Charles the Bold

by Yves Beauchemin

  Lucie gave an embarrassed smile and looked away. Her husband changed into dry clothes, more thoughtful than ever, and then crossed the street and rang the bell of the Thibodeau apartment. Wilfrid answered the door in his undershirt, a cup of coffee in his hand, his face looking like hell warmed over.

  “Ah, so it’s you, finally,” he muttered. “Come into the kitchen.”

  They’d gone only partway down the hall when Wilfrid stopped, turned around, and said furiously:

  “So tell me, were you giving me the gears last night?”

  “No, of course not! It’s just my car wouldn’t start. Dampness in the wiring or something. I don’t use it every day, as you know. And taxis are expensive so I decided to wait. That’s all.”

  “So I guess the car’s working okay today, then?” Wilfrid sneered, continuing into the kitchen.

  “Like a charm,” said Fernand, impressed by his own presence of mind. “I plugged it in.”

  Thibodeau flung himself onto a chair and gestured towards another for his guest. A deep silence reigned in the apartment. Sylvie must be at work, Fernand thought. But where was Charles?

  Wilfrid brought the cup to his lips, threw back his head, and slurped loudly at his coffee. Fernand suppressed an expression of distaste.

  “When are you going to bring my dog back?” Wilfrid said, wiping his lips with his bare wrist.

  “As soon as I see him.”

  Wilfrid blanched, then struck the table with his fist so hard a teaspoon danced in the air.

  “You’re lying to me again!” he shouted. “To my face! Bring back my dog. Now! What I do with it is none of your goddamn business!”

  Fernand frowned, stood up, and, placing the palms of his big hands on the table on either side of the carpenter’s, said:

  “Listen, Wilfrid. I’m not used to being yelled at like that. It could very easily put me in a bad mood. Now, we’re going to talk this over calmly, like two grown men, understand me? Without getting our backs up! We can work things out. Okay, I lied to you, and I hope you’ll forgive me for that. Your dog is over at my place. I didn’t have the heart to have it put down last night because it would have really hurt your son. He’s just a kid. You remember when you were a kid, Wilf? No? You don’t give a damn? Okay, that’s your business. But your boy, don’t you give a damn about him either? Don’t tell me you don’t, Wilf, because it would really lower you in my estimation.”

  “Oh, well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” sneered Wilfrid, leaning slightly back in his chair.

  Fernand smiled as though he’d been given a compliment. Then he sat down again, smiled a second time, and rubbed his hands together slowly. He seemed to have had an inspiration and was looking for the best way to present it.

  “Listen, Wilfrid,” he said finally, “what is it you want out of this, anyway? Not to have that dog under your feet, am I right?”

  “Right. And the sooner you bring it back, the sooner I can get rid of it.”

  “I’ve got a better idea: let me buy the dog from you!”

  “No. You bring the dog here, and I’ll get rid of it myself.”

  Fernand put his hand in his pocket and took out his wallet. He counted out six ten-dollar bills and laid them on the table.

  “You sure you don’t want to sell it?” he asked gently. “Sixty bucks for a Heinz 57 you picked up in the street. That’s not a bad deal.”

  Wilfrid stared at the money. He kept his face expressionless, but his right foot was tapping quietly on the floor; he was doing the mathematics in his head: this bloody mutt had chewed up forty dollars, but now here he was being offered twenty bucks more than that. Only a fool would pass up such an offer.

  He cleared his throat, then said quietly: “Eighty.”

  Fafard considered for a moment, then shook his head.

  “No. Not a penny more.”

  There was a moment of silence. Fernand made as though to put the money back in his wallet.

  “Okay, it’s a deal. But you have to promise me that dog will never show his face around here again.”

  “In a few days you won’t even remember what colour it was.”

  “If it even thinks about coming over here, I’ll grab it and have it killed, and you’ll have no right to complain about it.”

  “I won’t even try.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  Wilfrid scooped up the money, put it in his pocket, and held out his hand to Fernand.

  “Goodbye. I’ve got to start making supper.”

  When Fernand left, Wilfrid went into his son’s room. Charles was lying flat on his stomach on his bed, pretending to be absorbed in a Tintin, but his face beamed with pleasure. His father saw it in an instant.

  “Do you understand what went on just now?”

  The boy shook his head and looked away.

  “Liar. Your teeth will fall out. You know damned well I just sold your dog. I can tell by your face. Count yourself lucky! You can go see it at the Fafards, but I don’t want it in this house again, you get me? If I see it, I’ll break its neck. After supper you can get your wagon and take the doghouse back over to Henri’s.”

  “Can’t I do it now?” Charles asked, standing up.

  “No, I still have a few things to say to you.”

  Charles sank back on the bed and waited, looking at his father’s legs.

  “Tomorrow you’re going to stay home from school.”

  Charles looked up, astonished.

  “You’re going to stay here and do some thinking,” his father went on, in a curiously pompous and affected tone of voice.

  “Thinking?” repeated Charles.

  “Yes. You lied to me last night. You were in cahoots with Fatso Fafard.” (Charles couldn’t help but grimace at that.) “You were both trying to put one over on me. His wife and his kids were in on it, too. You’re going to think about that – and about the consequences. The consequences it could have for you in your future life. And I know just how to make you think about that for as long as you need to.”

  “How?”

  The carpenter raised his hand with a self-satisfied smile.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  And with that he left the room.

  11

  For the rest of that night Charles was lost in thought. What sort of punishment could his father possibly have come up with? That smile had not boded well. After supper (a can of pea soup, a can of baked beans, and a few slices of cold ham), he hauled Boff’s house over to the Fafards’ backyard. The dog, lying on an old quilt in the garage, heard Charles’s step and began barking wildly. Charles hurried over to him with tears in his eyes and for a long time the two friends showered each other with affection. Then, obeying his father’s order, Charles left the yard without speaking to anyone.

  Wilfrid, stretched out on the sofa, was watching television. Charles did his homework in the kitchen, took a bath, flipped through an issue of Tintin, then went to bed the minute Sylvie came home from the restaurant. She looked tired and complained of a headache. She and Wilfrid had a long conversation, keeping their voices low so that Charles couldn’t make out what they were saying except for one sentence uttered on two separate occasions by the waitress: “Have you lost your mind, Wilfrid?”

  Charles slept badly that night. He dreamed that his father was slicing his head off with a circular saw that flew by itself in the air at the end of its cord; the saw then flew after Boff, who barely managed to avoid it. Then the situation was reversed: the dog became furious and began chasing the saw, frightening the tool so much that it sawed itself into a wall, making a huge hole that suddenly turned into a window; the window gave onto a slide that stretched off into the blue sky to the far-off mountains of Russia. Laughing, Charles threw himself onto the slide and was carried along as though by a swiftly flowing river. Then he became scared. He felt himself falling through a vast, dark, menacing emptiness. He opened his eyes. His
father was shaking him awake by the shoulders.

  “Get up,” his father said. “Breakfast is ready.”

  Charles got up, as wide awake and alert as though he had never been asleep. He took his place at the kitchen table. Wilfrid had prepared his breakfast – which in itself was unusual and disturbing: a bowl of cereal and two pieces of toast with peanut butter on a plate that was too big for them. He began to eat, watching his father out of the corner of his eye. Wilfrid was wolfing down a western omelette. Through the window Charles could see the back of the neighbouring house, still slightly blurred in the cool morning light; inside the house, a fat, bald man in a singlet was walking back and forth, drying a shirt.

  The smell of bacon usually made his mouth water, but this morning it turned his stomach.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said, pushing his bowl away.

  “Eat up,” said his father. “It’ll be a long time before your next meal. And get a move on; I’ve got to leave in five minutes.”

  Charles looked at him, suddenly apprehensive.

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  Wilfrid swallowed a mouthful of bacon and, keeping his head down, carefully wiped his plate with a piece of bread crust, put the bread in his mouth, and chewed energetically. Then he looked up at his son.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not going to hit you. Okay, you don’t want to eat? Bring your toast to your room.”

  In the room next to Charles’s, Sylvie let out a long sigh that ended in short peeps, like the call of a sparrow. Charles wanted her to get up and almost called to her, but thought better of it.

  Wilfrid was waiting for him in his room, standing beside the bed with an electric drill in one hand and a large empty jam jar in the other. The closet door was open. Wilfrid pointed to it.

  “Get in there,” he said.

  “What for?” Charles asked, astonished. He was frightened and amused by the request.

  “So you can do your thinking.”

  His father put the drill under his arm and fished three long screws from his shirt pocket. Then he held the jam jar out to Charles.

  “In case you need to pee,” he said. His actions were deliberate and businesslike, as though he were performing a tiresome but necessary task. All the same, there was a strange smile of contentment on his parted lips. Charles took the jar and went into the closet.

  “How long do I have to stay in here?”

  “For as long as it takes you to think.”

  “But I’ve already been thinking since last night, Papa. I promise I’ll never lie to you again.”

  “You haven’t done nearly enough thinking, as far as I’m concerned,” replied his father, pushing Charles deeper into the closet.

  The next thing Charles knew the door was closed, and he was enveloped in a strange darkness, half buried in the clothes hanging on their hangers. The electric drill whirred and gave out little spasmodic buzzes as, one by one, screws were driven into the wooden door. Charles was a prisoner in the closet.

  “Sylvie will let me out as soon as my father goes to work,” Charles told himself, although as soon as he said it he knew she wouldn’t do it.

  For several minutes he didn’t move. He listened to the sounds of the building. Someone in the upstairs apartment was filling a bathtub with water; when the tap was abruptly shut off, the pipes jumped above his head with a metallic shudder.

  Stretching out his hand, he leaned against the door and pushed with all his might; it didn’t budge. With his arms he spread the garments on their hangers, since their slightly dusty closeness was beginning to suffocate him; then he remembered his toast, which was on the plate at his feet, resting on top of the jam jar his father had given him. He moved several pairs of shoes, a metal truck, a few sections of track from an electric train set, and two cardboard boxes, then sat down on the floor, his eye fixed on the thin line of light coming from under the door. He began to eat. The line of light was comforting. It connected him to the other rooms of the apartment, like a promise that he would soon be set free and able to move about, as long as he stayed calm and quiet in this darkness which, as his eyes became accustomed to it, wasn’t so bad.

  A shiver went through him and he felt goosebumps on his legs; his father hadn’t given him time to get dressed. He was still in his pyjamas, and it was cold in the closet. He stood up, rummaged through the clothes on the hangers until he found a winter coat. It was much too big for him but it would keep him warm; he could even wrap his bare feet in it. He unhooked it and tugged it around himself. A faint but familiar odour of perfume emanated from its lining; it was his mother’s coat, which had been hanging forgotten in this closet all these years. He plunged his face into the folds, overcome by a piercing joy, and leaned against the wall hugging the coat tightly about himself, closing his eyes and breathing a sigh of contentment. A feeling of benevolence washed over him, his ice-cold feet began to warm up, and the sense of the strangeness of the situation that had been so frightening until then slowly began to dissipate, as though an invisible presence were in the closet, protecting him. After a few minutes, he fell asleep.

  A noise woke him with a start. Sylvie had just put the kettle on the stove. Then she took a plate from the cupboard and slid it across the table. In his mind he could follow every one of her actions, which made him feel as though he were in the kitchen with her. Why didn’t she come to see if he was all right? he wondered. Did she think he’d gone to school?

  He pounded on the closet door with his fist and waited. Steps approached down the hall and stopped at the door to his bedroom.

  “Sylvie?” he called, his voice trembling.

  There was no answer.

  “Sylvie, I’m in here! I want out!”

  A moment passed, then the steps moved away. Charles sat down again and wrapped himself in the coat, crying quietly.

  “I hate her!” he said to himself, rubbing his eyes. “I hate her!”

  He remained seated for a long while, lost in his own unhappiness and anger. Suddenly a door slammed and he heard steps going down the outside stairs. Sylvie had gone to work, leaving him alone in the apartment.

  “You bitch!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “You bloody bitch!”

  The words sounded good to him, and he repeated them over and over again in different tones until they became a sort of refrain.

  His anger diminished slightly; then he felt an urgent need to pee. He stood up and relieved himself in the jam jar. The odour of warm urine filled his nostrils, and he shoved the jar into a far corner. He was no longer sleepy. He would have to wait until Wilfrid came home to get out of the closet, because Sylvie wouldn’t interfere. That meant he’d be there until six or seven o’clock, maybe later. What would he do all that time, with no light, no food, nothing to occupy his mind? Think, as his father had told him? But he had no desire to think.

  But of course he did think, curled up in his mother’s coat. But his thoughts soon became disturbing. What will I do if my father decides to leave me in here forever? he asked himself. Sylvie will never let him do that. But what if she leaves? Or is so afraid of him she doesn’t dare do anything? Eventually the Fafards will ask about me. And Mademoiselle Laramée. She always looks for me at the beginning of class. But how many days will it take for them to get worried? Two or three at least. And even then, what could they do? Come and ask my father or Sylvie where I am. But they’d never tell the truth! I’ll have to wait for the police to get involved. And how many days will that take?

  He pictured himself dying of thirst or starvation in the closet, too weak to cry out, exhausted, desperate … He remembered hearing a horrible story about a child who was beaten and locked up. Marcel Lamouche, one of his friends at school, had read about it in La Presse. Such things happened. They could happen in Montreal! What if …

  Enough of that! He stood up, trembling and sweating. His stomach was plunging into a tailspin. He felt as though all the clothes had got together and were sucking the air out o
f the closet.

  He threw himself violently against the door, but it still didn’t budge. It seemed to be made of steel. And now his knees, hands, and shoulders were sore. He sat down on the coat and tried with all his might to think of something pleasant. It was absolutely necessary to think of nice things, otherwise how could he possibly not go crazy before his father came home?

  “Boff! I’ll think of Boff! What are you doing about now, my dear friend? Still in the garage? No, Henri or Céline have let you out and you’re prancing around the neighbourhood, thinking about me. Oh yes, I know you’re thinking about me, you big fat lump of hair! Watch out for cars, Boff! I don’t want you getting run over after everything I’ve gone through for you! I’d go through more than that, though, Boff, more than Alice went through in Wonderland! That’s for sure!”

  And then a question popped into his mind. What would Alice do if she found herself in this situation? Hmm. Obviously she would explore the closet, just as she explored the land at the bottom of the rabbit hole. Why shouldn’t he do the same? The time would go by faster and, who knew, he might even find something interesting.

  Creeping along the wall, he edged to the left towards the deepest part of the closet, moving as slowly as possible to give himself the illusion that there was a lot of space. It wasn’t clothing that was brushing his head, it was long, soft leaves and vines, maybe even sleeping bats hanging by their feet. The wall was the outside of a huge, fortified castle. Where was he? He was in Africa, in a jungle, and the castle was in the middle of it; he absolutely had to get inside because in the Room of the Giants there was a small, glass table (just like the one Alice saw in the rabbit hole) on which lay the Famous Chocolate Cherry that made anyone who ate it invisible if they took a small bite first and then a big one, while at the same time singing Bloody Bitch. He needed the chocolate because he had no weapons and was being chased by a band of thieves, the Clumpfart Brothers with their poisonous giraffe that could stretch its neck out a thousand feet.

  Charles bumped into something blocking his way. The object resembled a series of small tables stacked one on top of another, but closer examination revealed it to be a ladder with which he could climb up to the top of the castle wall.