From the sofa, I watch Matthias’s silhouette against the brightness of the window. When he raises his arms, the sheets fill with air and settle gently on the bed. Like a spare parachute. I hear him ruminating, muttering, complaining. He may be talking to me, but his words seem stuck between his teeth. Strangely, as my eyelids grow heavy with the medication, his voice becomes clearer. As if he were speaking to me in my sleep, his words mixing in with my dreams. As if he were trying to penetrate my mind and cast a spell on me.
Before the snow started, you didn’t want to eat anything and now you eat like a pig. Eating me out of house and home. I was afraid you’d die of your fever. But you got away every time. You’re my obstacle, the stone in my path. And my ticket out of here. You can act like you’re made of ice, I know you hang onto every word I speak. You can face pain, all right, but you’re afraid of what comes next. That’s why I tell you stories. Any kind of story. A shred of memory, ghosts, lies. Every time your face lights up. Not much, but enough. In the evening I tell you what I’ve read. I tell you everything sometimes, until dawn wipes away the night. Like the book I just finished, where all the stories flow together and run into the other a thousand and one times from one night to the next. I come from another world, another time, and you know it, it’s obvious. More than a generation separates us, and everything points to the fact that you’re the stubborn, grumbling old man. We are both living in the ruins, but words don’t paralyze me the way they do you. That’s my survival work, my mechanics, my luminous despair. Are you trying to measure up to me, maybe? Maybe you want a race between two human wrecks? You’re not up to it. Just keep quiet. Keep your mouth shut tighter if you can, it’s all the same to me. You are at my mercy. I could play your game, I could stop talking, you’d sink into the folds of your blankets. You want time to pass, but time frightens you. You want to take care of yourself by yourself, but you’re not up to it. You’re stuck here. You wander through the depths. Even the simplest movement is impossible for you. You spit on your fate. You can’t get used to the fact that in the prime of life your body is broken and ground to dust. You’re wary, I know, but you have learned to accept the care I give you. You’re jealous of me too. Because I’m standing pat. Go ahead and look, and listen, I’m standing on my own two feet. Look, I’m twice your age and I’m standing tall.
Matthias stops. I hear him turn and move in my direction.
Since the snow started, the bouts of fever make you moan, and murmur, they drag a few words out of you. It’s not conversation, but I settle for what you give me. At my age, when people cheat, it doesn’t bother me anymore. Imagination is a form of courage. Look, look harder, look better, it’s snowing and we don’t even notice it, and time is going by. Soon, I say soon so as not to say later, much later, you’ll be able to stand up, you’ll hang onto me as you put one foot in front of the other and you’ll go from the bed to the sofa by yourself. From the sofa to the chair. Then from the chair to the edge of the stove. You’ll stare at the door every day a little harder. You’ll weigh your words and not speak them. You’ll calculate the depth of winter and curse the wonderland of storms. You’ll probe the state of your injuries, the depth of our solitude, the laziness of spring, and our food supplies. You’ll listen to me talk and I won’t realize it, and you won’t understand how you cheated death. Soon, I say soon so as not to say now, soon I won’t have the strength to fight for the two of us. I won’t be able to hide behind the slowness of my body or the few hopes I have cobbled together. But I will pretend. And I’ll go on believing in your recovery, the days growing longer and the snow melting. Over and over I will bring back the sparks from the blacksmith’s forge and the city spreading out and my wife’s laughter. I’ll tell you all kinds of things, I’ll make it up if I have to. We’ve got no choice, it’s the only way to confront what is coming. Don’t worry. I’ll be there, I’ll look after everything. It will be all right. Don’t worry, I’ll pretend. There are only so many ways of surviving.
II. MAZE
Either we wait until the days and nights defeat us. Or we fashion wings for ourselves and escape through the air. We just need to stick some feathers on our arms with wax. Take flight, get air beneath our wings. Afterward, nothing will hold us back. But before we depart, listen to me carefully. If you fly too low, the humidity will weigh down your plumage and you’ll crash to the ground. If you fly too high, the sun’s heat will melt your wings and you’ll plummet into nothingness.
SIXTY-TWO
Yesterday, the wind turned calm and fat heavy flakes began to fall. The snow continues to fall in tight ranks, in parallel formation. We can hardly make out the snow gauge. The trail that Matthias left over the past days has been completely swallowed up. A cottony silence has settled over everything. All I hear are the flames licking the sides of the woodstove and Matthias rolling out pie dough on the counter.
There is a knock on the door.
Matthias turns around, shakes the flour off his clothes, and rushes to open the door. A man walks into the room, covered with melting snow. He is carrying a bag on his back, and he sets it down and goes to sit on the stool by the entrance. He pulls off his coat and catches his breath. We quickly recognize the man, his face, his beard, his high forehead. It’s Joseph.
Matthias is happy to see him, and it shows. He offers to make him coffee, then tells him to get warm by the stove. Joseph thanks him, rolls up the sleeves of his woollen sweater, and takes out his tobacco. Joseph lights his cigarette, sending thick scrolls of smoke into the air. He gives us both a long look. Matthias puts water on to boil and casts an eye at the bag our visitor has brought, while I sit up as straight as I can in my bed.
And so, he asks, trying to hide a look of disapproval, how are things?
At his feet, the snow is melting, turning to water, and forming a pool. It is as if he were sitting on a rock, looking off into the distance, toward our desert island.
SIXTY-THREE
In the village, Joseph begins, some people claim it’s going to snow for the next few days. I don’t know how they can read the clouds, but that’s what they’re saying. And they’re saying it’s going to be a long winter. But you don’t need a crystal ball to come to that conclusion. In any case, this is a lot of snow for this time of year. Even with my snowshoes, it’s not easy to get up here. I think your house is moving a little further from the village every day.
When he speaks, Joseph waves his arms in the air and the ash falls off his cigarette, though he doesn’t notice.
This week, a group of hunters came out of the woods. Everyone had given up hope of seeing them again. The rest of them had returned from their camps a long time ago. They wanted to avoid needless manoeuvres, so they waited until the ice on the lakes was thick enough to bear their weight. With all the moose carcasses they were bringing back, I can understand. In the village, everyone’s busy salting the meat and putting it up. There’s no prettier sight.
He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned over me.
But we still have no news of your family. In the village, some people are saying that they had trouble in the woods and got trapped in the snow. Who knows? People tell all kinds of stories. Maybe they decided to spend the winter in the woods, far from the blackout and everyone else. I’m not worried about them, they’ve seen it all before.
As Matthias serves us coffee, I picture my uncles and their hunting camp. It stands on the bank of a river, between two chains of mountains. At that spot, I remember, the water is fast and the riverbed is deep and green. To get across you need a canoe. On the other side, the cedars are enormous and moss carpets the ground. The camp is back from the river. You follow a path made of roots to reach it. When you spot the chimney through the trees, you’re there. It’s not very big, but there’s room for everyone. They could very well spend the winter there.
You know, Joseph continues, we’ve had a few meetings in the village. Even with the blackout, Jude wanted to go on bei
ng mayor. At first we weren’t too sure, but José threw his support behind him and everyone got used to the idea. After all, we’re not so bad off, and we owe that to Jude. He does the coordination work, takes good care of our precious supply of gas, and distributes the provisions that were stored in the grocery. Since the blackout hit, half the population has
deserted the village. People went to other villages, or the city, or maybe into the woods, who can say? Jude is right. No sense leaving. Or worrying more than we need to. We have to stick together and make it through the winter. It’s strange, but if you ask me, the snow has made people calmer. Almost everyone was there when it was time to bring in the stove wood. I’ll be bringing you some soon.
A prisoner of my bed, I curse my fate. I would have loved to contribute and fell a few tall trees. Instead, I twist and turn in bed, my head in a vise and my legs in splints.
Meanwhile, Joseph adds, we keep watch over the entrance to the village, but with this buildup of snow, I’d be surprised if we had any visitors. I’m happy not to have to do surveillance and carry my rifle wherever I go anymore. The thing is heavy for nothing. If there’s a problem, the church bells will sound the alarm. That church has to be good for something. Jude asked us to go through the abandoned houses and gather up the supplies that people left behind. In one cellar, we found someone’s garden harvest – potatoes, carrots, and turnips.
With those words, Joseph picks up the bag and sets it on the table. Matthias reaches for it immediately, delighted by the abundant manna.
And someone managed to dig up an old short-wave radio kit and solar panels, Joseph says.
Were you able to communicate with other villages? Matthias questions him.
No. We tried, but no one really knows how to use that thing. On the other hand, with the solar panels we can recharge our batteries without starting up the generators. And I found a hand-powered water pump. We drove a pipe into the snow and we can finally draw water directly from the river. We also came across some propane tanks, fondue pots, tools, and blankets. Some people use the search to take all the money they can find, as if the return of the electricity would usher in their hour of glory. There were a few skirmishes, but no one wanted to get involved.
Did you bring some milk? Matthias interrupts him.
No, that will be next time. There are only twelve cows left in the stable. All the rest turned into meat. The herd would not have made it through the winter with the hay we have. To go looking for milk is complicated, so we keep it for the children. But everyone who tasted your cheese really liked it. Some of them are ready to barter to get more.
Matthias raises his eyes and gives Joseph a questioning look.
I’m telling you, your cheese really is good. You should go see Jacques. He lives in the old hunting and fishing store. He’s an odd duck, but his offers are always the best. Everyone ends up doing business with him.
Matthias thinks it over a moment, then goes back to methodically putting away the meat, vegetables, and preserves. Joseph comes over to me.
It’s good, you’re getting stronger, or at least it looks that way to me. In the village nobody believes me when I say you’re going to make it. While we’re at it, I have a present for you. A while back I went and had a look at the old mine entrance. I hadn’t been inside for fifteen years. Remember? We went there all the time when we were kids. I’d heard that people had holed up in there looking for shelter. But there was no one, that was just a rumour. Anyway, what can anyone do in that place? I mean, besides sneaking a cigarette, scaring the bats by shooting at them, and drawing timeless pictures of extinct animals on the walls? You remember, don’t you?
Then Joseph slips his hand into the inside pocket of his coat and hands me a little box.
I stumbled over this in there.
As I am about to open it, I notice Matthias watching us on the sly as he divides up the rest of the supplies in the cellar. In the box, I discover a slingshot and a few iron pellets. I pick it up, test the elasticity of the rubber band, weigh the pellet in my hand, and place it in the middle of the leather band. I aim at different objects in the room, but don’t dare take a shot. Joseph smiles.
I knew you’d like it. We had the same kind back in the day. Next time we’ll see which one of us can still hit a target, but right now I have to go if I want to be back in the village before dark. Oh, I forgot, Maria says she’ll come see you in the next few days.
As Joseph puts his coat back on and chats with Matthias, I practice with the slingshot, thinking of my uncles in the heart of the forest, living off the hunt.
Joseph says goodbye and closes the door. Suddenly the room seems empty. On the floor, his boot prints shine like great interlocking lakes seen from a mountain top at dawn.
Outside, shadows lengthen over the landscape. The wind has risen. I can hear it swoop down the stovepipe. The snow is heavy now. The flakes are so big that a single one could blot out the view. Matthias lights the oil lamp and, his eyes shining, holds up a package of meat high in the air like a trophy, like precious spoils.
So, hungry now?
SEVENTY-ONE
The squall shakes the porch, the walls groan, and the silence shatters clean through.
Matthias is sleeping. His breathing blends in with the flames growling in the woodstove. And the gusts of wind trapped under the eaves. Sleep eludes me. I think of Maria, the way she speaks to me, the way she laughs at my silence, her hands gentle when she examines my wounds, and the memories that well up when I see her. She hasn’t come to see me for a long time. Time heals what it can, but nothing has been resolved. I am still lying here, and I watch the days leading one into the other and hope one day that my legs will carry me again. Meanwhile, Matthias feeds and cares for me. I know he has no choice. We are each other’s prisoners.
Between two gusts of wind, I hear another sound. I think it is coming from the other side. Some small animal slipping along the wall in search of a way into our cellar. A mouse, maybe, or an ermine or a squirrel. Or something bigger, I can’t tell.
I raise myself onto my elbows and look around the room, but the darkness is complete. I can’t even make out Matthias on the sofa. In the depths of the night, only the red maw of the woodstove is visible.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
The snow finally let up a few hours ago, at the end of the afternoon. The sky has lifted and the line of trees has become visible again, clear and imposing. With my spyglass, I examine the landscape to see if someone might be coming our way, but I spot only trees weighed down by snow. Beneath the branches are an infinite number of tunnels leading toward the mountains; those passageways are shored up by columns of stoic sap. The forest is a vault, vast and alive. I understand my aunts and uncles who have stayed there.
At this time of day, they must be debating one thing or another in their loud voices around the stove. The disorder of their words laid one on top of the other and their exclamations are the fruit of the alcohol they have not forgotten to bring, the precious rations that keep them warm. They talk about the day’s hunt, or maybe stories from years past. They tease, they cut each other off, they start all over again. That’s how it is. How it’s always been. A storm of stories and jokes and laughter that makes the winter easier to bear.
Here the snow piles up in silence as Matthias cooks and cleans and I lose myself in the landscape. Here life is measured by supply days and nursing days. Here I cannot escape my bed and my wood splints.
Water is boiling in a big pot. Matthias gets up and pours it into the plastic basin. He sets the steaming receptacle on the edge of the table, and with a bar of soap and a sponge in his hand he comes at me.
Get undressed, it’s bath time.
One by one I pull off my sweaters. But my T-shirt sticks to my skin and I get caught in one of them. Before finally coming to my rescue, Matthias watches me struggle uselessly. Then he pushes aside the blankets and rolls me onto one si
de to remove my underwear. Since he can’t slide it down my legs because of my splints, he cuts it along one side. That way, he can take it off and put it back on afterward much more easily. Practical for him, but embarrassing for me.
I am naked on the edge of the bed. I feel my bones pushing against my flesh. Matthias moves the rocking chair over and puts his arms around my waist.
Come on now.
I grab onto his neck. His arms tighten, he grasps me to his chest and carries me to the rocking chair. When he sets me down, pain travels from my tibias to my jawbone. I try to concentrate on the cold drafts blowing across my skin. Matthias soaks the sponge in soapy water and hands it to me.
At least this way, if Maria comes calling in the next few days, you’ll be cleaner, he jokes.
We size each other up a moment, then I look down at my splints. They are like hollow tree trunks, eaten away by ants.
Matthias sighs and shakes his head.
You know, sooner or later I’m going to make you talk. One way or another.
I wash myself the best I can, my arms, my armpits, between my legs. The sponge quickly cools off and the water evaporates off my body, carrying with it what little heat I have. I go as fast as I can. I clean my neck and face. My body shivers and goosebumps break out everywhere. I cough to let Matthias know I have finished. He takes over and rubs my back, thighs, and feet. He is brusque, rough but efficient. When he finishes, he hands me my sweater, then helps me put on a new pair of cut underwear.
I feel better sitting on the chair. Still as frail, maybe, but in better spirits. Matthias hands me a glass of water and some pills. They don’t look the same colour as the usual ones. I don’t care. I grab them and swallow them down.
The Weight of Snow Page 4
