Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 24

You are seven years old. According to canon law, you have reached the age of reason, and you have to confess at least once a year.

It’s dark in the box. It smells like damp wood. It’s comfortable. You sit down. For years you have watched the long queue for the confessional, the bodies lined up, looking stiff.

You always thought that the bodies told a different story while they were waiting. As if they were already being scrutinized, spied on.

You try to think of something to talk about. It’s your first time. It’s important that he remember you. That he look forward to seeing you again.

You go into the box. You close your eyes, gulp down the warm air around you. You gulp down the vices of those who have been here before you. A fix of weakness.

It’s your turn. There are small openings in front of you through which thin shafts of light pass, through which you can make out the man you will be speaking to.

He tells you he is listening.

You want it to last.

He repeats that he is listening. He calls you his child.

You can’t find the words you had prepared. So you stand up.

And you want him to remember you.

You’re hot. You lean into the screen, study it, look for the man on the other side.

And you stick out your tongue. You drag it slowly over the holes. You look for a path that will take you closer to him. You leave trails of saliva on the varnished wood. You slowly slide your tongue into each slot, and on the other side, he has fallen silent.

You leave the confessional, a splinter between your teeth.

You feel light. He won’t forget you.