Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 17

You look out the window. Walking at a leisurely pace, people are already cramming into the church on the corner. Everyone is clean and pressed, at least down to their knees.

Below the knees, everything is grey and wet.

‘Suzanne! Hurry up!’

Claudia, your mother, is calling from downstairs. You finish putting on your white blouse and go down.

Madeleine, Paul, Pierre, Monique, and Claire are clean and waiting sensibly at the door. Your mother is seated, thin and pale. She looks you up and down, severely.

She has given up on words, doesn’t even look for them. She hides behind her sharp eyes. Eyes that scrutinize you and condemn you to your core. You avoid them, glide above them.

The dried mud in your underwear itches, but you don’t show it.

Your brothers help your mother up, then you leave.

As you walk by, you graze the keys of the old piano with your fingers and gather the dust. Your mother catches you. You’re not allowed to touch the piano. You say you’re sorry in a clear voice.

You have always had a voice that carries. Even when you whisper. You don’t know how to tone things down. Words move through your throat in a coarse, precise stream, a diamond, an arrow.