forget his efforts to excuse the girl's ignorance and lack of tact, as if he were trying to repress some warning or instinctive caution.

  Now she said wearily: "Where are we goin Manuel?"

  He suggested that they go over to the South Shore and visit the Indian reservation, Caughnawaga.

  She seemed surprised by what he told her about it, and he gathered from her simple questions that she knew practically nothing about the surroundings of Montreal.

  "If only I had a month I'd show you a lot of places," he said.

  "Well, youVe only got two weeks and we're not about to go running over there to look at the savages."

  He offered her a ride in a skiff, but she hesitated, not wanting to admit her mortal fear of the water. At last he suggested with some regret:

  "D'you want to go to the movies?"

  That might well have tempted her. But not now. All she wanted was a particular certainty. She wished that it were already dark around them. She would have preferred night to the most beautiful sunlit day. She longed for the dark and for Emmanuel to put his arms around her and tell her he couldn't live without her. Why didn't he say it? That's what he was thinking about all the time. If he'd admit it, her mind could be at ease. She would be one stage further in the plan she had formed the previous night when her mother told her of Emmanuel's visit.

  From time to time she turned to peek at the young man from under the fringe of her lashes. She could see him holding her bag at the restaurant. He loves me, she thought, he's crazy about me. And in fact there was so much tenderness in his eyes when he looked at her that she felt a little ashamed. Then she would think, It's his tough luck if he loves me so much. It's just crazy! And because her vanity left her no peace, she tried to convince herself that she, in her own way, was in love with Emmanuel.

  She was able to succeed as long as she made no direct comparisons between him and Jean. When that happened she assumed a disdainful pout, scrutinizing him brusquely as he walked beside her, saying to herself with a touch of pride: Jean would never give in on every little thing like he does. And she became bolder in her designs.

  She was stumbling with her high heels, so obviously tired that Emmanuel grew concerned. ''Look, you can't even walk anymore," he said, and helped her by putting his arm around her waist. He pretended to joke: "You're going to wear out your fine shoes." But there were dark lines beneath her eyes and her face was pinched. She had grown very pale. He asserted his authority and they took a bus back to town.

  Just before reaching Verdun, Florentine suppressed a sigh and said:

  "Let's get off here."

  They could see the rapids on their right. The swaying of the bus made her sick and weak, and her willpower was failing with her strength. She was afraid of falling into a torpor in which everything would become immaterial to her, and she tensed in an effort to seem gay and even attentive to Emmanuel.

  "It's so nice here," she said, "the water and everything," but looking only at her clasped hands. "Let's get off and see if anybody's fishing."

  When she was small Azarius used to bring her to this part of the shore on Sundays fishing for burbot. She felt a desire for Emmanuel to understand her through knowing about her childhood and to love her for what she had been as a child. She leaned her head gently toward his shoulder.

  "My dad and I, we used to come here together. Oh, that was a long time ago. I'd take off my shoes and stockings and play in the water. I must have been five or six then, I guess."

  It was the first time she had mentioned her family to him, as if she had been too ashamed or proud to do so. That she confided in him ever so slightly touched Emman- uel. He took her hand and squeezed it gently. Vaguely moved by her memory of the past, she went on, her eyes vacant:

  "My dad was good to us kids when we were little. My dad . . . some people talk about him, they say he's not a hard worker and can't keep a job. But my dad was always good. It's just, he didn't have much luck."

  She repeated "My dad, my dad" like a refrain, a kind of prayer, an excuse, a plea, through which, as she relieved him of guilt, she also excused herself. Emmanuel, attentive and sympathetic, encouraged her to go on.

  In his expression she discerned a pity that was too specific.

  "Come on, let's get off," she said, her nerves on edge.

  They were near the power station, walking slowly, Emmanuel holding Florentine back to spare her. It seemed to him that she had opened to him such a pitiful and unhappy corner of her heart that a lifetime wouldn't be enough to console and guide her. The simple words "didn't have much luck. . . " seemed to sum up a whole lifetime, and he was moved almost to tears.

  He tried to quiet her mood by the touch of his hand on her arm. She was turning out to have unsuspected depths, and this discovery added to his concerns and tenderness.

  Florentine, trying to hurry, was tight-lipped. She felt that she had been a fool to reveal even the slightest corner of her life or to have shown him the least glimpse of the bitter sweetness that remained in her heart. Sweetness brought you nowhere. That's what had ruined them all. It wasn't for her, not ever. In her anger at herself she tried to stay ahead of Emmanuel. The path narrowed to go between great rocks, and here he allowed her to precede him, enjoying the sight of her ahead. He loved her skipping gait and the way she shook her brown hair over her shoulders.

  She had left for this hike dressed up as if for church. She even had her gloves, which she took great care not to besmirch. Now she folded them and gave them to Emmanuel for fear of losing them. A moment later she wanted them back, and gazed at them on her hands, her eyes shining with satisfaction.

  A touch of
sunlight, like a golden mist, shimmered over the water, blinding the view of the far shore. Yet the afternoon was growing cooler and the breeze less clement. Soon the day's warmth would have been absorbed by the moving surface of the river, just as every word they had said, every gesture, would subside into the mysterious depths of memory. Emmanuel found the thought so intolerable that he hurried after Florentine, took her by the shoulders and, when she looked up astonished, was only able to offer her a gratuitous smile.

  Now she was waiting, her expression hard and almost overbearing. He seemed to be on the point of saying something. She knew from his frown that he was looking for words to express an emotion he had never felt before. Struggling against his passion, he was trying to glimpse how far he dared to go. His lips were trembling and he wiped sweat from his brow. Gently he said, pretending not to be too serious, but with a note of finality in his voice:

  "We should have known each other a long time ago, Florentine!"

  She felt a sudden panic. If she lost Emmanuel this moment, everything would be finished between them. Everything. This time she would be completely lost. More than her safety and salvation were at stake. It seemed to her that Emmanuel might succeed in restoring her lust for life, her pride, her joy in being well-dressed and irresistible. It was through him she had rediscovered that she was pretty and passionate. Could she let all that be taken from her? She was twisting and torturing the strap of her purse and looking stubbornly away so that he couldn't read her eyes.

  "Hey, you're going to rip your purse!" he joked. "Is it new too?" He pretended not to notice that she was sulking.

  "Everything's new" she snapped. "I bought all new things this spring . . . for. . . "

  "To make some guy crazy about you?" he finished the sentence for her, half smiling.

  Beneath his words she had sensed real distress, which she recognized from having felt it herself with Jean.

  Emmanuel was watching her, his mouth tense, his hands clenched behind his back.

  "Are you in love with somebody, Florentine?" he asked.

  She hesitated. What was the best way to make him crazy about her? Make him jealous? Maybe. And maybe not. She wasn't sure. And she couldn't afford a mistake. Oh, no! At the restaurant today two couples had come in for a drink. One of the boys had worn a navy uniform. She had glanced at him a few times; perhaps she had smiled and he had smiled back, finding her pretty. How nervous Emmanuel had been! Without a word he had made her change places so that she could no longer use the mirrors to catch the stranger's eye. ... It would be silly, she thought, to admit she had been in love with Jean.

  She poked at the earth with the tip of her shoe and murmured:

  "Oh, you know. There's guys at the store, they kid around. . . "

  "Yes, I know," he said.

  There was a suppressed tremor in his tone. But he feigned indifference, shifting from one foot to the other. At this moment she had an inkling of a strength of will she had not suspected. She felt a growing distance between them which she had to bridge. She burst out laughing, brushed her cheek against his, put a finger on his lips and cried:

  "You're crazy! Crazy! Crazy! Before you left you asked me to be your girlfriend. You know right well it was you I was waiting for!"

  All the resistance Emmanuel had summoned against the force of his youth crumbled at the single blow. He breathed deeply, as if a disaster had been averted. He knew now that he had been harbouring a bitter doubt the whole day long. At times Florentine's tricks, her irritability, had driven him half mad. He had thought, it's just out of disappointment that she goes with me.

  All these doubts were swept away by her simple, affectionate gesture. That finger on his lips! He took her hand and went down with her toward the river, through bushes whose branches cracked as they passed, brushing against her coat, whipping gently at her straight, slim legs, and he felt as if he had found his way to a world in which there was no war, no horror and doubt, or any human anguish; where all was silent but the rustling of leaves and the hushing sound of a silky dress.

  Later, when twilight came, they were sitting at the river's edge by a bay from which they could hear, feebly and far away, the sounds of the city. The steep slope protected their hiding place. They were alone with the ancient sound of the river in their ears, and the sight of wading birds among the grasses of the shallow water. A red-winged blackbird fluttered toward a nearby tree, his epaulettes gleaming. The remaining feeble light seemed to be concentrated on this tiny patch of colour as the bird hovered among the reeds, then soared to the elm branch.

  In the distance a blanket of deep-violet clouds sank to the river's level.

  They had found a great, flat rock on which to rest. Around its base the ripple of a backwash recalled the distant rapids. Emmanuel had spread out his big khaki handkerchief to protect Florentine's new coat. She was perched on the edge, her legs dangling, and he had his arm around her, still intimidated and astonished at the liberties she allowed. For her the night was welcome. Its terrors were gone because it no longer found her alone — it was a good night, it blurred faces, hid features and mingled memories, bringing her a confused impression of forge tfulness.

  With a gesture that was caressing and bold, she leaned her head heavily against Emmanuers shoulder. Night, descending fast, diluted all her memories, and she felt protected by a distance from her past, from her great mistake, so that now she was almost innocent, and thirsting for new attentions. If this stranger beside her was determined to love her, love her madly, perhaps she would still be able to respond. It seemed that from now on love would be no more than soft and timid caresses.

  Snuggling close to him, she could smell his hair, his uniform, and she felt an abandon after all, for she loved the forms and gestures of love, and the path to her soul was, finally, through kisses.

  She could feel EmmanuePs heart beating faster. She was observing him closely, a part of her inclined toward surrender and softness, another wide awake and implacable. She watched him from under half-closed eyelids.

  But he, caught again in the mental torments of the previous night, unable to reconcile his visions of horror and confusion with the idea of happiness, however fleeting, had unconsciously drawn away from her. He was lost and had no idea where to turn. He could find nothing better than to call on Florentine's goodwill to save the two of them.

  "Would you wait for me?" he asked suddenly, his voice husky and low. "It's not right, but would you wait? Would you wait till the world is cured again? A year? Two years? Maybe longer! Could you give me all that time, Florentine?"

  She pulled back from him, wary of his words. What did he mean? "Till the world is cured. . . " What kind of talk was that? She was fearful of what she didn't understand, but felt sure that at that moment she held their destinies in her hand. She shielded herself with prudence. Oh, she knew well that there was a sentiment which spoke louder than any distress, any language of the mind and heart! Finally, she gathered her strength, her irresistible strength which knew how to force the mind to silence.

  Turning her head slightly on Emmanuel's shoulder, she looked at him with anguished eyes.

  "Oh, Manuel! You're going away, I'll never see you again! I don't want to wait so long. I'd be too scared you'd have other girlfriends. Just think! Such a long time!"

  She was so intoxicated by the sound of her own voice and the momentum of her words that she was close to believing her life would be unbearable if Emmanuel left her alone. Tears glistened on her cheeks. She was weeping for her past folly, for having been unhappy, not for going astray. She put her frail arms around Emmanuel. She was frightened, but she felt that she was reaching her goal by sheer force of will. Her voice betrayed her fear and a kind of anxious triumph. Already she saw herself reborn, loved, prettier than ever, saved. . . .

  She waited until the shadows deepened around them, above them; and then in the darkness that was like a heavy wine for her, she gave him her lips, she gave him her mouth in a cool, decisive movement. But a wave o
f passion seized her. She no longer knew if it was the memory of Jean's caresses or the reality of Emmanuel's kiss that excited her. She subsided into a marvellous forgetfulness, her face turned greedily to Emmanuel's mouth.

  He had not dared to hope for this joy. From his first day of leave, in the train, accompanied by Florentine's image in his mind, he had warned himself against being carried away. To marry Florentine just as he was about to leave seemed unjust. He had only allowed himself to dream of two weeks' happy, careless camaraderie. But other considerations had been a part of this reserve: the opposition of his family, above all of his father. But also the pain he would cause his mother, the more cruel because of his departure. And, finally, Florentine's relationship with his family. But he had reached a pitch of fevered exultation in which a hurried wedding with Florentine seemed the most natural thing in the world. Wasn't everyone marrying in haste, before leaving for the war? Didn't they have their right to happiness before separating, perhaps forever? Could they be sure their joy would await their return, with all its risks and hazards? And was this not a rare grace which must be grasped as it was offered?

  He was so shaken by his decision, so wonder-struck, that he forgot it was Florentine who had led him on so far. He thought he himself had made the decision long ago, and that it was as vain to struggle against it as it was useless to combat the madness and disorder that had taken over the world.

  Overcome by emotion, unable to string his words together with the slightest logic, he passed all his difficulties by and thus surmounted them.

  "Time. . . " he said. "We haven't much. About two weeks."

  Time, inexorable time — this was the only obstacle that might defy him.

  Surprised by the impatience she had unleashed and carried faster toward the unknown than she had foreseen — this unknown she began to fear the closer it approached — she gave Emmanuel no help. She remained motionless, trying to see in the dark, her eyes wide open.

  "The time. . . " he stammered. "Do you think we have enough time, Florentine?"