Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 31

A field of dandelions. Twenty or so men already hard at work. You hike up your skirt and get out of the car. You follow your father, who says hello in English to his brothers in misfortune.

And you get down to work. You have to uproot the flower, attack it by the root. You want to be good; you work with both hands.

Around you, the men are talking about this and that. English mixes with French. The vacant lot is soon rid of dandelions.

A man watches you work. His eyes on your skin. A refuge for his virility. A space to be male in.

Your eyes search for your father, focused, quieter than the others.

He is piling the dandelions to burn them, a bit of him burning along with them. He is already disconnected from you.

Your fingers turn yellow.

You can’t count on anyone. You should learn to run.

You used to like dandelions. You made bouquets with them in the spring. You thought it was a valiant flower, the first to grow, the first to brave what remained of winter.

A simple flower, without pretence. You liked it before it became the object of a make-work project. Before it made your father bitter.

You rip out the flowers with violent precision. You are avenging your father.

At the end of the day, a mountain of dandelions is burning. Even the fire isn’t pretty. It doesn’t even inspire the pride of a job well done. Just black smoke, sadly pointless.

You leave.

The Bennett buggy moves lazily along the dirt roads toward home. You glance at the Hole as you go by.

You wonder whether Hilda Strike could have been born there.

And the idea comes to you that maybe she could have beaten Walsh if she had learned to run barefoot in the mud.

You fall asleep on Achilles’s warm shoulder. His silence calms you.