Just Fine (3 page)

V

I
N THE FIRST DAYS
of summer we were kept busy picking tiny wild strawberries in the big field just behind our house. At first, the heat and the sun were enough to lend excitement to this small excursion, buckets in hand, into the fields. But over days and years, the juice that reddened our fingers and the little gobs of spittle full of minuscule pale green insects that stuck to our legs gradually caused us to lose interest. But strawberry picking was a prelude to picking blueberries, which grew farther from the house, near the racetrack. Blueberries were more fun to pick and they made a small, dry, pleasant sound when they fell into our bucket, glass bowl, or plastic container. The choice of receptacle was determined by a number of factors, an important one being that we liked to ride our bicycles to the patches and, though biking doubled the appeal of the outing, it also required a good deal of ingenuity to get home without spilling the tiny fruits of our labour.

*

Under the sign of Taurus, the second astrological house is the house of talents and personal resources, of emotions, and of the need to realize one's potential. It's the house of values and of one's own value. The house of spiritual talents and abilities, it is the house of the body, particularly of the muscles and the sense of touch, and of one's attitude toward material things: comfort, sensuality, personal freedom. The second house is also the house of aptitude for financial gain and management, but this appetite can also lead to eventual financial loss. This makes it also the house of personal debts, of a multiplicity or lack of revenues, and of one's perceived buying power and financial situation. Agriculture, banking, and the food industry occupy a large place within the house, along with a tendency toward generosity or selfishness. House of riches in so far as one is able to accept and enjoy them, the second house also represents our capacity to acquire power and to use it.

*

The child-king in his patch of blueberries, a condition which was more or less complex depending upon commercial considerations, mosquitoes, cigarettes, and the indulgence or strictness of parents. There was an existential side to blueberry picking, a slightly bluish tinge that was entirely absent from the picking of tiny strawberries, probably because we abandoned the strawberry field for the blueberry patch around the beginning of adolescence, when we were able to fully appreciate the advantages of picking that little, round, firm fruit. No more dilemmas over removing stalks: was it preferable to remove the strawberries' stalks as you went along or to wait until you got home? The blueberry was obviously preferred simply because it required no such additional and tedious handling. I should add that, for some reason perhaps related to their scarcity, the tiny strawberries seemed to be destined for our households only: it never occurred to us to sell them for a handful of change. Blueberries, on the other hand, were ideal for selling and we were free to split our harvest between home and the market: the first basket went toward a family pie and the second was sold to a neighbour or passer-by. The profits went directly into our pockets. The commercial aspect of blueberry picking made it more attractive to everyone, parents and children alike. It also justified straying farther and farther from home, since we had to get to the patches. As a result, blueberry picking occasionally turned into a cigarette orgy, during which we exhaled in a single breath our troubles, our idleness, and our dreams, all of them innocent and profound.

*

Of all archetypes — those primordial creatures that dwell within us — the hero is probably the most universal. A kind of tribal character caught up in a series of wild adventures in which all manner of strengths and weaknesses contend, the hero serves as a model for all those who despair. By his amazing survival, which he owes mostly to a series of resurrections, the hero encourages individuals in their personal quests and helps society develop a culture out of chaos. Both tasks seem huge and explain why heroes are often individuals who, like Hercules or Ulysses (the most famous heroes of classical mythology), must face a long journey.

Heroes are always born under miraculous circumstances and exhibit some unique superhuman strength very early on in life. But as great as their strength is, the tasks assigned to them are, for the most part, beyond measure. Moreover, once they have surmounted the innumerable obstacles given to them they risk falling prey to the machinations of jealous contemporaries or falling victim to their own pride. In the end, their struggles rarely achieve complete victory, as happiness is granted only to those who navigate wisely through the shoals, accept the advice of their protectors (heroes receive almost as much help as opposition in the course of their exploits), and draw strength from the destructive forces they face.

*

When we wanted to explore beyond the fields behind our house, we set out for the woods behind Sainte-Thérèse School, where the path to the Three Streams began. You had to walk through a small forest for about a half mile to get to the First Stream. Just before getting there, you would come upon a small clearing of shorn grass from which several large rocks protruded. A few dozen feet farther was the stream with its almost-overgrown banks, on which you could sit and have a picnic. We would build a small fire and cook potatoes in the embers. Anyone could easily reach the First Stream; there was hardly any danger of getting lost. The path to the Second Stream was more overgrown, so that we could see very little on the way. I made it only once as far as the Second Stream. Because it was farther, almost as soon as we were there we had to think about getting back. The distance to and rumours about what went on at the Third Stream never inspired me to go there. When all is said and done, I was a First Stream girl, but I would have liked to have been alone more often at the stream, to splash about at will, to make a fire as I pleased, to catch a trout, or to watch for beavers. But the others who went there took none of this seriously. They talked loudly and teased each other endlessly before chasing, catching, and fighting or kissing one another on the mouth, depending upon the repulsion or attraction of the moment.

*

Although Hercules accomplished many deeds, we remember him mainly for his physical strength and the twelve mighty labours, which he was obliged to undertake in order to purify himself of the murder of his children. Hercules was not a very disciplined student and had already killed his music and literature teacher, Linus, by striking him in a fit of rage with either a footstool or a lyre. He escaped punishment by pleading self-defence but his father, fearing more fits of madness, sent him to tend cattle in the countryside. Later, after he accidentally killed his children — was this the result of an evil spell cast on him by Hera? — Hercules wanted to kill himself but was convinced not to and given the twelve mighty labours as an opportunity to atone for his sins. In psychoanalysis, the twelve labours of Hercules symbolize the long and painful process of selfeducation needed to attain wisdom and serenity.

Most of the twelve labours involve the killing of animals, people, or evil monsters, but there were also times when Hercules was simply gallant, liberating worthy beings here and there. He could be helpful too. For example, he cleaned the Augean stables, where the dung of hundreds of animals had been collecting for decades, in one day. To do this, Hercules implemented the brilliant idea of diverting two rivers so that the waters would run through the stables. The fact that he demanded payment for his work does, however, cast a shadow on the legitimacy of this exploit and on our hero's altruism. Also worthy of note, some of the twelve labours were executed in Arcadia, an idealized place where people lived in harmony with nature and where song and music flourished. It was in Arcadia that Hercules confronted the birds of Lake Stymphalus, which were devouring the crops and killing travellers.

VI

A
T TIMES IT SEEMS as though I've completely forgotten to fly. As kids, when we were tired of playing in the field, we'd stop our berry picking, our games, everything, and simply lie down on our backs to watch the sky. Often, actually always, airplanes would be crisscrossing above, painting long stripes of white smoke. In the sun's reflection, the airplane sparkled as it advanced, oblivious to the world, oblivious to those of us below who had nothing better to do but to watch it pass. Lying there on my back, I became the pilot, I would become a pilot. Nothing seemed more marvellous. But no. Something happened. It's as though I forgot to fly. I became earthbound. I move along close to the ground, I no longer defy gravity. When I see birds in full flight, I'm fascinated, I vaguely remember something, a possibility, an attitude, an altitude, but that's as far as it gets. I've completely forgotten to fly. I no longer know how to fly. I unlearned it.

*

Under the sign of Scorpio, the eighth astrological house is the house of profound transformations, including death which, in its broadest sense, is a separation from that which is old. As well as being the house of dead things, such as antiques, archeology, numismatics, and philately, the eighth house pushes us through the great stages of decline and death in order to attain rebirth. It's the house of severe illness, of injuries and accidents, of adversaries and all obstacles we must overcome in order to take full possession of our destiny. It's also the house of every manner of assistance received from others and of every sort of financial transaction. We find here inheritances, bequests, wills, and the eventual advantages resulting from the death of others. It's the house of easy money, of income obtained with little effort, such as through annuities, licences, grants, copyrights, and commercial monopolies. Taxes, pensions, and life insurance are also on the inventory of this house, which invites us to go beyond the security we know toward the unknown of the self. For the eighth house is the house of spiritual renewal and mysteries, of sexual instinct as ability and emotional depth, of criminology, of the occult, and of the great beyond.

*

On Halloween nights, we raced over to the Babins' to get some taffy. Good taffy that was absolutely clear and hard like Madame Babin's had become rare. Even on Halloween, there wasn't enough to go around. Which is why, if you really wanted some, you wasted no time in getting to Beauséjour Street. The parallel streets of Sainte-Croix and Grand-Pré had some pretty special stuff to offer as well.

We must have lived a little too far from Madame Babin, because she was always just giving her last taffy away when our group arrived. On the sidewalk outside her door, the word passed along:

“There's no more . . .”

“No more taffy . . .”

This was stated in a sober, factual tone. It was fate in its most serious and elementary expression. After that, the sequence in which we went through the rest of the neighbourhood mattered little.

*

Like astrology and mythology, dreams can also enlighten without obliging us to act in any way. Some dreams, however, are more revealing, more engaging than others. For example, this dream I had on the beach one beautiful summer afternoon: I'm a baby again, my eyes are shut, I'm lying in my little hospital bed. I've just been born. Hands appear,begin to caress my body, massaging me all over. I am overcome by a feeling of warmth and happiness. I realize that I'm alive, and I am absolutely certain that, one day, I will walk.

And yet, I often have a completely opposite dream. In this dream, I feel a pain spreading in my legs until they can barely support me or carry me forward. The pain intensifies whenever I have to cover any given distance, to cross a street, for example. Then, because of the pain, I am unable to walk quickly, and I'm afraid I'll be hit by the car that is inevitably coming straight at me. The danger is always very real but I manage to escape every time. I keep going in spite of the pain and I manage, almost crawling, to reach a place where I'm safe, where I can sit and rest. It's not always a physical danger that compels me to move. Sometimes it's sheer stubbornness that drives me to go somewhere. Once, I had to climb a sloping alley to get to a convenience store owned by a Jewish family that was selling some rare specialty. No matter how bad the pain gets, it will not deter me from my objective. The pain itself seems to be the culmination of this recurring dream and I'm always surprised to wake up in a body that is not hurting. But the trace of this pain is never entirely wiped out of my mind.

*

Crossing the Dieppe intersection to get to the Esso service station, Chuck Bernard notices a crack in the asphalt, then another, and another. Suddenly, Chuck Bernard can see that the asphalt is full of cracks of different colours, which transform themselves quite naturally into a network of multicoloured threads floating on the surface of a stream. Chuck Bernard continues to cross the intersection on foot but, from his point of view, he's walking in a stream and pulling hundreds of multicoloured threads around his waist. The farther he goes, the harder the going becomes. At one point, he turns around and sees a large V dragging in the water behind him. He goes on but the threads have now tightened around his waist. Lowering his head, Chuck Bernard looks at his belly, sees that the threads have sliced through his body, that he's now cut in half at the waist. Chuck Bernard believes that everyone should take
LSD
once in their life, just to have a better idea of what reality conceals.

“I mean good
LSD
like the stuff we had back then.”

*

The project was to write a book dealing very loosely and freely with the theme of space: physical space, mental space, and our ways of moving in them. Of being moved. For space is not a strictly physical notion. It's not just an expanse, measurable or not, situated somewhere between the chaos of origins and the organized world we know. To exist legitimately, a space requires only one thing: that something move within it. It can be a proper physical space, according to the definition of three axes and six directions, or it can be psychic and represent the universe of potentialities. These two dimensions, one internal and the other external to the human being, confer on space a doubly incommensurable expanse. In both dimensions, there is a dilation toward infinity and a problem locating a centre.

It will take some time for the overall picture to emerge. Hence the symbol of the snail advancing slowly, carrying its house on its back, symbol of perpetual motion, symbol also of the pilgrim's voyage toward an internal centre. We can expect a number of digressions, paths that are more or less clear, more or less significant. Fiction writers are not the absolute masters of their works. For example, as I write these lines, the character, if one exists, remains an enigma. Perhaps this enigma will be resolved as we go along, but don't count on it. It might just be a Tentative Eventual Person who, in the beginning, could be called just
TEP
. In the feminine, Teppette, preceded by an
s,
Steppette, meaning in French, little hop, little step dance, little demonstration of agility, generally executed in space.