Against God (8 page)

- If you tell me your story, I’ll tell you what happened to me too . . .

whisper, she keeps her eyes down, tormented, her long hair draped on either
side of her face, then she lifts her head and asks again if you’ll come
tomorrow, you drain your glass and pour yourself another, the switch in topics
makes you surly, you grunt probably not, you make as though to get to your feet
and leave but she points at the TV, where a Hitchcock movie has begun, she says
she loves the oldies, she invites you to stay and watch with her, she insists,
her big eyes, her sad gentle smile, and you stare at her, your resentment
remains, and yet you settle back, and the two of you watch the movie in silence
for half an hour, you drink alone, your gaze in the
middle
distance, scarcely aware of the movie, and at times your eyes glisten with rage,
and at others they fill with infinite anguish, at still others they dive down
into the abyss, then finally you realize that Mélanie has fallen asleep, you get
to your feet, you look at her for a long time, your eyes admiring her body, her
legs in their form-fitting jeans, her pretty yet sad face even in sleep, then
finally you do walk to the door, the half-finished bottle in your hand, your
apartment, your couch, alone, you drink the rest of the bottle, then you do
nothing for a while, you put on your coat then, slide the gun into your pants,
leave the apartment, walk to Le Losange, one thirty, only a couple of customers,
two men talking at a table, Guylaine now replaced by a vapid, miserable barman,
disappointment flits across your face, you sit down alone at another table, half
a dozen beers, two forty-five, you’re the only one left in the bar, the barman
is reading a video game magazine, you toy with the gun under your coat but you
don’t pull it out, you look out the window, all of a sudden your eyes fill with
tears, and you bite your lip so as not to cry, and you pound the table so as not
to cry, and you grit your teeth so as not to cry, and when the barman pronounces
a weary last call, you stand up, you pay and you leave the bar, you lurch into
the street, you come to a standstill, you pull out the revolver, there’s a
pedestrian down the street, you open the cylinder housing its two bullets, spin
it, close it again, then raise the weapon in the direction of the pedestrian,
you aim at him for a long time, and he keeps on walking oblivious, crosses an
intersection,
disappears, then a car passes, you level the gun
at it until it too is out of range, then you aim at a window, then finally at
the sky, you point at the sky for a long, long time while a broken, barely
audible moan dribbles from your lips like snot, then you lower your weapon, then
you walk into your building, then you climb the stairs, you enter your
apartment, lie down in your bed, fully dressed, your face turned to the ceiling,
and you guide the barrel to your temple, but you don’t pull the trigger, but you
don’t budge, but you do nothing, and finally you fall asleep in that position,
you dream of Andréane, her screams, her terror, the table dropping onto her
face, and you dream of me as well, but in a muddled fashion, then you’re
awakened by a knock at the door, it’s morning, the gun lies on the floor, your
head is pounding, you lie there for at least ten minutes, then you get up
painfully, the knocking stopped a while back but you make your way to the door
anyway, open it, a note on the floor, it’s Mélanie, she writes that she knocked
but no one answered, she gives the address to the Youth Centre, she invites you
to meet her there, you slip the piece of paper into your pocket without
thinking, the time is nine ten, you go to the bathroom, fill a glass with water
but at the last minute, you decide not to drink it, then you look into the
bathroom mirror, your greasy hair, your beard long enough to show several grey
hairs, your clothes filthy and stained in spots, you sniff under your arms, you
can smell your shirt, you grimace in disgust, yet a certain satisfaction is
discernible too, you walk to the living room, boots,
coat,
revolver, outside, it’s snowing, cars inch forward, you head for the closest
restaurant, you scarf down three muffins and two cups of coffee, only three
other customers, two of whom read the newspaper, an idea seems to cross your
mind, you fetch a paper, bring it back to your table, leaf through and finally
find on page seven a shortish article explaining that you’ve disappeared, you
were last seen at the funeral home, there’s even a small picture of you,
smiling, you’re barely recognizable, but when the article starts to recount the
tragedy,
you stop and snap the paper shut, then you watch the other
two read their papers, no one pays attention to you, you dig through your
pockets, a twenty-dollar bill and a few coins, you head for the exit, the girl
at the counter calls after you looking for payment but you don’t even bother
turning around, you step outside, the snow is thicker now, the wind stronger,
pedestrians raise their coat collars for protection and you do the same, a long
walk, sixty minutes, you’re across from Sylvain’s duplex, whipped by falling
snowflakes, you raise your head to look up at the apartment, reluctant but
resigned, you climb the stairs then, you ring the doorbell, Sylvain opens,
Sylvain in shock, Sylvain’s mouth ajar, and you do nothing, say nothing, stand
there, your hands in your pockets, finally Sylvain stammers for you to come in,
you comply, doffing neither boots or coat, and in the living room-cum-dining
room find a pretty girl in her twenties sitting at the table eating breakfast,
she’s wearing Sylvain’s robe, she greets you shyly, and you recognize the girl
from the other day, the day you broke the news to your
friend, and you’re stunned to see her a second time, but Sylvain draws near,
Sylvain takes you by the shoulders, Sylvain asks where you’ve been, everyone’s
looking for you, everyone’s worried, and you let him talk and when he stops to
catch his breath, you make it clear that you hate being here, in this apartment,
with him, and Sylvain is speechless, then finally he remembers the girl,
stupidly introduces you, her name is Sarah, and her expression, on hearing your
name, positively drips with compassion, as though she knew you already, you eye
her disdainfully then ask Sylvain since when does he have his flings stay for
breakfast, Sarah looks embarrassed, Sylvain flinches but doesn’t falter, asks
again where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing, and he tries to convince you to
call your brother, your brother-in-law, your store, everyone, because they’re
all worried, he keeps on repeating it, he’s genuinely distressed, says you need
to get a grip and assures you he’ll help, and you listen and stare as though he
were a creature from another planet, as though he were speaking to you in a
foreign language, you interrupt him then, point out that the only reason you’re
here is to ask for money, but he doesn’t understand, how can that be, you have
more money in your bank account than he could ever earn in a year, you lose
patience then, explain that your accounts have been frozen, and Sylvain says
that’s understandable, given you’re on the run, but he doesn’t finish his
sentence, you yell that you’re not on the run, a brief emotionally-charged
silence, then Sylvain
takes you by the shoulders again, you
stiffen at the unwanted touch, he switches tactics, orders you to sit down,
tells you the two of you will talk, there’s no rush, but you shrug free stating
you’re not interested, you don’t want to listen to anyone, you don’t want a
family anymore, relatives or friends, and you’re sweating in your coat, and you
sigh, and you take a few steps back, Sylvain is bewildered, Sylvain says he’s
there for you, he’s still your friend, but you say no, that too is over, you say
again just how difficult it was for you to come, you’re only here for the money,
end of story, Sylvain’s expression changes then, despair and frustration, he
plants his hands on his hips and asks whether you think he won’t call anyone,
the police, your family, to tell them you’re here, in the City, that you’ve
gotten in touch with him, you feel all confused, you scratch your head, so itchy
it’s as though your scalp harboured colonies of ants, you mutter you didn’t
expect him to tell anyone about your visit, he barks out a bitter laugh, asks by
what right you would think that, but you have no answer, you keep scratching
your head, your frigging head, and Sylvain, in a fury born of dismay and
helplessness, asks again by what right you would think that, not because of your
friendship on which you’ve turned your back, so why, dammit all, why, and you
grimace, you sweat even more, you concede he’s right, you should never have
come, you make as though to leave, but Sylvain grabs your arm, Sylvain has
already forgotten his outburst, Sylvain speaks in a tone of distress, he
understands your confusion, your revolt, but it’s absurd,
they lead nowhere, and his words

- You don’t want ties to anything anymore, you don’t wanna depend on anything
anymore or owe anything to anyone, but c’mon, that can’t work! The proof is you
need money! You’ve gotta see you can’t just say fuck it all, that won’t
work!

cause you to moan, as though each syllable pierces your skin, you jerk away and
suddenly Sarah intervenes, gently suggests that you listen to your friend, you
glare at her then and order her to mind her own business, you turn to Sylvain
and ask him since when does he discuss you with his flings, discomfort on
Sylvain’s part, then he reveals that Sarah isn’t just a lover, Sarah’s his
girlfriend, they’ve been together for a week or so, but he didn’t mention it six
days ago, it really wasn’t a good time, but you’re stunned at the news,
dumbfounded, bowled over, you utter then the darkest and most ironic of
half-laughs, still scratching your

- So even you! Even you!

scalp as it bleeds lightly under your fingernails, softly Sylvain begs you to
be quiet, says you’re the one who’s been had, by your rage, your despair, your
anger, but you don’t listen, you ask Sarah if she has any idea what a womanizer
her new lover is, how he’d screw anyone anywhere, no ties allowed, again Sylvain
tells you to be quiet, his annoyance growing with Sarah’s embarrassment,
but you continue, or does she know he has a computer full of
naked girls, pictures of orgies, does she know he smokes pot almost daily,
snorts coke occasionally, has been known to call on escorts when he’s got the
means, about three or four times a year, and Sylvain yells at you to stop, and
you make a beeline for his desk, you open a drawer you know well, you pull out a
little bag full of white powder that you throw at Sarah, now Sylvain clenches
his hands into fists, now he shouts that’s enough, now he shrieks at you to get
out, while Sarah hangs her head, rubs her forehead and murmurs two words
that

- My God . . .

send you over the edge, that have you screaming at her to shut up, that make
you slap her full across the face, then Sylvain jumps you, you fling him off, he
flies into the wall, shakes himself then grabs his phone, his hands trembling,
his voice shaking, he’s going to call the cops, he has no choice, you need help,
and suddenly you pull out your gun, point it at Sylvain who freezes, his eyes
literally crossing as he stares at the weapon, the phone just short of his ear,
and you’re panting so hard you don’t even hear the girl’s whimpers, slowly
Sylvain puts the phone down, terrified, incredulous, he stammers that you’ve
gone crazy, he begs you to calm down, but slowly you advance, your breath
wheezing, your face drenched in sweat, your lips twisted into a horrific smirk,
your voice

- This is chaos, Sylvain . . . You’ll never get away from it .
. . Never . . .

rasping, quick you open the cylinder, quick you make it spin, quick you close
it again, and you take aim at Sylvain, who’s choked with terror, the barrel
sixty centimetres from his face, and your voice is nothing more now

- Chaos and chance . . . Nothing else exists . . .

than a vestige of breath, and you squeeze the trigger, the click of the firing
pin fuses with Sylvain’s cry, Sarah’s screams, then Sylvain falls to his knees,
Sylvain lowers his head to the floor, Sylvain erupts into sobs, and Sarah rushes
to enfold him in her arms, to cradle him, to wail with him, and you watch the
two of them clinging to each other, both of them in tears, and your brow knits,
and your bottom lip begins to tremble, and your stomach begins to heave, and
suddenly you throw up on the carpet, a single mighty vile stream, no reaction
from the sobbing couple, you wipe your mouth with a shaking hand, you slide the
weapon back into your pants, you hurry out of the apartment, nearly fall down
the stairs in your agitation, it’s still snowing heavily, you start to stagger
down the sidewalk, stop, rub your eyes hard, give a long, keening moan, but you
resume walking, into the wind blowing through your filthy hair, intersection, a
commercial street, practically deserted now because of the weather, a taxi does
come along finally, you climb into the back,
the driver asks
where you’re off to, you say nothing for a few seconds, dazed, paralyzed, the
driver reiterates his question, you shake yourself awake, dig through your
pockets, Mélanie’s note, the written address, twenty minutes, stop in front of
the Youth Centre, barely recognizable through the curtain of continually falling
snow, the fare is twenty-three dollars, you give the driver a twenty, explain
that’s all you have, the driver balks, starts to kick up a fuss, but you scream
you don’t have any more, the driver stammers okay, finally you get out, climb
the rise, walk into the house, find yourself in the same room as yesterday, five
people busy working, you spot Mélanie at the back, perched on a stepladder,
painstakingly painting a doorframe, so intent on her task she doesn’t even
notice you, you watch her for a minute, fascinated, then hurry up the stairs,
pass a few people, enter Father Léo’s office, the priest is there, bent over
some papers he’s studying, he recognizes you right away, smiles kindly, asks how
you’re doing, but you start in on him, your voice harsh, your rancour
incomprehensible, why do all these people come here, why do they join the group,
and gently he answers that the common element here is people’s suffering, but
his answer only serves to goad you, you ask what they’re suffering from, you ask
what happened to them, Father Léo clasps his hands in front of him, explains
that no one here knows another’s suffering, he points at all the people at
work