Suzanne. Anais Barbeau-Lavalette

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ You love surprises. You rush outside. The bird is there, lifeless. You don’t dare touch it in front of your mother. You know she would wash you in bleach.

      But she bends over the bird and picks it up with a tenderness you have never seen in her before.

      She cups her palms and the bird curls up in them, as if it were made for her hands.

      You aren’t sure who is holding whom. Has the bird picked up your mother or has your mother picked up the bird? For a moment, it is unclear.

      They seem fused, like glass sculptures. Frozen in the rift of time where the idea of death stealthily makes itself known. Your sisters don’t move. Neither do you. Standing in this strange moment, just before life resumes its course.

      Then your mother’s voice emerges: ‘Suzanne, the garbage.’

      She wants to get rid of it, suddenly, right this minute.

      You obey. You go get the garbage can inside the house and return, holding it out to her. She tosses the dead bird into it with a brusque gesture, as if parting with a bad memory.

      Then she goes back into the house and washes her hands. She scrubs for a long time. You watch her from behind, her neck about to crack.

      You imagine her crumpled on the ground. You would have done the same. You would have picked her up, crumb by crumb, held her in the palm of your hands, and quickly tossed her in the garbage.

      You tie the bag with a solemn gesture and carry it to the side of the road.

      Edmond Robillard did his novitiate with the Dominican Fathers in Saint-Hyacinthe. He offers his services as a spiritual advisor to youth in need of moral guidance.

      You go talk to him a few times. Initially out of pressure from your parents, then for pleasure.

      The Dominican Fathers live and pray in a large grey building at the corner of your street. You walk by it on your way home from school. You are welcome; you can pass the time there.

      You think Hyacinthe, his religious name, is funny. And his turtleneck suits him. You don’t tell him, but you can’t stop looking at it.

      What you like about the turtleneck is imagining what’s behind it. His long, straight neck. A few fine, purple veins, delicate, almost graceful.

      You know that it bothers Hyacinthe when you stare at his neck, but you like that too.

      So you visit him when you walk by, when your heart is light.

      He asks you questions. About your worries, your pleasures, always trying to get at what you believe.

      He knows you are bright. Your grades at school prove it.

      He feels like you are destined for great things, if you can get your wild streak, which he has already sensed in you, under control.

      But Hyacinthe understands that holding you back would do you a disservice.

      So he suggests that your parents sign you up for a big public speaking competition in Montreal.

      He thinks you can do it.

      The idea of taking the train, and then the more vivid one of seeing Hilda Strike’s city, makes you deeply happy.

      Achilles and Claudia agree.

      You have never loved them so much.

      You are eighteen years old.

      You have polished your ankle boots, and you are wearing a boater Claudia has given you for the occasion. Achilles has shaved his beard and put on cologne. He won’t tell you he is proud of you, but you know he is.

      You say goodbye to him as if you were leaving to go far away for a long time.

      You board the train, hanging on to your small suitcase. Your palm is clammy.

      You walk down the aisle, glancing at faces as you go. Your eyes leave a mark, but you don’t know it yet. Something you got from your father: piercing eyes that leave an impression.

      From outside the window, Achilles watches you go. His big girl is such a good speaker and is off to speak in Montreal. You sit down and look at him. He looks like he’s going to cry, but he is old enough to have watery eyes, so you’re not sure.

      The train starts up, and already you’re not looking at your father. You are looking ahead.

      The scenery rolls by and disappears in the distance. You calmly take in everything. For the first time, you feel like this is where you should be. Where things are moving.

      Hours pass but you don’t get tired, your body calmed by the forward movement.

      Anything is possible now.

      You stand, sovereign. And you walk slowly down the aisle of the rocking train. You are rooted, enduring.

      You take a look around. As you walk, you come across a man on his own, dozing.

      You sit next to him. Your thigh brushes his. You watch him sleep. His head bobs in time with the train. You gently take his jaw and move it toward the hollow of your shoulder, which you offer to him.

      He stays there for a while and then surfaces. You bore your eyes into him. You don’t need to smile at him. You introduce yourself: ‘I’m Suzanne.’

      He takes you in all at once, all of you, too much woman on offer to him. He stammers his name, which you don’t remember, because you don’t care. Finally you smile at him before getting up and moving on to another solitary man.

      The Salle du Gesù is full. It surprises you. All these young people spending an evening listening to others speak.

      The audience is facing an empty, plainly lit stage, onto which the speakers are already filing.

      Each speaker will make a speech, arguing an issue of their choice for ten minutes. What counts is style and rigour.

      A tall young man is already standing on the stage. He is wearing a black jacket that makes him look like he has broad shoulders, which he squares before the crowd, his torso on display.

      His thighs also seem slightly spread, giving the fleeting impression of a body in freefall. The audience is instinctively attentive, trying to catch him in mid-flight.

      The words flow from his mouth, slow and expansive, reaching audience members like smooth, viscous lava from a volcano.

      There is no escape.

      At the end of his speech, there is a moment of silence before the applause, the bodies stunned by the impact of the encounter.

      Leaning against a wall, you are moved. You can’t sum up what was said. It was something about systems of thought and worlds to invent.

      But the man, with his controlled freefall, has captivated you.

      It’s your turn. You walk the distance that separates you from the stage, and already you feel like you are foundering a little. You know your speech and you know you can СКАЧАТЬ