Today’s the day, he announces. You’re ready?
Matthias looks at me, two thumbs up. He tells me supper will be ready when I return.
You see, everything will work out, Jean adds.
Matthias helps me get out of my splints, then I put on his coat, snow pants, and boots. His hands are shaking more than usual.
You’ll be all right, he says, wrapping a scarf around my neck, you can go now. But your crutches, you’ll need your crutches.
He won’t have to use them, Jean says, lifting me by the armpits.
Matthias watches us go out the door, blinking his eyes and wiping his forehead. As I go, I realize there is a vial of pills on the edge of the counter. The analgesics I used to take when the pain was unbearable. The container is empty, like a gourd whose last drop has been drunk.
ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY-FOUR
The warehouse door opens with a crash. We go inside and darkness envelopes us. Jean whistles twice. The place is cavernous and sound bounces off the sheet-metal walls. Then I hear the growl of a generator, and fluorescent tubes light up one after the other above our heads.
In front of me, five guys are staring as if they had seen a ghost. I recognize some of their faces, but time has worked on them. I have been away for a long time and we have become strangers again. One of them brings me a swivel chair and tells me he was there when they found me after the accident.
I’m glad to see you’re getting better.
Yeah, I say, but it’s taking time.
At least you don’t have to do night watchman duties, he teases me.
And you’re lucky. You’ve got the prettiest woman in the village looking after you, another guy points out as his friends laugh.
All right, that’s enough, Jean orders them, pushing my chair among the tool boxes. Let’s get to work.
The minibus is sitting on wood blocks. In the front, long metal skis have been fastened to the suspension. In the back, they have taken the wheels off and an impressive pair of tracks are waiting to be fitted on. I understand why Joseph said it would never work.
This is where we’re at. Not bad, huh?
I glance at Jean, scratch my head, then lower myself out of my chair carefully. I slide under the minibus by hanging onto the tailpipe. I ask them to bring me light. I check how solid the axles are, what shape the suspension is in, and the brakes. While I’m underneath, one of the guys leans over me.
I thought you left here so you wouldn’t have to be a mechanic like your father.
I turn and take a good look at him, then ask him to pass me a monkey wrench.
He does my bidding, but hands me more questions along with the tool.
Where were you all that time? Ten years is a while. What were you doing?
I tell him I was doing what I could to change my life.
Why did you come back? Because of the power being out?
No. To visit my father.
Jean kneels down to see what is happening. He motions to his pal to let me work in peace. In the yellow beam of light, his face looks harsher than usual. I wonder how this man was with young children, back before the power went off, when he was a teacher.
As I check one last detail, the smell of gas, the texture of grease, and the inky black of metal carry me far back in time. I don’t know if my father would have agreed to come here. I don’t think so, but I’m sure he would have used the situation to make a deal to his advantage.
When I finish they help me crawl out of there and sit back on the chair. Jean and his friends await my verdict. They stand with their arms hanging at their sides. I turn and look at the vehicle. The project is insane. It is like a ship. A ship of fools. A Noah’s Ark. As if the clouds in the sky were about to open and drown everything.
I don’t know why you need a machine like that.
Jean tells me it’s for expeditions to replenish our supplies.
Snowmobiles are good, he goes on, but we need cargo space to transport material and people. We need a vehicle that can handle the snow.
I get it. But I bet you don’t have adapters for the tracks.
Jean and his men give each other empty looks.
We’ll have to drill through the hubs.
They all agree, but nothing happens. I repeat myself.
We’ll have to drill through the hubs.
Jean issues orders to the men. One of them takes out a drill, another groups together the toolboxes next to us, and a third unrolls an extension cord to our worksite. I point to the guy I was talking to and tell him to come over.
Listen up. I want you to drill the holes exactly where I tell you. And delicately, without forcing the motor or busting the bit.
He nods, settles in, and begins drilling through the metal. As I keep an eye on him, I explain to Jean how we are going to go about it. He asks me for the details of every step to make sure he has understood.
Do you think we’ll finish today?
Maybe. We’ll see.
Glowing, Jean puts his hand on my shoulder and proudly declares I am the right man for the job.
ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY-FOUR
Jean drives me home under the dark sky. We speed along as the headlights split the night. Beneath the snow, I sense the old mining site and the giant plateau created by the slag. Unlike Joseph, Jean drives the snowmobile in a jerky fashion, and I am afraid we will bog down every time we take a turn. Finally, we reach the porch. Matthias is standing in the open door. Without stopping the motor, Jean waves him to come over and get me. He moves toward us, his footing unsure in the snow.
The wind’s come up, he calls, his voice barely audible over the motor. A storm’s coming.
Jean nods, evasive. As soon as I slip down from the snowmobile and Matthias has steadied me with one arm, Jean hits the gas and heads down to the village.
So? Matthias asks me once we are inside.
We didn’t stop once all day, I say, looking at my hands blackened with oil and dust. I’m hungry.
Is it going to work?
It should.
What’s it look like?
Like a minibus, only with skis and tracks. A Snow Ark.
Matthias thinks about that for a time.
As I rub my legs, I watch the leak. We are going to have to plug it or find some way to lessen the sound of dripping water.
How are your legs?
Hard as rocks, but the pain isn’t too bad. And your back?
As good as new, he tells me, but I can see the glaze of analgesics in his eyes.
Matthias serves me a plate of noodles.
Did they say when the expedition is leaving?
No. The minibus is still in the warehouse. They have to run a few tests, inside.
Will they need you for that?
I suppose so.
So they won’t be leaving right away. Was Jude with you?
No.
But Jean told you he’d save a spot for me, right?
We worked all day, I don’t remember everything that was said. You’ll work it out with them.
I mop up the sauce with a piece of bread. Matthias has nothing more to say. He contemplates the drops of water falling from the ceiling.
ONE HUNDRED NINETY-TWO
The storm has been blowing for a week. The wind twists the trees and whips the falling snow. You can’t tell whether it is coming from the sky or rising up from the earth.
The last few days, I have scarcely gotten out of bed. In the morning I massage my legs, do a few exercises, then lie down again. There is nothing else to do.
The roof is still leaking. We have stopped melting snow on the stove. We get the water straight from the leak. It is transparent, but has a strange taste, the flavour of the wood through which it has passed.
Matthias cooks all the time, as if he was trying to fill the void by m
aking things to fill our stomachs. Again today he made black bread. This time he added meat and dried fruit and a good helping of fat. The mixture has been on the stove top since morning, and he feeds the fire carefully, slowly, to keep from burning his little slabs of black bread and meat.
It’s not black bread, it’s pemmican, that’s not the same thing, he tells me.
When he finally puts his slabs of pemmican on the table, he looks particularly satisfied.
You can survive on pemmican for a long time, he says, a few mouthfuls are as good as a meal. That’s what the explorers took with them when they headed up the rivers.
Outside, the storm rages and bangs against the porch. It howls in the chimney and whips the snow around. Then it knocks at the window and roars. We watch the show with calculated indifference. Suddenly we hear what sounds like a voice. Someone is calling from the other side of the door. Matthias is intrigued and opens up. Jonas is there. He comes in, shaking snow off his shoulders, and pulls the rocking chair toward the stove and sits down. He rubs his hands and holds them close to the heat. He stays there for some time, the way our ancestors did for thousands of years. Finally Jonas turns in our direction, moving his fingers with difficulty, the icicles in his beard slowly melting, his turquoise coat shiny with water. He opens his mouth to speak, but his thought seems to have deserted him, because he says nothing for a minute, hypnotized by the drops falling from the ceiling into the pail.
It’s cold, he says in the end. And the snow, it’s just not stopping. You did the right thing with those posts, you never know. I heard that a little further up, in the forest, there’s twice as much snow. Twice as much snow, can you picture that?
Matthias raises his eyebrows, and I try to imagine my uncles’ camp buried under four metres of snow.
What’s that stuff? Jonas asks, pointing at the pemmican on the table.
Try some, Matthias tells him.
He picks up a piece, weighs it, then bites into it with his few remaining teeth.
It’s a good storm, he goes on, his mouth full, a good storm. But we’ve seen storms before. There are storms every winter. That’s the way it is. Life goes on. Storms don’t stop anyone. The proof is that they left just as it was starting.
Who left? Matthias wastes no time asking.
Jonas stops chewing a moment.
Jude, Jean, José, and the others.
In the minibus?
Yes, in the minibus, you should have seen it, that machine, floating on top of the snow, that’s what it looked like, like that boat in the Bible.
Matthias’s face darkens.
Did they go to the city?
I don’t know. They left, they left to look for food, gas, medicine most of all, for the sick people who can’t get over the flu. I met them just before they left. We were the only ones outside because of the wind. I asked if I could go with them. To sell my empty bottles. They said yes, but next time. I insisted, I’m not afraid of blizzards. They told me they were enough as it was and that they wouldn’t be gone long. I went home before I got too cold. They’ll be back soon and I’ll be on the next one, the next expedition.
How long ago did they leave? Matthias wants to know, caught off guard.
I don’t know, Jonas says, thinking hard. It must be four or five days ago, yes, I think so. Whatever it is, we’re expecting them any time now. We can’t wait to see them. The village is empty without them. And ration day is coming fast.
He takes a big bite from his pemmican.
It’s good, he compliments Matthias. A little hard, but good.
Matthias mutters something and pays no mind to the rest of the conversation.
Hear anything from Joseph and Maria? I probe.
Ah, pretty Maria, Jonas sighs. I knew what was going to happen, I knew it all the time, but I didn’t say anything. Not to anyone. They ran away. What do you expect? That’s the way it is. I knew that it wouldn’t make sense trying to follow them. Joseph, he’s no fool, Joseph. He wouldn’t let anyone catch him. I’m no fool either. I don’t look like much the way I am, I sleep in the stable, I go about my business, but I know everything that’s going on. Now I’m the one taking care of the cows and feeding them. Someone has to keep company with those poor animals.
As Jonas goes on with his story, I glance at Matthias. He is staring into the void as if struck with paralysis. As if he had lost control of his fate.
You might not feel it, Jonas continues, but the days are getting longer. It’s lighter in the morning. And darkness falls later. Usually, this time of year it stops being so cold for a few days at a time. Sometimes it rains instead of snowing. That’s how it is, there are always mild spells in the middle of winter. Can I have more pemmican?
Yes, Matthias says, his mind elsewhere, take all you want.
Jonas stands up and slips a few slabs into his pockets.
That’s for, that’s for the road, he explains on his way out.
TWO HUNDRED SIX
With all the snow that has piled up over the last few days, my window looks more like an arrowslit in a fortress. We are living in a bunker built for ambushes. Or an underground hiding place, with limited access to the world outside.
Dawn breaks slowly. Matthias is staring at the coffee maker, looking like he had not slept all night. His expression is serious, severe. I check out the horizon with my spyglass. I inspect the foot of the hill, toward the village. All quiet. Only three chimneys are smoking. It’s winter, people hibernate.
We are far from the mild spells Jonas promised us; the landscape is frozen in silent stillness. The barometer branch is fixed in the horizontal position, the trees submit to the snow, squirrels huddle deep in the trunks. Even the leak stopped dripping for longer than usual. But then it goes back to its ways, always a bit faster than the day before. The drops seem attracted by our presence. By our smell, our heat, like the big meat-eaters that can never completely overcome their predator’s instinct. In their veins they carry the ancient memory of their ancestors that methodically surrounded their prey before devouring it.
Suddenly Matthias slams his hand on the table. His coffee cup tips over and shatters on the floor.
This can’t be! he cries. It’s impossible!
He disappears into the other side and comes back a few moments later, hiding something in the small of his back, underneath his shirt.
I have to go to the village.
I stare at him hard.
I have to go to the village, he repeats, uncomfortable, maybe Jude and the rest of them have come back, the way Jonas said. Maybe they’re getting ready to go to the city now that they’ve tested the minibus. I have to tell them to save me a spot. That’s the agreement, I have to have my spot on the minibus.
He pulls on his coat, grabs his snowshoes, and hurries out.
I finish my coffee as I watch him make his way through the snow. The porch suddenly seems enormous and perfectly calm. The only sound is the crackling fire and the faithful drips of water. I could use the opportunity to change my bandages, do my exercises, or trim my beard. Instead I think about the bottles of wine Joseph gave us. I let my eyes wander over the room. The thought of going back to bed occurs to me. Then my eyes fall on the door that leads to the other side.
I grab hold of my crutches, get to my feet, and move toward the door. The hinges turn without making a sound. A draft of cold, stale air hits me. I breathe deeply and cross over to the other side.
IV. WINGS
Once we have taken flight from this enclosed and lifeless place, you will marvel at the depth of the horizon. Already, we will be elsewhere. Already, we will be saved. You will follow my directions to the letter. You will fly away between earth and sky. You will fly, straight ahead, arms outstretched, you will let the air carry you.
TWO HUNDRED SIX
I close the door behind me. A point of light glimmers at the end of the h
allway, but darkness is dominant and the walls stretch out in dimness on both sides.
Anyone home?
No answer. The house is empty. Lifeless. Only Matthias’s ghostly existence and my own haunt this place. My hands firmly on my crutches, I take a few steps forward. The humidity quickly penetrates my bones and stiffens my joints. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep this up.
The living room is on my right. Books are scattered across the floor beneath wide bookshelves. The books are like a heap of coal about to be shovelled into a furnace. A stone fireplace dominates the room from the back wall. Inside, there are charred tin cans and a few half-burned logs. A blanket partly covers the old sofa. A bottle of gin stands on the low table. Curtains are drawn over the windows. The cold has frozen everything in place. From the corner of the room, the television watches my every move and offers me the reflection of a middle-aged man moving forward painfully, leaning on two wooden sticks. The living room gives onto a dining room. Tinted blue from the snow blown against the windows, daylight filters in weakly. Further on, in the kitchen, cold air blows through the planks of a boarded-up window. Drafts carrying snow. Above the counter the cupboards are bare but for faded wax paper. In the sink, rags and oily cans. The floor tiles are covered with the broken necks of bottles and footprints from heavy, muddy boots.
I glance into the bathroom. It is dirty and unusable. I close the door before nausea gets the better of me. I go back to the main hallway and past the front door. Curious, I look out the peephole, but see nothing. Maybe it is defective. Or is the snow playing tricks on me? A reflex: I make sure the door is locked. I stop in front of the staircase leading to the second floor. The stairs are wide and heavily built. The wooden railing has been sculpted with a skill that belongs to another time. I hang onto it carefully, taking both crutches in my free hand, and climb the steps in my lurching manner. Upstairs, the three bedrooms are flooded with light. The round windows pour down brilliance on the unmade beds, the wardrobes thrown open, the chests of drawers emptied hurriedly, the clothing scattered on the floor. I move toward one of the windows.
The Weight of Snow Page 10
