Before putting me back in bed, Matthias washes himself in the same water. From the corner of one eye, I see him unlace his shoes, unbutton his sweater, and pull off his pants. He turns his back. Lit by the wavering light of the oil lamp, his silhouette is diaphanous. Even if he is well built and moves quicker than I do, his buttocks droop and his vertebrae press against his skin. I watch him scrub away at his bony body, rinse off quickly, and throw his clothes back on. The click of his belt buckle rattles in the room. When he moves to the mirror to smooth his hair, he stands still a moment, facing his reflection. He mutters something, but I can’t make out what he is saying. A prayer, an incantation, or a sob.
When he turns around, I close my eyes and my neck muscles relax, as if I had drifted off.
Matthias takes a few steps in my direction.
You’ll see, it won’t be long with the pills you took – you won’t have to pretend you’re sleeping. You really will be quiet.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
I am walking on a path of cracked earth and roots. The sun is beating down on the forest, the air is hot, and everything is dry. All around the trees press in, opaque and spiny. I am carrying a big bag on my back, yet it is weightless. Hidden in the branches, birds call to each other. Their song is clear, but I can’t recognize the species. Squirrels dart across the path. There are many of them, and they are bold. They stop and examine me, crying out on their strident voices. I try to pay them no mind. My pace is good. Self-assured and vigorous. Suddenly the surroundings grow dark. The birds take flight, the squirrels huddle in their hiding places, the other animals slip into the underbrush. I move faster now. I have no idea what is happening. The wind rises and blows from every direction. The forest has turned on its head. I move faster still. Suddenly I smell smoke. I don’t know where it is coming from. I spot a tall cedar a hundred metres off. I drop my bag and reach the tree by jumping over the roots that try to grab my ankles. The cedar is huge and its trunk lifts high into the sky. I grab onto its fibrous bark and climb as far up as I can. Everywhere is the smell of burned fibre, metal heated white hot, and charred flesh. When I can finally see over the crests of the pines in their close ranks, I see immense flames, swollen with pride and desire. They move forward, their step heavy, they laugh twisted laughter and devour the forest with an insatiable appetite.
I sit up in bed as if emerging from a coma. My dream scatters immediately, but my eyes and throat are stinging. My lungs are burning. In the dazzling light of day, a thick cloud of smoke whirls through the room.
I look around. Matthias is nowhere in sight. I am having trouble breathing. I cover my mouth with the edge of the sheet. Smoke is billowing from a pot on the stove like an erupting volcano.
I stir into action. I consider easing myself out of the bed, but I will never be able to lift myself up to reach the pot. Or open the door. But I have to get out of here! And in a hurry. Get out or do something. Do something or call for help. That’s it, call for help. I have no choice.
Fire! Fire!
A few seconds later, the door to the other side swings open and Matthias runs into the room, through the spiralling smoke.
He moves to the stove, picks up the first piece of cloth he sees, grabs the pot, and rushes outside.
The smoke dissipates, driven out by the cold drafts of air. The room stinks, but at least we can breathe again. Matthias stands frozen in the doorway, staring at the sweater he picked up to protect his hand. The wool has been burned through in several places by the red-hot metal.
My wife gave me this sweater, he says in a shaky voice. I never wore it much, but I take it wherever I go.
EIGHTY-ONE
The barometer points skyward and daylight floods the room. I lie in the sun the way cold-blooded animals do.
Ever since he forced me to call Fire! Fire! Matthias has not stopped pressing his advantage.
The neighbour lady never came, and your aunts and uncles left you here. We are alone in this world. But at least now you’re talking. I know it’s true, I heard you. I always knew you’d end up giving in.
Suddenly, the sound of a motor in the distance. Matthias freezes, as if he had heard the cry of an animal that has been extinct for millions of years. I get out my spyglass and scan the horizon. A yellow snowmobile appears at the top of the hill. It is pulling a sled piled high with wood. The driver is standing, head lowered, both hands gripping the controls. I lose him behind some trees, but the noise of the clattering pistons comes closer. The yellow snowmobile speeds into sight, then halts by the front door. It’s Joseph with his load of wood. Matthias hurries to open the door.
Smells like smoke here, Joseph says.
Matthias dodges the subject and asks him how he managed to find some gas. Joseph leans against the door frame. His eyes are shining.
I didn’t have to convince anyone, you know.
Matthias pitches in to unload the wood. When they finish they come inside to warm up and drink coffee. Joseph figures we can heat the place for quite a while with what he brought. Not all the way to spring, but almost. But there’s some green birch in the lot, he warns us.
You’ll see, some of the logs will hiss.
He pulls out a metal flask and pours some brownish alcohol into his coffee. Then he inquires after Maria.
I bet José was with her when she came. He’d follow her everywhere if he could.
Matthias and I look at each other.
We haven’t seen Maria in a long time, Matthias says.
Really, Joseph says, surprised, that’s strange. Everything’s quiet in the village. I’m going to go see her, he decides, turning up the collar of his coat. If José lets me. You know, it’s never easy with guys like him.
Then Joseph drinks off the rest of his coffee, wishes us well, and climbs onto his snowmobile. Before he starts it, Matthias runs out to remind him not to forget to bring milk next time. For cheese. Joseph nods, pulls on the crank, and damages the landscape by revving up the engine.
Meanwhile, in the woodstove, the green logs whistle in the flames as if cursing their fate.
EIGHTY-ONE
Today, everything is grey. The snow and the sky run together. Only the black triangle of the tall spruce trees hints at the horizon.
Matthias has gone out. With my spyglass, I watch him trudging ahead, fighting the snow. More than once he stops to catch his breath, then sets out again with a determined step. Further on, in the folds of the landscape, I spot another figure. The person is wearing a bright red coat and moving quickly, as if she were gliding over the snow. When Matthias sees her, he waves. They move toward each other and come together in the clearing, near the snow gauge. I watch them talk a moment, then they turn toward the house.
A short time later the door opens and Matthias comes in with Maria. As he shakes off his snowshoes, she leans her cross-country skis against the wall and unbuttons her coat. I try to sit up in bed in as dignified a way as possible.
How are you doing? she asks.
I go to answer, but Matthias cuts in first.
He’ll make it, he says, he’ll make it.
Joseph told me you’re doing better, Maria pursues, looking me in the eye, and I see he’s right. Can I examine you?
I nod. She comes closer, acknowledging my smile, then puts down the bag she was wearing across her body. When she leans over to place her hand on my forehead, I can sense the shape of her breasts beneath her sweater.
I would like to thank her. Tell her I’m happy to see her, that I remember her, back when she was young, when we were in school together. Tell her how beautiful a woman she has become, that her wavy hair and delicate features and the ease of her gestures would bring a dying man back to life. But when I open my mouth to speak, she sticks a thermometer into it.
Keep it under your tongue and close your lips around it.
Then she uncovers my legs and loosens my splints. Matthias
joins her.
José isn’t with you? he asks.
No, José isn’t with me. Jenny is going to give birth any day now. He stayed behind with the family. In case the contractions begin.
While she unwraps the gauze, I stare at the ceiling beams. It is the only way to stay calm. And keep pain at a distance. I feel ridiculous with my injuries, my silence, and my underwear that fasten on the side. I know my legs are covered with bruises, and my thighs and calves are atrophied. I know I look more like a ghost than a man.
Did Joseph come and see you? Matthias asks.
No. I mean yes, he came by, Maria says, blushing.
Then she palpates my bones, bends my knees, and gently turns my ankles. Her hands are warm and attentive. Pain rises in me, along with desire.
You’re experiencing pain, and that’s normal, she tells me, because of your ligaments. Still, we should cut back on the analgesics because sooner or later you’re going to have to get used to the feeling. Your right leg is healing well, but the left is recuperating more slowly.
Suddenly I remember what Matthias told me at the beginning to frighten me. And force me to accept his care.
You see that? he shouted, pointing to the handsaw hanging on the wall, that’s what’s awaiting you. We’re living like the old-time lumberjacks in the camps. A cabin buried by the snow, a woodstove, just enough to survive on. Their techniques are ours too. When the axe slipped from a man’s hand because of cold, fatigue, or overreaching, and it sunk deep into his thigh or tibia or foot, there was only one solution. Brandy, fire, and the saw. Otherwise it was gangrene, fever, and a horribly slow death.
As I gaze at the handsaw hanging on the wall, Maria takes out my stitches one by one, using tweezers and a pair of scissors.
She works gently, but I can feel my flesh pulling. I turn toward her.
It’ll be all right, she tells me, her eyes focused, I’m almost finished.
As she rewraps my bandages, Maria asks me how I feel. I make a few unintelligible sounds. She laughs and takes the thermometer out of my mouth. She had forgotten all about it.
I’m okay, I tell her, looking at the immaculate whiteness of my new bandages. I’ll be all right.
When he hears my voice, Matthias lifts his head.
In any case your fever is gone, Maria says.
When am I going to be able to walk?
Be patient, she tells me. Your bones are knitting well, but your muscles are still very weak. Start by taking off your splints from time to time. That’ll do you good.
Then she gives me a wink and turns and hands Matthias her bag.
Take this. There’s fresh gauze, ointment, antibiotics, and everything else you’ll need. Some of it is past the expiry date, but that doesn’t matter.
I’m making soup. Why don’t you stay and eat with us?
Thank you, she declines, but I really must go. I’m expected in the village. I’ll be back soon.
Everyone says the same thing around here, Matthias mutters.
Maria smiles, but says no more, takes her skis and goes out the door. Through the window, the red stain of her coat grows fainter, giving light to the landscape.
Matthias puts the soup on the stove and shakes the fire with a poker. When he turns in my direction, his pupils are the colour of burning embers.
EIGHTY-ONE
Matthias carries a chair to my bedside and sets up the chess game on my table.
I smile, but would rather play cards, maybe even for money.
I always knew you’d end up giving in, he goes back to his old refrain. If we can’t change things, we can always change the words that describe them. I’m not your doctor, I’m not your friend, and I’m not your father, understand? We’re spending the winter here, we have to get through it, and then it’s finished. I’m looking after you, and we’re sharing everything, but as soon as I can leave, you’ll forget about me. You’ll get along on your own. I’m going back to the city. Understand? My wife is waiting for me. She needs me and I need her. That’s my adventure, that’s my life, I have nothing to do here, this is all a big accident, a twist of fate, a terrible mistake.
He says that, then moves a piece on the chessboard and dares me to challenge him.
I always knew you’d end up giving in. No one can keep his mouth shut like that. Everyone turns back to words sooner or later. Even you. And soon, I’m telling you, you’re going to speak to me. You’re going to talk to me, even without a fire in a pot, even if I’m not a young veterinarian. You’re going to talk to me, understand? And you’re going to play chess with me. That’s what’s going to happen. That and no more. Now go ahead, it’s your move.
III. ICARUS
If you fly too low, the humidity will weigh upon your plumage and you will crash to the ground. If you fly too high, the heat of the sun will break your wings apart and you will plummet into emptiness. I’ve taught you that lesson twice, ten times, a hundred times. Because at your age, everyone thinks they are invincible. Maybe you think I’m old and a wet blanket, but remember that I know what you don’t. Once we take flight from this lifeless, hermetic place, you will gaze in wonder at the depth of the horizon. By then we will be far from here. By then we will be saved.
EIGHTY-FOUR
The icicles hanging from the roofline cut the landscape into vertical planes. The snow reflects the clear blue sky. The cold has stiffened the pine needles. A few flakes wander between sky and earth. I don’t know where they come from. They are carried on the wind, and never touch the ground. Like meteors going by at close range, but never reaching us.
Matthias does his calisthenics. He jumps up and down in place. His limbs are loose and his slender old body reacts to the impact with impressive flexibility. When he strikes his chest with the palm of his hand, the cavernous depth of his lungs is audible.
I watch him go through his paces and figure I am getting better. Soon I will be able to get out of bed. Pain is still a close companion, like a sleeping animal, but I have stopped needing pills to tolerate its presence by my side.
When he finishes his exercises, Matthias opens the trap door to the cellar and takes out some food.
I can give you a hand, I tell him.
He looks up. Hesitates. Maybe he thinks I want to deprive him of the privilege of passing the time by preparing the meals, but he ends up accepting.
Here, he says, bringing me a knife and a cutting board, take care of the vegetables for the soup, I’ll make the bread.
As I peel potatoes, I realize this is the first time I have made myself useful since I came here. I still can’t stand up and I’m not very skillful when it comes to cooking, but at least I’m doing something. Meanwhile, Matthias kneads the dough and whistles, though he really only pushes air through the spaces between his teeth. Maybe he is imitating the sound of rivers swollen with spring run-off. Or the icy wind whirling above our porch room.
As the soup simmers, the steam that rises into the air sticks to my window. With the cold outside, it forms a fine layer of frost. To see through I have to scratch an opening in the glass. A little porthole in the stained glass of crystals. As I look outside, Matthias tells me his father was a cook in the lumber camps. And that he was his assistant for a few years, after the end of the war.
I remember they used to leave once the rivers hit flood stage. Plenty of them were willing to brave the fast waters to drive the logs to the mills. None of them could swim, no one wore a life jacket, but all of them had a cross around their necks. They rode the floating logs with their hobnailed boots, their staff, and their songs. When a log-driver got swallowed up by the water and disappeared between the trunks, he could trust only his prayers. Sometimes his brothers managed to fish out his body before it got swept away by the current, but most of the time the rapids and the freezing water left no chance. Every evening, when they sat down at the table, they would reflect a moment, then
eat everything set before them as if it was their last supper.
As the slabs of black bread cook on the stove and the scent of grilling flour fills the room, Matthias points toward the crucifix he hung above the front door.
I lift my eyebrows.
It’s ready, he says.
He serves us the soup and breaks a slab of bread in two. It’s hot, and steaming inside. I dip it into the soup and bite into it with gusto. As he recites some kind of grace, I challenge him with my mouth full.
We’re like the log-drivers you talk about. Only we don’t need a crucifix, we need a horseshoe.
Matthias stares at me a moment as if I didn’t understand. Then, slowly, his face brightens and he thanks me for sharing his daily bread.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
Matthias helps me get to the rocking chair. Again, I am surprised by his strength when he holds me up. But I suppose I have never been so light, so frail.
I am sitting by the stove with my spyglass and a blanket. Matthias is close at hand, at the table. He threads a needle.
I have a new angle on the landscape. I still see the forest that stands without compromise above the snow. But from this point of view, I can make out the poles and electric wires that cross the fields and link us to the village. Those metal cables on which our lives were once suspended. Those conduits were invested with mysterious power. Those black lines on which a few birds are perched as if nothing had changed.
The sun is setting and the cold turns yesterday’s snow into a dazzling sheet. When I close my eyes, I see colours that don’t exist. When I open them, it is so bright I feel like I’m suffering from snow blindness.
As he darns a pair of jeans, Matthias asks me what I did before the blackout. He knows the answer, I’m sure.
I was a mechanic.
The Weight of Snow Page 5
