Kamouraska (16 page)

“What does it matter to you? My life is none of your business now. I'm not your wife and you're not my husband. Now get out, or I'll call for help!”

A shattered look comes over Antoine's baby face. Not rage, not amazement. But a meek look of utter desolation. Spreading over
his features. I gaze unmoved at this man's reflection. Watch him in the mirror as he comes undone. And the strength of my voice surprises me, as fear tightens its grip about my throat.

“Everyone from Sorel is going together. One long line of sleighs from here to Saint-Ours.”

I read Antoine's reply on his lips more clearly than I hear it.

“I'll come and get you. You'll go in my sleigh with me.”

“I'm going with Doctor Nelson. He asked me to join him. It's all arranged.”

Now the mirror is blurred. Someone is blowing out the candles. This scene is more than I can bear. I can't watch anymore . . . And Aurélie's voice, going higher and higher. Shrill, like a squealing child. Spreading through every inch of space. Filling the darkness. Then sinking down to the timid murmur of the confessional.

“Monsieur gave Madame a punch in the ribs. I saw her there, all doubled up with pain. Then Monsieur left the house. Right away, before anyone could stop him. And on his way out the door he was swearing something awful. And he kept saying: “I forbid you to go to that ball. I forbid you to . . .”

But that evening, when the sleighs set out for Saint-Ours, Madame went off in Doctor Nelson's.

Perched high on its open-frame runners, that American sleigh can fly like the wind. And that black horse . . . There's not an innkeeper all along the southern bank, from Sorel to Kamouraska, who'll fail to marvel at his great endurance and his matchless beauty.

We try not to look at each other. Both of us sharing the same tender warmth. Wrapped in our furs. Sitting up straight. So unconcerned. No sign of emotion on our faces. Blank stares. Heads erect. Outlined against the winter sky.

We're riding at the end of the long line of sleighs. Our puffs of white breath, mingling and swirling. And the horse, loping gently along . . . So far, not a thing between us. We're innocent . . .

More than his passion, I want to excite his anger. When it's clear just how awful his anger can be. So easy to imagine it, all of a sudden, exploding . . .

Whispering now, my head on his shoulder. My face buried in the collar of his coat. Telling him that my husband came back to the house, that he forbade me to go to Saint-Ours, that he hit me in the stomach with his fist . . . All eyes, I watch the expression on George's face. Watch as his lips turn pale. A cadaverous gray . . .
I'd like to soothe him now, calm his temper. Apologize for his frenzy of indignation . . . Yet all the while an unspeakable joy wells up within me. Sets my heart pounding with gratitude and hope. All of my hatred, a part of him now, joining together this man and me. Both of us bound by one single, ferocious passion.

He leaps to his feet. Grabs the whip and brings it smashing down across the horse's back. The beast goes galloping over the bumpy snow. Off in the other direction, away from Saint-Ours. I'm tossed from side to side. I plead with George. I try to hold his arm, make him stop whipping the horse . . .

Over goes the sleigh, upside down in the snow . . .

All at once, that frantic ride behind me. And I'm caught up in the silence and the darkness. No sound but the horse, snorting his fright. Snow down my neck. My fur bonnet, lying on the ground . . . George covers the horse with one of the blankets. Then comes toward me. Without a word. Takes me in his arms. And we go rolling, head over heels. Rolling in the snow. Down the embankment. Like little children, all covered with snow. Snow down my neck, in my ears, in my hair. My mouth full of snow. His icy face against my face. His warm, moist lips against my cheek.

Breathless. Tongue-tied with the cold and with our laughter. We sit by the side of the road. Then one of us, very slowly, pronounces some words between two gasps: “Antoine is a very nasty man.” I shake the snow from my bonnet, against my knee. A voice, inside me. (It can't be my own, I'm much too happy.) Telling me loud and clear: “We're sure to go to hell now, all three of us.” And my love, embracing me. Saying he loves me “more than anything else on earth.” And I tell him that he's “my very life.”

We're still in the snow. Lying on our backs. Looking up at the sky, dotted with stars. Shivering with the cold . . . For a long time I try to keep my teeth from chattering.

I struggle out of my fur coat and my woollen mufflers. Then I just stand there, not daring to move. On view in the public square. The wet snow has spotted my velvet dress. Great blotches all over. A bunch of hairpins, fallen between my breasts. My curls, unpinned, are hanging down my back. A man is with me. I think he has me by the arm. Keeps telling me not to be afraid. Clenching his fists . . .

Dancers and chaperones suddenly freeze, holding their breath. What a sight in the doorway! Madame Tassy and Doctor Nelson, their faces red from the cold, standing there shivering. And their eyes fixed straight ahead. Defiant, though there's no escape. That curious pleasure, that bitter victory. Delirious joy, on the brink of despair.

The thing to do is to walk across the room. Probably face Antoine. Perhaps even both get killed . . .

“We took the wrong road . . . Turned over in the snow . . .”

A big black net, thrown over my head and shoulders. They've taken me prisoner. Dragged and pushed and pulled me away. Captured. My three little aunts, atremble, spirit me over by the fire. Protect me, guard me. And here I am, wrapped in Aunt Adélaïde's
gigantic shawl, sitting in the middle of the tribe of chaperones. Delivered up to the scathing looks of old maids and widows.

Mustn't cringe and cower. Mustn't even blink. Just look right over those motionless heads, hair parted down the middle, pulled back tight. All those frilly bonnets, those satin ribbons over their shoulders . . . Pretend to be gazing at one certain spot on the wall. Emptiness . . . A prisoner. I'm a prisoner . . . Steal a careful look all round the room. Wait for Antoine to come in. Imagine his insults, his blows. Maybe a knife, hidden in his vest? Or that heavy silver chandelier that . . . No, I'm falling! Have to gaze at the wall, that spot. Cling to it in my mind . . . I'm going down. The floor is slipping out from under me. My life is foundering, sinking . . . Someone is saying that Antoine didn't come. Stayed away from the ball even though he was invited. Can't let that good news make me drop my guard. Keep an eye out. Search the room bit by bit, for fear that my husband might come bursting in . . . They give me a hot drink that smells of cinnamon. Aunt Angélique whispers something in my ear.

“My dear child, what a thoughtless thing to do! To go riding at night all alone with Doctor Nelson! Just think of your reputation. Think of your husband. You mustn't push that man too far . . .”

Little by little, the guests in the manor at Saint-Ours go back to their dancing. To the sound of the untuned piano. Heave a sigh of relief. And discover that, by some miracle, they're once again intact. Filled with excitement, endowed with new life.

I
know I'm a sinner, I don't deny it. But you, my dear little wife, you're damned to hell. I'll never get over the shame of Saint-Ours. Don't wait for me. I'm going to drown myself. It's easy. Just break a hole in the ice and jump in. Like a well. You'll see who shows up in the river next spring. Kiss the children good-bye for me. Your husband. Antoine
.”

Sham drowning. Sham joy. Can't trust Antoine. But I'll play the game. Pretend to be looking for a corpse and to mourn him. To be waiting for a dead man, all dripping and cold, to be laid in my arms. But hardest of all is persuading my mother and my aunts not to call the police. Keep them out of our family problems. The brook and the river can't be dragged until spring. Just wait until the ice gives way. In the meantime, nothing to do but live like a widow.

“Aurélie . . . Quick, Aurélie . . . That note the doctor told you to give me . . . Here, Aurélie, take back my answer. Right away . . .”

“Aurélie . . . Go have them hitch up the auburn horse . . . The doctor's expecting me . . .”

“Aurélie . . . Make sure no one follows us . . . What a handsome coachman you make, Aurélie . . . I think we'd better bring the children with us . . .”

“Madame knows best . . .”

“Good God a'mighty, Madame! It's Monsieur! I'm sure he's following right behind us!”

“You're wrong, Aurélie. Don't you know he drowned himself a few weeks ago? . . . In a big hole in the ice. Remember?”

Have to go back. Retrace my steps. Weep tears of rage. My husband is alive, stalking me like a dead man. Two times, three times, kill this corpse that keeps springing back to life . . .

At home in the house on Rue Augusta, I come down with a fever that sets my little aunts atwitter. I beg Aurélie to go for the doctor. She looks at me, eyes huge with fright. Her pupils, dilated like a cat's. But she does as she's told. Aurélie has no choice but to do what I tell her. No matter what.

“And if Monsieur tries to stop you on the way, tell him you absolutely have to get the doctor. I have an awful cough, Aurélie. You understand? You'll tell him I have . . .”

I close my eyes. Trace out his face and his body in the darkness. With my hands, my lips. The way blind people do. So carefully. Each feature exact . . . For just an instant, the perfect likeness. His manly body, stunning in its nakedness . . . All at once, an enormous wave comes swelling, rolling in, and disappears. Sweeps up my love and carries him away. His head cut off! His body torn limb from limb! . . . I scream . . .

“Madame! Madame! You're having a dream! See, I've brought the doctor.”

A look of concern on George's face. His head bent close to mine. I fling myself into his open arms. My mother is taking a nap. My dear little aunts are at vespers. And I have just enough time to live. Careful not to undress completely, and not to light the lamp . . .

When a man and a woman have known that passion once in their lives . . . That total desire . . . How can they go on living like everyone else? Eating, sleeping, strolling, working, being so reasonable . . . And yet, you act as if you still believed in the real world of other people. You say “my patients,” or “the poor country folk.” You beg me to “be careful for the children's sake.” But you gnash your teeth at the mention of my husband's name. You swear you'll shoot him down if he ever tries to come near me again. You stand guard outside my house at night . . .

There's a sun in the sky, and it's moving. A reddish glow, I mean, that pretends it's the sun. That copies the regular rhythm of days and nights . . . In another world another life goes on. Capricious, bewildering. Real trees are budding in the town of Sorel and all about the countryside. We hear that it's spring . . . Doctor Nelson's selflessness, turned sour now, starts to plague him. Soon drives him to distraction. A millstone around his neck, or worse . . .

The great, long, flat expanse of land. The county of Richelieu, far as the eye can see. As if there were no more horizon, wherever you look. I'm afraid to walk out in the open. Walk up to that wooden house standing alone in the middle of the field. My
husband could appear, swoop down on me at any moment . . .

Memory. Dark lantern dangling at arm's length, swaying. Your house. Your room. Your bed. The red and blue quilt that nobody thinks to pull down. We have so little time to be together. Aurélie and the children will be coming back. And I promised my mother I'd be home before . . . A tangle of crumpled clothing, hard to unfasten.

“At least let me take my coat off first!”

Heavy clothes, brusquely pulled open, over a tender belly lying bare. Like a beast being skinned.

Time runs short. Thinning out around us. Like air in a glass box, and two birds shut up inside. A single word would be too much. Might wrench us out of each other's arms. One instant less of time, and we'll suffocate in our cage. Even one tear, the time it takes for a single tear, a single cry, and it will be too late. The bell will sound all through the house, ring out our separation. Toll like a death knell . . . Aurélie and the children could burst in any minute. Or even Antoine. Or people limping, covered with running sores. Pregnant women with pleading cow eyes. Scabby children holding out their filthy hands: “I'm sick, Doctor Nelson! . . . Please save me, Doctor Nelson! . . . Doctor Nelson, help me! . . .”

The sick and the feeble will all come rushing in. They'll grab us both. Accuse us. Drag us out into the public square. Hand us over to the law, in chains. A judge in a wig will come between us, force us apart. With a single stroke of the sword . . . Oh, no! I'll die without you beside me to keep me warm! . . .

“Elisabeth! You're having a nightmare. It's only a dream. Get hold of yourself . . . You know I want to share your tears, your terror. Now tell me all about it. Tell me everything. What were you dreaming?”

“Nothing. Really. It's your patients. They frighten me . . .”

One day fear is going to destroy us. Drive us apart . . .

“What's to become of us, George?”

No answer but that troubled look. That quiver in your check. A tic I suppose. Can it be that you already know what's in store? I turn aside. Refuse to look you in the eye. To let you look at me. Who'll be the first to give himself away? . . .

Now Aurélie, standing beside me, red ribbons in her curly hair. Excited. Telling me something.

“Monsieur went off to Kamouraska! I heard it from Horse Marine! . . . Of course, that slut's as big a liar as she is a bag of bones! . . .”

For God's sake, Aurélie, go get the doctor . . . Please, Aurélie, you have to. I'm pregnant . . . .

There's a big blond man in Sorel who's tired of running around with every whore in town.