Apocalypse for Beginners (7 page)

The weeks passed; winter was fast approaching. In Berlin, sections of the
Grenzmauer
disappeared one after the other and gave way to a long series of vacant lots, promising a spike in real estate speculation. On the Potsdamer Platz, construction cranes were concentrated in numbers unequalled anywhere else in this part of the galaxy. Nothing looked more like the end of a world than the beginning of another.

Meanwhile, Hope was radiant. Her slightest gesture was charged with youthful electricity, as if the little girl that she had never allowed to come out was emerging after a long hibernation. She smiled from morning to night, whistled softly, lobbed snowballs at me—and the girl was a good shot, too.

The December sleet pelted down, and Hope blossomed amid the frost for the pleasure of my eyes alone, since none of my classmates seemed to notice the spectacular transformation. Were they so severely nearsighted that they failed to see how dazzling Hope was? Oh well, their loss was my gain.

Of course, as with all good things, there were some minor annoyances. Hope had taped the treasured Captain Mofuku ramen wrapper inside her locker (beside the picture of David Suzuki) and scribbled the numbers 17 07 2001
everywhere: in the blank spaces of her notebooks, in her books, on her arms, her desk, her jeans, and even in the cafeteria’s infamous ravioli sauce.

It was as if the numbers 17 07 2001 no longer represented the date of the apocalypse, and even less the expiry date of a package of ramen, but something like one of those little prayers that Buddhists would copy onto scraps of paper, which they then sent drifting on the four winds.

In the end, though, it was a small price to pay to see Hope so radiant.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Mrs. Randall, whose attempts to find fault with the Gregorian calendar had resulted in a long string of failures. The facts had to be faced: the date showing on the calendar was neither May 1988 nor February 1987, but undeniably December 1989.

As a result, she had abruptly lost interest in her calendars and almanacs. But in spite of this, certain clues suggested that she was still not rid of her obsession. Once a Randall, always a Randall. One night, Hope came into the Bunker and handed me a newspaper folded four times.

“I found this under our couch when I was sweeping up.”

It was a copy of the
Saint-Laurent
, the local weekly, opened to the classified ads. In the “Cars for Sale” section, a frenzied hand had circled all the clunkers going for under $400.

I didn’t know what to make of it, so Hope helped me out: Her mother’s obsession had just entered an insidious phase. She would soon start packing provisions and collecting road maps of Western Canada.

“You think she’s going to pull up stakes again?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Haven’t you been giving her the clozapine every morning?”

“The dosage may not be effective any more. It’s happened before.”

Hope was at a loss. There was no chance of persuading her mother to consult a specialist, still less of forcing her to do so, and no doctor would sign a prescription without seeing the patient. Hope clearly would have liked for me to come up with a bright idea, but nothing came to mind and she seemed frustrated by my silence. She frowned and stuffed the newspaper into her backpack. She would have to manage on her own—again.

My mother came downstairs holding a basket of dirty laundry against her hip. “For tomorrow’s lunch, I put the leftover shepherd’s pie in some Tupperware,” she announced on her way to the laundry room.

Hope gave me a strange look.

“Your mother makes your lunch?”

“Uh … Sometimes. Yeah.”

She made a show of disbelief and looked away. On the
television, a preacher was praising the mercy of God Almighty.
Do not suffer alone in your little corner. Come and meet Him. Open your heart, open your eyes. Every answer can be found in the Bible
.

The winter’s first snowfall came on a Saturday morning. Objective for the day: produce a diagnosis of Mrs. Randall’s mental condition.

As she stepped into the municipal library, Hope cast a sceptical glance at the loans counter, where two aging librarians were filing catalogue cards. In her view, a civilization overly preoccupied with archives was surely a civilization on the decline.

She stationed herself in front of the catalogue and went through the cards in the “Neurology and Psychiatry” section. She jotted down a few interesting call numbers and then, after looking left and right, grabbed a bundle of cards, opened another drawer and planted them haphazardly, like the bulbs of some rare and dangerous plant—the seeds of a new virgin forest.

Her spirits lifted by this small act of terrorism, she scurried away to the stacks.

After leafing through a few works by amateurs, Hope went on to more serious stuff:
The Illustrated Encyclopedia
of Psychiatry
, a tome weighing some eight kilos and claiming to cover all the psychological disorders that have afflicted the human race from the Sumerian religious wars to Ronald Reagan’s first term in office.

Sitting cross-legged on a chair, Hope spent the whole afternoon combing through the encyclopedia with the aim of identifying the subcategory of fruitcake that her mother belonged to. I had taken refuge in an old
Yoko Tsuno
comic book, but from time to time I would unobtrusively peek over her arm, and what I glimpsed was far from reassuring: an assortment of syndromes, episodes, relapses, phases, differential diagnoses, tricyclic antidepressants, neuroleptics, paranoias, hallucinations and hereditary factors, illustrated here and there with cross-sections of cortex, nebulous graphs and bipolar mice.

For three hours straight, Hope scrutinized this selection from every possible angle, from the Ahenobarbus complex (“variety of pyromania aggravated by an unwholesome attraction to stringed instruments”) through to Romero-Ruuk syndrome (“dementia characterized by general muscular rigidity and sudden cannibalistic urges”). She lingered for a while over the highly exotic Type III Jerusalem syndrome (“nervous breakdown experienced by some tourists on their first visit to Jerusalem; those affected believe they are the Messiah, announce the End of Days and are subject to a compulsive need to cut their
fingernails”), but finally came to the conclusion that the encyclopedia was outrageously incomplete since there was not a single reference to the malady that dozens of Randalls had endured for seven generations.

By way of revenge, she shelved the encyclopedia over in the children’s books section between
Puss in Boots
and
Alice in Wonderland
, raising the prospect of a whole new generation of psychoses.

Every ten days, religious studies class fell right after phys. ed. The odour of incense and running shoes permeated the hushed classroom where Mr. Bérubé tried (in vain) to inculcate us with a few notions of religious culture. There was something profoundly incompatible between endorphins and theology.

Mr. Bérubé was a young teacher brimming with goodwill. He had taught algebra the year before and would be assigned to home economics the next year. That year, though, he struggled with the recurring peregrinations of a chosen people who, after surviving various enslavements, wandered in the desert and then found itself a disputed messiah, all in thirty-thousand-odd verses. Please follow the official course plan.

Standing in front of a map of Palestine, he announced that the whole class would be devoted to the book of Revelation, also known as the Apocalypse of John, which, as everyone knew, “was a book in the New Testament before becoming a source of inspiration for Iron Maiden!” The joke fell flat.

Mr. Bérubé plunged bravely into his subject. He told us about the Four Horsemen, the Number of the Beast and the Roman occupation in Palestine. Around the classroom, heads were tilted at various angles of repose. I spotted one or two yawns.

Hope, meanwhile, floated light years away from the foul-smelling classroom. She blackened the margins of her notebook with concentric circles and spirals, scribbled time and again the numbers 17 07 2001, like a ray of light glowing out of our dark era.

Mr. Bérubé eagerly shared with us a little-known fact: the Apocalypse was not merely a book in the New Testament but first and foremost a literary genre—somewhat like the detective novel or science fiction. Explanation for the academically challenged: several Apocalypses had been written and some of them could still be found scattered throughout the Bible.

“Apocalypses were written in times of crisis. It was the literature of the downtrodden, of those living in expectation of the Last Judgment, when they would be saved and
the wicked punished. That is why, in the Bible, we repeatedly find announcements that the end of the world is at hand—it was a source of hope, a piece of good news. In fact, ‘apocaluptein’ in Greek means, simply, revelation. Basically, the apocalypse conveys a fairly optimistic view of the world.”

From the back of the class, a voice asked if
Mad Max
would belong to the category of apocalyptic works. Laughter. Mr. Bérubé ventured a cautious “if you like.” Hope rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. I yawned.

“Can someone identify another apocalyptic story found in the Bible?”

The class was overwhelmed with silence. Mr. Bérubé’s eyes swept over the troops.

“Hope, what about you?”

Hope sighed, snapped shut her ballpoint pen and folded her arms.

“The Flood.”

“Very good. Excellent! And what can you tell us about the Flood?”

“That it’s a suspicious story.”

A murmur rippled through the class.

“Suspicious?” asked Mr. Bérubé.

“Yahweh sets in motion the end of the world six pages after having created it. He must have really made a mess of things, wouldn’t you say?”

Mr. Bérubé stammered something unintelligible, like a wet “bbl,” as though he had just taken a left jab to the stomach. Everyone turned to look at Hope. She disregarded the volley of gazes and remorselessly followed through.

“But what’s even more suspicious is that, after drowning the human race like a sackful of kittens, Yahweh promises to never do that again. So can anyone explain why,
even so
, Saint John took the trouble to write the Apocalypse? Evidently the poor man had never read the Old Testament.”

The classroom buzzed with whispers. Thrown off balance, Mr. Bérubé got ready to fend off a new series of blows. The bell rang just in time, and we burst out of our seats before he had the chance to expand on the subject.

Christmas came upon us with no warning. As usual, my parents invited the Bauermann clan to celebrate Christmas Eve at our house. Come early, bring your own wine.

The aromas of grilled chicken, pickles and doughnuts wafted through the house. The oven had been on since early morning and the main floor felt like a sauna. Thirty or so guests crowded the living room, and Nana Mouskouri’s voice floated several decibels above our heads—“Pa rum pum pum pum …”

Squeezed between the Christmas tree and the bar, I listened to my cousin drone on about George Michael. High degree of insipidness. Nodding my head mechanically, I killed time by thinking of anagrams of Mikhail Gorbachev. High degree of difficulty.

Amid the hubbub I heard the telephone ring. Jumping at the opportunity, I shot across the living room, just barely avoiding my mother, who was restocking the serving dishes with olives and marinated onions, and picked up the handset just in time. At the other end, Hope’s voice sounded strange.

“Are you busy?”

“Absolutely. You’re interrupting a crucial conversation on the subject of British pop music.”

There was a brief bewildered silence. Hope had not realized that I was joking and I was instantly overtaken by an unpleasant premonition.

“Could you come with me to the police station?”

Red alert. Stretching the telephone cord as far as it would go, I huddled in the staircase that led down to the Bunker, away from prying ears. Halfway down the steps, the air was already three or four degrees cooler.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing serious. I just have to go get my mother. Can you borrow the car?”

“I’ll be right over.”

I hung up, grabbed the keys to the Honda hanging on the wall near the phone and plunged into the coolness of the Bunker. In the time it took to slip on my boots and coat, I was stealing through the back door.

The wind outside was sharp and the ground crunched under my feet. I threaded my way over to the Honda. Fortunately, there were no cars parked behind it (nothing can spoil a covert getaway more than having to ask a sloshed uncle to move his 4×4). I started the car and rolled to the corner of the street before switching on the headlights. With a bit of luck I could make the round trip before anyone noticed my absence. I did not know what to expect, but I knew that I wouldn’t want to explain myself later on.

Hope was waiting for me in front of the Pet Shop, hopping from one foot to the other. She blew on her hands as she sat down beside me. I cranked up the heat and pulled away in the direction of the police station. A minute went by in silence before I dared to ask for details about Mrs. Randall’s criminal activities.

“Nothing too terrible. She went to the place where they distribute Christmas food baskets. Know where I’m talking about?”

I knew very well, yes. Every Christmas, the Saint Vincent de Paul Society organized the distribution of non-perishable goods. In fact, my mother had just donated a dozen cans of Campbell’s soup and a package of Premium Plus crackers. I hadn’t known that Hope and her mother had to rely on food banks …

“Of course not, dummy! We’ve got enough food to last us twenty years! The pantry is crammed and the kitchen cabinets are overflowing. There’s even stuff in the bathtub. My mother would rather buy ramen than pay her Hydro-Québec bills!”