Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 37

You walk along the street; your legs have never been so long. You are fourteen, the age of possibility, when we think we are immortal.

Your feet don’t touch the ground. You skim it and propel yourself elegantly through the space around you, claiming it as your own.

You reign over the world with a light touch, with disarming assurance.

You enter the classroom, greet your teacher with a sincere smile, and take your seat at the front.

It’s oral presentation day, and you have been chosen to get things rolling, which you like doing.

‘We are at war,’ you say, solemnly.

You are wearing lipstick. You thought that talking about war would be the perfect opportunity to wear lipstick.

You get the distinct impression that the words coming out of your mouth are cushioned. The news is powerful, but your telling of it seems delicate. You choose your words carefully. You pick them with your fingertips, but they settle in your mouth authoritatively and come out ornate, as if proud of having been chosen.

The whole class is hanging on your words. They already know, they are learning nothing new, but they are captivated by the way you honour the language.

‘William Lyon Mackenzie King intends to mobilize the Canadian armed forces and the economy to support the war effort. But in September, he announced that he wouldn’t necessarily introduce the draft. At the time, our prime minister said he was sensitive to the opinion of French Canadians about the draft. We are still against it. Despite that, this morning, he did an about-face … and announced the mobilization of all single men in three days.’