Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 9

Fifth floor. This is it. We walk down the long corridor. We are stationed in front of your door. My mother knocks. We wait. Footsteps. I’m scared.

You open the door.

My young woman’s eyes bore into yours, which are stony.

You smile.

You don’t miss a beat. You hardly seem surprised.

And yet. The last time we were all together, I was just born.

You open the door a little wider. So we go in. And you ask us to sit down.

My mother and I sit side by side. On alert. Ready to make a run for it if need be.

You are facing us. You must be eighty years old. Prominent cheekbones, thin lips, ebony eyes.

You look like us.

Then you start talking. You look mainly at me. And you wink.

It’s the three of us. It’s so natural it’s disturbing. As if we could just sit in silence and flip through women’s magazines together.

In a resonant voice, a voice younger than your years, you tell us about the neighbourhood, which is quiet, safe. The fellow tenants who don’t bother you, and Hilda, a neighbour with whom you eat sometimes. You tell us an old woman’s tales, but your voice and your eyes are twenty. Your smile too, animated, intense.

Your old-lady words shield you. You string them together while I search for you somewhere else.

Your apartment is small and bright. Books are scattered on the floor, as if forgotten mid-read. They, too, await your return.

In the kitchen, the sink is filled with dirty dishes. You eat alone.

If you had wanted, we could have come to eat with you sometimes. We would have brought quiches, fruit, smoked salmon. My mother would have set the table to avoid tiring you out. She sets the loveliest tables. But you’ll never know.

Now you are talking about your brothers. One of them just died. If you are sad, you don’t show it.

My mother tells you that she heard from Claire. Your sister who’s a nun. You laugh. Your teeth are white and straight, except for one. A rebel. Claire doesn’t seem to interest you, but she makes you laugh.

All three of us have the same crooked tooth. Have you noticed?

Then my mother asks why you left.

You don’t want to answer: No! Not that. Not today.

My mother doesn’t insist. We are cloaked in a thick silence. But you, you glide above it. Impenetrable.

I look at you one last time.

You have big breasts. Not us.

You have armour. Not us.

We are together. Not you.

We haven’t inherited everything.

My mother decides to leave. She would rather make a break for it before you can hurt us. You never know. Goodbye, Grandmother. You wink at me one last time.

We’re going skating on the canal. We’re on holiday.