Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 38

As you leave school, you hear the church bells ring. Everything seems a little off. An agitated chaos has descended on the city.

At first glance, the church square looks like a cruise ship. A hundred families are milling about in colourful outfits, their gestures random, their laughter nervous.

You stop, trying to understand the scene. Then you spot the two priests, attempting to put order to the milling masses.

Your eyes sharpen and you see the patched, repurposed grooms-wear.

The clothes have been hauled out from parents’ chests. They have put a dress over a nightgown that more or less matches. It’s a group wedding. There are only a few hours left to get married. A few hours to avoid going to war.

On a table, hard, white cake is set out, made with sugar ration coupons hastily begged from the extended families of the impromptu brides and grooms.

Aware of their power, the priests are running around and feeling useful like never before. They are dispensing for better or for worse and savouring the chaste kisses of those plucked from danger.

You watch the spineless, candy-coated crowd. Too much lace, too much laughter, too much happiness.

You tell yourself that if you had the choice, you would choose war.

Cries of joy merge and combine with the blackout siren that sounds through the neighbourhood.

They are playing war games: it’s a rehearsal.

People are not scared of it yet. The siren drowns out the music and the church bells.

You need to seek shelter; it’s to practise. The cloud of newlyweds slowly disperses. You take cover in the church. The confessional is empty, and you settle in there to wait for the all-clear.

The low wail of the sirens creeps into the church. It seems muffled, as if it hadn’t been invited in.

You fall asleep.

There is a creak and you jump.

‘Hello?’

The voice of the priest.

‘My child, did you want to confess?’

You sit up straight.

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘I committed obscene acts, Father.’

‘On yourself or on someone else?’

‘On you, Father.’

You smile. You like the silence that follows.