It’s really fresh, he says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. It’s perfect, thanks.
The families living in the notary’s old house made potted meat and fish pâtés, all kinds of things. I’ll bring you some. Might as well enjoy it. Even if we still have a good stock of food in the village, people are strict about rationing. Jude insists on being careful. And then there’s a rumour that the people in a village along the coast were able to hook up to a windmill. Everyone’s talking about it, everybody has an opinion. It could be true. There’s no electricity here, but on the sides of the mountains those machines are still working. Some people say they’re going to go there. On the other hand, if we believed what everyone says, the blackout would have been over a long time ago, and we should all be watching television with a cold beer and a TV dinner fresh out of the microwave.
Joseph sighs, then takes out his tobacco pouch. He rolls a cigarette, lights it, and inhales deeply. He goes on talking, but I have stopped paying attention. I follow the scrolls of smoke slowly issuing from his mouth.
You want one? he asks me.
With pleasure.
Joseph leans in my direction, surprised.
You talk now? That’s great news!
I give him a smile.
We smoke as Matthias busies himself with sorting the food.
Any news from my uncles? I ask, my head spinning from the tobacco.
I went and had a look at their place, Joseph tells me. There are no vehicles in the garage, the canoes are gone, and every room was completely emptied. Your aunts and uncles took everything with them. Food, tools, clothing. Everything useful. But I found this, he adds, pulling a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his coat. It’s a map of the region. It might prove useful.
I take it and thank him. I wonder if my aunts and uncles really intend to come back to the village. They might have left forever. Unless something happened to them.
Oh, I almost forgot the good news, Joseph adds. A woman gave birth in the village. Despite what some people feared, everything went normally. Maria was there. She’s no magician, you know, but sometimes she can work miracles. She helped deliver a little girl, Joëlle. The first child of the blackout. No one knows who the father is, but Jenny, the mother, is staying in the house by the sawmill, it’s big and there are a lot of people in there, so she’s well looked after.
Joseph stands and buttons his coat.
Next time I’ll get the snow off the roof, he promises. With everything that’s accumulated up there, it must be getting pretty heavy.
Yes, Matthias tells him, I was going to ask you about that.
Remind me when I come back. Right now, though, I’ve got to go back down the hill. Maria is waiting. I promised I’d take her ice-fishing and today’s the day.
Joseph waves goodbye and the door closes behind him as if slammed by a gust of wind.
ONE HUNDRED NINE
Matthias finishes sorting the provisions Joseph brought. He glares at the prepared food. He mutters and grumbles that he’s the cook here, but then he stows everything away carefully just the same.
It’s true, he says after making his calculations, they’ve cut back on the rations.
He pours the milk into the kettle that we use to melt snow and places it on the stove.
It has to warm up. Warm up but not boil, he tells me as he adds rennet.
He stirs the mixture, then takes the pot off the fire.
Now we have to wait.
We play a few chess games and finish off the rest of the oatmeal. Matthias wins every one. I make fun of his skill by telling him I’m letting him beat me. He lifts his chin in my direction, squints, but says nothing.
He goes over to the stove and stirs the pot with a spoon. It smells like clotted milk. Then he pours the contents through a filter made of a metal hanger and a length of cloth. The whitish mixture begins draining slowly.
I don’t let up.
I let you win every time. And you know it.
Matthias won’t react. He allows himself the shadow of a frown, and tells me I don’t know what I’m talking about, my fever must have returned. I smile, then take out the map Joseph gave me.
I examine the gradient markers, the plateaus, the river beds. I pick out the coastal villages at the top of the map, then ours, surrounded by valleys. Further on is the lake where we fished when we were kids. The two main roads are clearly visible. The one that follows the coast, and the other that cuts through the interior. I can make out the dotted lines of the logging roads that push their way into the heart of the valleys. Here and there drawings of tall grass indicate swampy zones. All the rest is forest.
I look at the scale at the bottom.
It’s enormous.
Certain sections of a river have been identified by hand. I remember having heard those names, but I can’t tell them apart. My uncles’ hunting camp must not be far, in a river bend, in the middle of the hundred-year-old cedars. I remember it very well, but I can’t locate it on the map.
That’s it, I say to myself, putting my finger on the little “x” sketched with a lead pencil. It’s there.
When I look up, Matthias is still inspecting the contents of his operation.
The texture is just right, he says, satisfied. It’s starting to look like cheese.
ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN
In the night, I heard the little animal again. I recognized its discreet footsteps, its furtive movements, and how it was interested in the food in the cellar. It would stop to listen carefully, then probably steal back to the other side with part of our provisions. It seems to be meticulously laying up a stock of reserves for the times to come.
At first light, Matthias disassembles his production. He presses the soft white mass to extract the water, adds salt, then makes six balls as big as his fist and flattens them with great care. On the stove, in an old pot, he melts some candle-ends. He watches the wax liquefy as he removes bits of wick and blackened matches. Then he pours the hot wax over the cheeses, making sure to cover them completely.
This is one of the best ways of keeping it, he tells me.
I nod and say nothing. Then look toward the chess game.
I don’t have time, he answers. I have to go down to the village.
He carefully places the cheeses wrapped in wax in a cloth sack. He gives me a can of baked beans with a slab of black bread, loads the stove, and gets dressed quickly.
I’ll see you later, he calls, putting on his snowshoes.
Then he hurries out of the room.
Outside, the snow is reaching hungrily for the earth.
ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN
It must be getting close to noon. At first the cold seemed to loosen its grip on the landscape, only to return with greater force. Meanwhile, snow keeps falling and nothing can stop it. The flakes are large and delicate. They look like they have been cut from paper.
In the stove the final embers are going out. I can feel the cold slipping under my window. The drafts have long icy hands and they move past me like shades that want to reach under my blankets.
Maria said I will be able to stand up soon. My left leg is still fragile, but with crutches I should be able to move around by myself. The next time she comes, I will go to the door to welcome her.
First I sit up straight, then slide to the edge of the bed. My legs hang uselessly. I think of my next move and contemplate the precipice before me. Gravity pulls me toward the floor. In the prison of their splints, my thighs and calves have turned to stone in their immobility. My muscles hang off my bones like flesh that even scavengers don’t want.
You are skinny and dried up. You weigh nothing at all. But you’ll figure out how to take a few steps. You’ll manage somehow, I tell myself out loud, you’re still alive, so you’ve got no choice. You have to walk.
I could go as far as the chair. Or
the sofa. The chair is closer, but the crutches are behind the sofa. I could make it, even if I have to hop on my right leg instead of putting one foot in front of the other.
I just have to slide down from the bed and try to lean on the table. Nothing to it. Just make sure not to lose my balance. It would be stupid to burn myself on the stove.
At first all that seems insurmountable and I consider lying back down. But then I take a deep breath, tighten my splints, and slip down to the floor. Slowly. Very slowly, like with the icy water of a lake at the beginning of summer.
My toes touch the floor. I grab firmly onto the bedsheets but they slide with me. I feel my heart pumping. My legs stiffen and electric current travels through the marrow of my bones. The blood flows heavily through my veins, running a painful circuit from my feet to my head. There, now I’m standing. I can shuffle my feet across the floor. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. The table is close by. Just steady your body long enough to get to the next support. I take a chance and put a little more weight on my left leg. I reach for the table. I’m almost there. I stretch further. I contain the pain. It’s nothing, nothing to it. I steady myself. My hand is trembling as if I were trying to lift furniture with the sheer force of my thoughts. Suddenly I go numb. The chair stands kilometres away, behind the table. My sight is narrowed by thick black blotches. Then my knees let go.
ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN
The floor is dirty and cold. Dried mud, dust, pieces of bark, onion skins. The floorboards are grey beneath the chipped varnish. I don’t know how long I have been lying here. A few minutes. A few hours. It’s still light outside, but Matthias hasn’t come back.
I can’t stay like this, on the floor. I look around. I prop myself up on my elbows and crawl toward the sofa. My legs follow me like a long overcoat heavy with sludge. I make slow progress. I am sinking into the floor as I move. I keep watch over the door with the fearfulness of wild animals. The fear of being caught in a moment of vulnerability.
I don’t want Maria to see me like this.
I reach the foot of the sofa. I am out of breath and my elbows hurt. It’s hard, but I hoist myself up onto the threadbare cushions. I arrange my legs straight in front of me. Under the splint I see that the bandage on my left side is soaked with blood. I grab Matthias’s quilt and cover the bottom half of my body with it.
I am empty. As if part of me was still back on the floor. Maybe I should eat something, but now the can of baked beans is too far away.
I close my eyes a moment.
And then nothingness.
ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX
I am startled awake. It is dark. Matthias puts a sack on the table, shakes the snow off his shoulders, and lights the oil lamp.
When he looks around, he sees my bed is empty. His lower jaw tightens and a vein appears on his forehead. Then when he spots me lying on the sofa, he raises his eyes and walks over to me. He slips one arm around my back and the other behind my knees and carries me to my bed the way adults do with sleeping children. Or the dying. I try to hide my bloody bandage, but Matthias sees it right away. He says nothing, but he saw it. He pulls up my blankets and tells me to get some sleep, then disappears into the other side with a candle and the sack he put on the table.
I stare at the ceiling as if gazing down into an abyss. Pain is a bird of prey that holds me in its clutches.
I feel like I’ve taken one step forward. And two steps back.
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR
Someone is standing on the front step. I sit up in bed. I look toward the sofa, then the rocking chair, but I don’t see Matthias. I hear the click of the doorknob and Maria is there on the threshold. She smiles and comes to me. The morning sun fills the room as if time had stopped. I push aside my blankets, unfasten the splints, and leap to my feet. Her eyes illuminate the room. I move toward her, take off her red coat, and slip a hand around her waist. We kiss. Her mouth is warm. Our foreheads touch and our bodies entwine. I lift her gently, she clings to me, then we lie on the kitchen table. Our clothes fall to the floor with no resistance. She takes my hands and presses them against her hips, and moves them across her body. I kiss her neck, her skin is soft and a little salty. I kneel between her legs, impatient, energetic, full of desire. Our eyes thirst for each other. I take her, she bends to me, and nothing exists outside of us.
When I awake a kettle is simmering on the woodstove. It smells of meat and boiled vegetables. When he sees my eyes are open, Matthias moves the stool over and sits down in front of me as if we were about to begin a game of chess. But he is here to change my dressing.
I hide my erection under the blankets. My dream is very near, yet very far away. My left leg is giving me serious pain.
He unwraps my bandage, cleans the dried blood, disinfects the wound, and wraps it up again with the butterfly bandages at hand.
You’re lucky, the splint held your bones in place, Matthias grumbles.
Outside, the sun strikes the snow full on. The sky is cutting and the barometer reaches for it. Before my window the icicles look threatening and the snow keeps piling up. It is like a mouth closing around us.
I am completely exhausted. I feel like I will never stand up again. If winter doesn’t get me, it will be something else. I can’t do anything. Outside of a little repartee, looking out the window, and waiting. That doesn’t give much to hang onto.
Matthias grabs the pair of crutches behind the sofa and orders me to get up.
Isn’t that what you wanted? Then you’ll have to build up your strength.
I consider the two pieces of wood stuck together with little metal brackets.
We’re going to do some exercises.
Matthias lifts me up by the armpits.
Come on, you don’t want it bad enough. You need strong arms to walk on crutches. Stand straight. Do what I do.
Matthias starts by rotating his head, stretching out his arms on both sides, and breathing deeply. I imitate him the best I can, sitting on the edge of my bed. He bends his elbows, clasps his hands behind his back, and leans his torso forward.
Hold the position, he explains. Hold it and extend it. You should feel your body, you should be centred on it, push harder when it starts to hurt.
We repeat the series of movements several times over until someone knocks at the door. Matthias wheels around. More knocking.
We haven’t finished, he warns me, then goes to open the door.
At first I hope it’s Maria, but disappointment takes over when Matthias invites the visitor in. He walks into the room, leans his rifle against the wall, and puts two hares on the table. Matthias and I consult each other with a glance. Neither of us knows this man.
This is for you, the man tells us and points to the hares.
Matthias looks at the two bodies as if he were afraid they would get up and start running.
Thank you, he stammers, thank you very much. Do you want some coffee?
The visitor accepts with a nod, and when Matthias turns his back, he focuses his attention on me.
He has salt and pepper hair and a reddish beard. His face has been worn by the sun and the cold. Built close to the ground, in his fifties. Or a little older. Behind him, his rifle shines.
My name is Jean, he says. We’ve met before, but it was a long time ago. Back when I worked at the school with your mother.
It’s true. His name awakes no memories, but his face is familiar.
Matthias serves the coffee.
I knew your father too, he goes on. Everyone knew him. I’m so sorry about what happened to him. We hadn’t seen him much these last years. His garage had turned into a complete rat’s nest and he stopped pumping gas. Some people said he was losing his mind, but I thought he just felt lonely.
Leaning on the counter, Matthias chooses discretion.
We were all surprised when we heard you were back, Jean says, changing his
tone. I’m happy to see you’re getting better. Maria told us you’ll soon be on your feet.
Jean takes a big gulp of coffee and glances at his watch.
Actually, I came here to ask you for a favour. We need a mechanic.
His words startle me.
At first we thought of Joseph. He’s a jack-of-all-trades. But some people can’t stand him and we never know where to find him or in what house he’s sleeping. He won’t listen to anyone. And he’s not as experienced as you. Before there was your father, but now you’re the only mechanic around.
My heart is pounding. I stare at Jean.
What do you want done?
We want to put tracks on a mini-bus so it can run in the snow. We almost have everything we need, the parts, the tools, the welding equipment. We set up shop in one of the storehouses in the old mine. When we turn on the generators, it’s as bright as day in there. A great place to work. We need someone like you.
I clear my throat. I don’t know if I’ll be up to it.
We’ll find you a wheelchair if that’s what it takes. You’ll show us how to go about it, and oversee the workers. As soon as you can stand up and take a few steps, that’ll be good enough for us. I’ll come and get you. What do you say?
The thought of being a mechanic again has my head spinning. I’m surprised they need me, but I accept without thinking twice.
Sitting down at the table, Matthias fidgets and tries to catch Jean’s eye.
What’s the mini-bus for? Are you getting ready for the expedition? Are you going to leave before spring?
Jean rubs his beard.
We’re getting ready, but we’re a long way from knowing when we’ll be able to leave.
If I can do anything to help you, you’ll let me know, Matthias offers. I’ve been promised a spot on the expedition, and I intend to be part of it.
Sure, but for the time being, the main thing is to keep taking care of him, Jean tells him, pointing his chin in my direction.
The Weight of Snow Page 7
