The Weight of Snow. Christian Guay-Poliquin

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      FIFTY-SIX

      Today the sky has clouded over and the trees huddle together. The barometer is pointing downward. Maybe a storm on its way. It’s hard to say. When the sky darkens we always imagine a storm is brewing. The chickadees chirp among the branches. When a blue jay makes an appearance, they scatter. As soon as it leaves, they return, one by one.

      Matthias brings me a bowl of soup, a slab of black bread, and a few pills. He sits down at the table, absorbed in his meditations, as I take my first mouthful. After every meal, he takes stock of our supplies and stands in front of the trap door for several minutes. Then he sits me on the sofa to change my sheets. He takes me by the armpits to move me. As he holds me in his arms, my legs swing one way, then the other, as if I were a marionette.

      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.