Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 16

Lower Town Ottawa. LeBreton Flats.

Little houses with peeling paint bow their heads, the bells of Saint Anne’s church ring, and the men are coming home from the factory with heavy hands and empty stomachs.

It’s hot and it smells like wet dirt.

The river is overflowing. It’s made it as far as the cemetery this time. The water is above the tombstones. The river has left its bed, lapping at the homes and the feet of the hurried, chasing anything that moves, awakening the dead. You wonder whether coffins are watertight. And you imagine the dead doing breaststroke.

You stand tall on your long legs. Your face is all eyes, and you have jagged bangs that get caught in your eyelashes.

They hide your prominent forehead. Your mother feels as though your brain wants to pop through it. She contains it as best she can, cuts your bangs to form a lid. If she could let you grow them down to your chin, she probably would, to filter your words at least, since she can’t control your thoughts.

The water laps at your feet, soaks through your white stockings in your nicely polished shoes. You want to taste it, to see if it tastes like death. You dip your finger in and bring it to your mouth.

Apparently this is why the French cemetery was placed near the water. Because the French don’t mind their dead being underwater. The English, well, they would never let that happen.

It is tasteless. You’re disappointed.

‘Get it! Get it!’

You turn. On the other side of the street, a group of children are chasing a rat.

‘Come on, Claire. Let’s go!’

You drag your little sister along behind them.

You cross the street, water up to your calves. You don’t hear your mother calling, trying to hold you back, again. She lives in hope of succeeding one day.

You take long strides, your face intent. You are off to war.

You dive onto your belly after the rat, which you catch with both hands, holding it firmly, brandishing it like a trophy, your eyes sharp and your face like an animal’s.

‘Got it!’

Your sister Claire looks at you, impressed. You turn to face the English kids, the rat in hand, your dress dirty. You stare at them, a rebel.

You are four years old.

Mass is starting in five minutes.

You have mud in your underwear.