Against God (10 page)

- We won’t stop. We’ll start over, that’s all. I’m sure everyone’ll feel the
same. Even if that was Father Léo who died in the fire, it’s what he would’ve
wanted: for us to continue.

doubt in that regard, and her certainty makes her more beautiful than ever, and
you stare at her, your mouth ajar, as though her words have paralyzed you, you
clear your throat then, you take a big breath then, and your voice

- If you do start over, I . . . I’ll help you.

trembles, as do your limbs, as does your heart, and it’s Mélanie’s turn to take
a deep breath, Mélanie is moved, Mélanie nods, all suspicion gone from her eyes,
finally she turns to go but you call after her, you say that when she comes
back, you have something to tell her, so much to tell her, but she turns back
toward you, her expression solemn now, she mumbles you need feel no obligation,
you say you want to, yes, you want to, Mélanie says nothing, leaves, the banging
of the front door, you stay seated on the bed, your face visited by a thousand
conflicting emotions, twenty minutes, finally you get up, you wince slightly as
you feel the pain in your right shoulder, you stare at your filthy clothes on
the floor, you walk to the bathroom and look at yourself in the
mirror, your gaze appalled, you turn on the tap then, slide under the
shower and close your eyes, you let the water splash over you until it turns
cold, finally you wash your body, you wash your hair then you step out, for a
moment you contemplate a razor as though thinking of shaving off your beard, but
you drop the idea, you return to the bedroom but only pull on your pants, you
rummage through Mélanie’s drawers, find the biggest T-shirt she owns, plain
white, you slip it on, a bit tight but it will do, you find a pair of socks and
pull them on, you pick up your coat and head for the living room to drop it on
the armchair, but you seem to remember something, you dig through the coat
pocket and pull out the revolver, you open the cylinder, there’s still one
bullet left, you give the weapon a sharp look, then you slide it under your
T-shirt, you shrug into your coat, step outside, the snow has stopped, you turn
into the alley beside the building, make sure no one is watching, then throw the
revolver into a trash can, return to the building, to Mélanie’s apartment, to
the living room, you sit in an armchair and don’t move, one hour, one long hour,
sixty minutes during which your strained features slowly relax, little by
little, line by line, wrinkle by wrinkle, and at the end of the process you get
to your feet, and you walk over to the phone, you pick up the phone book, you
find the number to the closest police station, and you read the seven digits
several times, a deep heaving sigh, your hand reaches for the telephone, your
fingers touch it, and just then the phone rings, you give a start, pull your
hand away,
hesitate, then dare answer, Mélanie’s voice, she
wanted to know if you were still there, she’s relieved to see you are, she tells
you she’ll be back very shortly, she’s leaving in five minutes’ time and she
wants to be sure you’ll wait for her, that you

- Wait for me, don’t do anything that . . . Wait for me, Okay? Promise!

won’t leave, you moisten your lips, you promise, she hangs up, as do you, your
eyes on the police number, then you close the phone book, wander through the
apartment, look at your surroundings, dirty dishes in the sink, you find some
soap, wash all the dishes, your face impassive, then you resume walking around
the apartment, the two framed pictures in the corner of the living room, you
step closer, there’s a hammer on the floor with two boxes of nails, a pencil,
some duct tape, your face remains expressionless, but something flickers in your
eye, a signal, permission, encouragement, so you take a frame, hold it against
the wall at various heights, as though trying to visualize where it would look
best, then you take the pencil, trace a mark on the wall, set the frame down,
your face relaxed, the way it was when you used to putter around your house, in
your other life, you open one of the two boxes of nails, but they’re too small,
you open the other box, the nails are much bigger, you choose one, pick up the
hammer with your other hand and straighten up, you place the tip of the nail on
the pencil mark, ready to hammer but you stop, your expression dissatisfied, as
though
the nails seemed too big now, you look to the floor
then, no other nails, you walk to a cupboard, holding the hammer and the nail in
the same hand, you open the cupboard, rummage inside with your free hand, find
another box of nails, but they’re as big as the one you have in your hand, you
return to the living room, open the first drawer in the buffet, rummage through
it with your free hand, nothing, second drawer, you come across a calendar open
to the current month, you pick it up with your free hand, there’s nothing but
loose paper underneath, you cast a careless glance at the calendar before you go
to close the drawer, then you frown, you lean over for a better look, a short
newspaper clipping glued to the top of the page, a short text with three names
that leap out at you, you pick up the calendar then, remove it from the drawer,
the clipping is a funeral notice showing the names of your wife and your two
children, the funeral home address, its business hours and viewing dates,
February 25 and 26, and your lips open slowly, you squint uncomprehendingly, you
examine the dates on the calendar page then, a few insignificant jottings on
certain days, but there, on the small square for February 21, the date burned
into your flesh, the day chaos reminded you who the true master is, on that date
written in ink “High School Reunion,” with an address and the name of a town,
and I know what you’re thinking as you recognize the name of the town, you’re
thinking it’s not far from the place your family returned from that night, that
the same route leads to both places, yes, the same road, and your eyes
skip from the note in ink to the obituary, and you are no
longer breathing, the sound of a door opening, closing, you turn your head,
still not breathing, Mélanie stands there, Mélanie takes off her coat and lays
it down on a chair, Mélanie says she was right, they’re going to continue in
spite of everything, in memory of Father Léo, because the burned body is most
likely his, and she smiles in spite of it all, she draws near, but finally she
sees the calendar in your left hand, she stops then, her smile evaporates then,
she closes her eyes then, and everything comes to a standstill, and nothing
happens for a long while, then she opens her eyes, looks you straight in the
eye, walks toward you slowly, her voice calm and low, she had had too much to
drink at the party, she’d been drinking too much for months to forget her futile
and empty life, and she shouldn’t have been driving, especially given the long
road ahead of her, but she was so irresponsible, she took that damn curve too
wide, too far outside, she failed to see the approaching vehicle, she failed
even to see what became of it, of that car, she was too drunk and too happy that
she’d missed it, just as she failed to glance back in her rearview mirror, at
least she doesn’t remember doing so, you have to believe her on that score, she
insists, you have to, it was only the next day reading the newspaper that
everything clicked, and then she panicked, then she fell apart and she didn’t
know what to do anymore, she thought of calling the police a thousand times, but
she couldn’t do it, she simply could not do it, she even seriously entertained
the
thought of killing herself, then after two days she
remembered the group that she’d visited several times with little conviction,
Father Léo’s group, so that was where she went, like a lost child running toward
the light, and this time everything was different, everything had changed, yes,
everything, and as she speaks she draws closer to you, now she’s right next to
you, trembling with equal measures of distress and hope and you listen without
moving a muscle, a wax figure posed in frozen abomination, and she continues
speaking, she found the funeral home notice, she drove there, stayed in the
background, and saw you, and since then she hasn’t left you, followed you in her
car when you fled from the funeral home, entered the bar Le Maquis shortly after
you did, watched as you spoke to Sylvain, all the while wondering how she could
approach you, because her decision had already been made, but in the end you
were the one to approach her, because Father Léo was right, those who are
suffering recognize each other, and you recognized her, consciously or
unconsciously, you recognized her own suffering, she is sure of that, this she
says three or four times, finally then you start to breathe again, a deep,
painful, rasping breath, the calendar slips from your hand, the same hand that
you lift to your eyes, the same eyes that you cover as you clench your teeth,
the same teeth from which a hiss of the asphyxiated escapes, but Mélanie doesn’t
stop, her gentle hand on your cheek, the crack of her broken gaze and in
her

- It was a sign, you’ve got to see that! A sign I could save
you! And by saving you, I could save myself! We could save each other! Believe
it! We can save each other! We’ve already started, I know it! And you know it
too! We’ve started!

voice, you lower the hand covering your eyes then, your pupils flooded with
black tears, your lips pulled back in a grimace of unspeakable suffering, your
free hand steadily pushing Mélanie back to the wall beside the shelves, and she
lets you, until her back is flat against the wall, and in her eyes misery and
hope still coil around each other, into tragedy, into her voice more gentle
than

- I already said it, I won’t abandon you.

ever, your breathing rasping, your right hand still holding the hammer and
nail, then your free hand picks up Mélanie’s left wrist and slowly, ever so
slowly, you lift it up and lay it flat against the wall, then you switch the
nail to your other hand, place the tip of the nail against Mélanie’s wrist, and
she doesn’t struggle, doesn’t protest, just whispers that you can save each
other, both of you, one saving the other, and slowly you lift the hammer, and
the hiss that escapes through your lips is now one continuous moan, a moan
becomes a sharp cry the moment the hammer hits the nail, and Mélanie scarcely
reacts, a small gasp of pain, and your eyes still locked on hers, you swing
again, four times, with each blow your frozen tears fall, and
still Mélanie does not cry out, Mélanie whispers again and again that you
both can, yes, you both can, you need to believe her, and when her left wrist is
firmly fixed to the wall, you bend over painfully, water the floor with your
tears, choose another large nail from the box, and you straighten up, and you
take Mélanie’s right wrist in your shaking hand, and you raise it to the wall at
shoulder height, then you begin again, and this time your sobs tear at your
throat, you’re obliged to stop twice to wipe the mist from your eyes, while
Mélanie recites in a calm but broken voice her desperate litany, finally, it’s
done, the hammer bounces off the floor, you take deep gasping breaths to choke
back your tears, and Mélanie’s voice, hovering, unearthly, refusing to stop,
swearing the two of you can, you can, so you bend over, pick up the duct tape,
tear off a wide strip that you smooth over Mélanie’s lips, her voice smothered
finally, you look at the woman crucified to the wall whose eyes never cease
their pleading, you bring your face close to hers, and now you’re no longer
crying because your eyes are two craters erupting, desiccating forevermore any
future tears, and the harsh caw of your voice rises from the bitterest of
chasms, and your words

- Live . . . and suffer.

hit Mélanie full in the face, her eyes flood with despair then, finally you
retreat, such tremendous heaviness, shouldering
your coat,
digging through Mélanie’s coat, retrieving the keys to her car, you hear her
calling in her voice muffled by the gag but you have no eyes for her, you leave
the apartment, closing the door slowly behind you, and you take the stairs down,
yes, down, to the street, and you return to the alley, and you find the trash
can, and you dig out the gun, and you slide it into your coat pocket, return to
the street, the sun blazing down, the street clear and bordered by huge banks of
snow, you find Mélanie’s car, you climb in and set off, you drive eyes straight
ahead, take the south bridge out of the City, find yourself on a country road
you’ve never travelled before, ninety minutes, the engine cuts out, no more gas,
you have just enough time to pull over to the side of the road, then you step
out and, without a glance back, you begin walking, along the road, along the
deserted road that stretches into the countryside, your eyes an abyss tunnelled
deeper with each step you take, and so you continue waging your war

against me

Thank you to Karine Davidson-Tremblay, René Flageole, Alain Roy and Eric
Tessier for their comments.

Thank you to Michel Vézina for the invitation.

Thank you to Sophie for everything.

Our thanks to Patrick Senécal, John Calabro and Beatriz Hausner. In memory of
Katie Ouriou and Nora Alleyn.

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