The Little Girl Who Was Too Fond of Matches

by Gaetan Soucy

  My brother gazed at him briefly, his hand suspended in midair, his eyebrows and lashes drawn together. From my hiding place I thought I could read the merest hint of hesitation and surprise, which raised my hope, but think about it, the state of grace won’t be dismantled over such a small thing. Kid brother continued to tap with his hammer on the seat he intended to nail to the summit of the two stepladders, which shivered with every blow, and there I was, given over to my bereftment.

  The beggar planted his joystick in the middle of the field and, hooking his cane over his forearm, began to clap his hands and laugh, apparently dumbfounded by my brother’s cabinetmaking prowess. Likewise, when he spied the belvedere and the halves armed with brooms and mops, his mouth went oh. It made him slap his thigh, and noises came from his throat like the ones dogs make, which are his means of expression, as I’ve written before. Then as he drew nearer he knocked his knuckles on the left-hand stepladder, the way you might knock on a door, to attract kid brother’s attention, at which he succeeded. He put his well-named index finger beneath his nostrils to mimic a moustache, by which he meant that he was wondering where father was. Brother’s only reply was to drop his head to one side, close his eyes, stick out his tongue, and, with his free hand, make as if he were holding an imaginary rope above his head, attempting thereby to resemble a hanged man, there was no mistaking it. At first, stupor from the beggar. Who finally decided that this was a good one, and he was in a wonderful mood as he made his way towards the vault where I already was, unbeknownst to him or to kid brother. He sat against the wall. And then devoted himself to gazing at kid brother as if he were the whole show, in the manner of our only toy. As he did so, he made a little music with his mouth, the beggar did, prroo poo-poo, if you see what I mean, comparable to the sound horse made when he was snorting with his chops, and that reminded me, where could he have got to, horse that is, he seemed to have disappeared into nowhere. Then the beggar took a corruption sandwich from his pocket and bit into it with no fuss or complexes. As for kid brother, when he’d finished he perched himself at the very summit of the stepladders, with a feather standing in for a sceptre, and the desiccated raccoon corpse I’d seen in the portrait gallery a few hours earlier, which he’d plunked onto his head, by way of a crown. Like a raining king, he took his place on the throne. The beggar applauded.

  Oh how I didn’t want to succumb to sleep, I wanted to finish my last will and testament before disaster ensued. But I was abandoned by my strength, it had taken off like a pencil. Whatever we do and however it may be and no matter how far we go, at the end of the day we have to lie down and sleep, it’s inevitable. There’s a leash around our necks, the fatigue that holds us to the earth finally pulls us to it and we fall, always, that’s the way it is. It’s the elastic of death.

  I WAS WAKENED BY A DETONATION. I couldn’t have slept for more than one half-circle of the clock, for the day was still languishing. The little goat was so confused in her noggin that as I was going to the door I stumbled over all kinds of trash, I even opened the skin on my leg, on the plough I think, a stinging pain and it started to bleed too. But anyway, at the point I’d reached.

  The detonation came from the fact that my brother had unearthed a muskrat god knows where and he’d loaded it, you could still see a bit of blue smoke floating at one end of it, like papa’s mouth when he belched a hot pepper. I was aware that brother knew things about our estate that I didn’t know, because there were outbuildings where I never ventured but where he would spend long days. As for me, as long as there were wild roses to gather, and friendly mushrooms and my daily ration of dictionaries and my manikins of light and my silverware, I had very little curiosity about the vanities here below, to which religion invites us, as I think I’ve noted earlier. Kid brother had undoubtedly known of the muskrats existence for a long time, and as I watched him I was beginning to understand certain things I hadn’t attached much importance to before. You see, whenever papa went to the village I would hear similar detonations now and then, at the time I’d told myself it must be branches suddenly breaking — because of the wind or the accumulated freezing rain, because in our part of the world freezing rain accumulates from year to year, spanning all the summers, what can I tell you, so as far as I was concerned the sound it made was just like that. It was coming back to me now that at such times I’d never known where brother was, and now I suspect that he must have gone to get his muskrat and fire it at the partridges. Because — and this too suddenly appeared very clearly in my memory — it was on those very days when I heard the detonations that brother claimed he’d found two dead birds along the roadside, and what’s more, he cooked them and ate them with papa, ugh. I never ate any, as you can imagine. I’d have vomited my insides out if anyone had obliged me to put pieces of boiled partridge corpse in my mouth, and I was crying inside as I watched them eat, though it didn’t show. Oh blast, it isn’t muskrat I wanted to write, it’s musket. God how tired my poor head is sometimes, I forget the meanings of words, which are all I have. Even musket isn’t exactly the correct term, if such a thing exists. I think I should have said rifle. Ah la la. And my brother fired again in the direction of the pine grove. I don’t know if there was something over there that he wanted to put to death, and if so, what, but the recoil was so powerful that brother landed on his hole. Which made him laugh. He got up, a little unsteady on his supports. He picked up a bottle of fine wine and drank from it, throwing his head back like a real pig, but then, slightly embarrassed, he realized that it was empty and threw it nonchalantly against the stone wall, where it burst into smithereens, as I feared my own skull would go flying.

  Now that the day had nearly dawned, it was clear that the bodyguard on the belvedere was only halves, and that nothing about the throne brother had made for himself with the help of the two stepladders would impress anybody, I swear, beginning with myself. I watched, shaking my head with exasperation. At this point I saw the beggar hopping along the hill, he had left my bonnet completely. Cutlery dropped from the pockets of his houpland, and he was snickering like a nasty mouse and with the hand that wasn’t busy propelling him on his cane he was holding to his chest a heap of silver cups and all the rest, from the ballroom. His face was strained and radiant and at the same time his eyes gleamed and coveted lustily. He was still laughing, as you may imagine, at this unhoped-for manna from heaven. Meanwhile, the little goat went back to her last will and testament. What else could she do?

  The sheets of paper were piling up, I wasn’t rereading anything. I forged ahead with the means at hand, which saint-simon would call gaining the wall, but I trust words, in the end they always say what they have to say. Turn around five times with your eyes shut, and before you open them you will know that a stone you’ve thrown, which has taken off in you know not what direction, has finally landed on earth. So it is with words. In the end they always settle down somewhere, no matter what, which is all that counts. I don’t mean that the secretarious lets herself write any old way. I mean that when she writes she lets herself go by forging ahead, which isn’t the same thing. That’s what inopportune little goats are like.

  Soon I heard my brother calling me at the top of his lungs, and just from the way he was pronouncing his words I realized how much the fine wine had hammered his head. Immediately I hunkered down beneath the dirty window. I scarcely dared lift the tip of my nose to see what was losing its bearings outside. My brother, drunk as a young skunk, had mounted horse, who’d suddenly reappeared from out of nowhere, the sly devil, and he was genuinely pitiful. The poor beast’s legs looked like pieces of branch that you press against the ground to make a bow. Under brother’s weight his belly hung down so low that brother’s toes were nearly scraping the pebbles. From his basset-hound look — because I know what a basset hound is, our former dog that was defunct from mothballs had been one — and from his gait, all squashed by my brother’s weight, you might have thought this was a horse being transformed into sausage by the act of a wicked
fairy, because not all fairies are good, I’ll have you know. Every so often horse would hardly be able to move forward, either that or he’d stumble without rhyme or reason, and my brother would give him a taste of his heel in the spareribs, kid brother will fry with the devil, believe me, but there’s more. The rope that I’d fastened around horse’s belly like a girth the other morning was still there, and at the end of the rope, behind them, was a sack whose dimensions alone sufficed to inform me of what it contained. I saw the beggar, deaf to it all, step inside the kitchen of our earthly abode, hopping enthusiastically.

  While jupiter junior went on calling me. He still wore, plunked onto his head like royal plumes, the corpse of the raccoon that had encountered death in a speedtrap.

  At that very moment, a terrifying humming sound could be heard. It was approaching us slowly and I tell you, terrifying is the word, because it seemed to rise directly from the hell beneath our feet, a hell we must believe in if we don’t want to be cast down there ourselves, but in fact brother has never wanted to believe in anything. Yet it was one of my father’s sayings that little saint thomases end up setting fire to their dresses because they don’t believe it’s dangerous to play with matches.

  SOMETHING THAT I COULDN’T have named but that sounded like a giant bumblebee the size of a jackass, which is very big for a bumblebee, heaved into sight, buzzing down the length of the road that runs through the pine grove and all the way to the seven seas. My brother had trouble staying upright on his steed, for horse was terrified by this crackling that sounded just like the noise you sometimes hear in the sky that’s made by those strange birds papa called bearo-planes, if my memory is correct, and then brother and I would be off like a shot. When horse saw the bumblebee approaching, he pawed the ground with the means available, not much of which was left, and sometimes his knees bent and his belly bounced like a soft ball on the muddy ground to which our hearts will one day return as dust.

  The bumblebee came to a halt not very far from brother and he stood facing me, though he didn’t know it, in the place where I’d positioned myself. The bumblebee was actually a complicated machine such as we’d never seen on our estate, aside perhaps from the torture of my legs, I mean the pipe organ. It consisted of two wheels, that’s all I can say about it, and it was mounted by a helmeted cavalier, believe that if you will, and when the cavalier got down from it the buzzing immediately fell silent, as I told you. The cavalier was dressed all in leather from head to toe, and when he doffed his helm and his goggles and tucked them firmly under his arm, my heart made the leap that frogs make when they throw themselves into the water, for it was you, my beloved, magnificent in the dark and supple radiance of your brackmard sword.

  My brother said not a word, only gazed at the cavalier and his blasted steed, while shaking like a leaf in my hands.

  The cavalier said: “Where is your sister?” Then, catching himself: “Your brother? Where’s your brother, the one with the long skirt? Look, I don’t wish you any harm. I am the mine inspector

  Kid brother, terrified, continued to make no reply. After a moment’s hesitation the cavalier started heading for the house. In a panicky fit of temper, brother beat horse’s flanks with his heels to send him into a gallop, but it was too much for the poor creature, he collapsed in the mud and brother tumbled over the same way.

  Brother got up, not bothering to pick up his raccoon, which had rolled off when he fell, and then he vamoosed, taking to all his heels at once, trying to overtake the inspector of yours and mine. And brother climbs onto the stepladders of his throne and nearly takes a new tumble and I have to explain things very fast now and make vulgate mistakes but listen, I’ve said stoppits run in our family and it was true for papa and me but not for brother, though. Jupiter junior had other resources in the way the world turns. There were times, who knows why, when he’d start to be terribly frightened, he’d get shivers all over, as if he’d come down with breathing problems, he felt as if some evil beast inside him were tying knots with his insides, as if he had to do battle with his heart to keep it beating, as if et cetera and so forth, it was no laughing matter. These attacks seemed no more enjoyable than a stoppit if you want my opinion. Well, that’s precisely the kind of attack my brother was having just then, as he sat on his throne in front of the mine inspector. I only hoped he wouldn’t go in his pants, which sometimes happened to him in his misery because, well, after all, in your presence the countess would have been a little bit ashamed of her family.

  I’m that much surer of what the mine inspector said because I noted it all in my bonnet as you were saying it, and I could see that you were speaking loudly with the intention of my hearing you too, wherever I might be.

  “Listen to me, I’ve come as a friend, to help you. I know you can follow what I’m saying, even if it may be a little hard to understand. Perhaps I could look after things for you. I’m an engineer but also … Well, I want you to know that in a few hours they’ll all be here. People from the village and even from other places, maybe from the government. Yesterday I met your sister, your brother if you prefer. I can’t say why but I felt a great liking for her, I mean for him — my god but this is confusing. I wanted to prepare you for their arrival. And help out a little if I could. The situation is grave, you see. I’ve looked at the baptismal registry with the priest. Do you understand what I’m saying? There are supposed to be two girls, twins. I saw one of them yesterday. Where is the other? What happened to the other one? And your mother? Do they still live here with you?”

  I pulled the woodshed door open a crack and the creak it made attracted the inspector’s attention, which was what I wanted. I positioned myself on the threshold. And immediately the inspector turned in the direction of the little goat, like a gadfly heading for the only flower in the garden.

  Kid brother began to scream that he was the master, and I tell you, he didn’t convince anyone. You kept walking towards me without another thought for him. At the same time, in the distance I spotted the suspicious and troubled look of the beggar, who kept his eyes on you and his nose at the window of our earthly abode.

  “Why are you hiding? Are you afraid of your brother?”

  I sped back inside the shed without replying. But I remember that despite the circumstances I made a special effort as I walked to have my backside look like a nice person in the mine inspector’s eyes. I came to a halt, still in silence, next to the Fair Punishment, as if I wanted to let you draw your own conclusions.

  “What’s this vault?”

  It was quite dark inside the woodshed, and he grabbed hold of the oil lamp and came closer to me. All at once he turned very green around the gills. The Fair Punishment is quite a sight, I may have forgotten to mention that. I stood at his side, hands crossed over my belly as I used to do when papa made me recite the fox that laid the golden eggs. And serenely I watched the inspector. In its little heap on the floor, the Fair Punishment feebly moved a hand and then its head, in a pitiful attempt at flight or shame, as if it wanted to gain the wall, because deep down it’s a little fearful. That simple motion was enough to undo one end of a wrapping though, ah la la, and I hastened to rewrap its fingers to make it presentable, and resumed my prim posture with my hands crossed over my belly. And see how stupefied he is, our mine-inspecting poet. Aha, we aren’t such a sly devil now. He was staring with eyes like saucers. The Fair Punishment, covered with grey wrappings from feet to head, mimics the mummies that illustrate my dictionaries, and resembles them. All you can see of its face is the teeth, because the Fair doesn’t even know what lips are, as well as the pink tip of its tongue when it eats, and its gentle eyes, so much the same colour as my own that you’d say they were the spitting image, like two bubbles. The Fair tried a little slither towards its box, where it spends the better part of its days, painfully pushing and pulling with its raglike forearms, but it will never get to shit very far from there, the poor thing has just the tick-tock and the trail to go by, and even so. In any case it couldn�
�t travel very far because of the chain around its neck that holds it to the wall. It has a kind of bag as well, I nearly forgot to mention that, around the belly and the backside, for the times when it might want to empty its hole.

  The inspector gets his voice back, though its all little and scrawny. “That’s horrible … it’s atrocious … it’s … is that your sister? Your twin sister?”

  I gave my shoulders a little shrug and rolled my eyes, as if to tell him, oh my oh my, how stupid you are!

  “And that?” he said again, because he hadn’t seen the last of his surprises, this cavalier with the brackmard sword.

  He brought the lamp closer to the glass box. You can’t really say that the dress is still on this side of things, because it’s rather like a coating of dried mud, and the bony remains, you need to have been warned, I think, before you can cry out what they are. But the skull still holds up, it’s still of this world. Something of the teeth too, as well as the house for the eyes, the cavities where in days of yore they lived their gazing life.

  “And that, is that your mother?”

  I like to write down the words your mouth utters, even when they’re nonsense, I feel as if I’m holding them between my thighs against my heart, your lips. I like to talk about you in both the second and the third person, flitting from one to the other the way my friend the emerald-winged dragonfly flies from bush to daffodil in summertime. If I grasped it correctly, you displayed a brief surge of anger directed at the author of our days, who is omnipotent and a master of injustice and a connoisseur of lamenting mothers. You were cursing between your teeth while you moved around the vault in circles.

  “What in god’s name is that horrible thing, what in god’s name

  The inspector had to lean against the wall with his head bowed, like a Fair. He finally raised it and gazed at me for a long time and I could tell from his eyes that he thought the universe was a very wretched thing, and more particularly me inside it. It was high time someone beneath the salt took note of it. And so I tried to explain that she is my cross and my fate, again and forever: