Читать книгу The Devil's Paintbrush - André Brochu - Страница 8

Walking along with his pockets full of time, Étienne often thinks about God. He watches himself advance as if he were two people. He sees himself, advancing alone because the fact that he’s a Tourangeau, the son of crazy Lucie, sets him apart and makes him someone who can be greeted but not befriended. He pictures himself moving along the roads, penetrating the heavens, which close behind him with a rustling of leaves and a swishing of clouds. And he thinks about God. His mother often talks about God, although she’s not devout. She’s pious by nature and treats her creator with more love than respect. Étienne is the same. He has turned God into someone to talk to during his long walks. With the feeling of his legs beating out the pace, his body vibrating with each step, his penis floating in his jeans, the belt pulled tight around his stomach, his limbs stretching freely, a rhythm of prayer overtakes him.

At first, he murmurs silently, without thinking: God, God, my God. Then more words come: great God, great, high, and holy, my high and holy God in heaven, heaven, and now, because of this presence, he sees the heavens better. The sky is like a beast’s quivering snout, radiant with blue and white air cells that are also distances, rays in which the being without form exists, greater than all else because it contains everything, the means by which I, Étienne, exist. And Étienne feels proud, and, happy, he evades his pathetic outlook, his lot as a boy with no trade, no place in world. Now he’s not a child: he’s a man filled with the joy of living, and the joy transforms him. He is reborn; rather, he is born all new into his skin, minute by minute, into the clothes that share his nakedness like a second skin. He feels handsome, young, and pure. God streaks through him like a comet’s tail.

Houses then become benevolent accidents, heaven’s acolytes lining his path. He moves forward amidst bounty and blessings. Behind a window that reflects daylight like a ghost, sometimes he catches a glimpse of an old woman’s ivory head as she watches him pass, unafraid of being seen. There are such old women whose only job seems to be watching, like witnesses, everything that passes by, young and old, good and bad, the unusual, the unexpected. A tease, Étienne waves and sometimes throws them a kiss or an obscene gesture, depending how he feels. They never turn a hair, but their icy judgments will add to the weight of evidence continually being amassed against the family of vagabonds in the court of public opinion, the vagabonds sprung from the good doctor’s work like a punishment for some nameless crime. Étienne feels nearly happy, almost proud to belong to the race of wolves, to receive his life’s vocation straight from heaven, where a great, holy, gentle God loves him wholeheartedly, unconditionally, loves even his hunger and his occasional shame, his deep yearning for freedom. Ah! the air, the air before his eyes fills him with a serene hope, tinted blue.

When he gets to the viaduct that straddles the rapids, where the lake pours into the river, Étienne stops to ponder what to do with his day. He could go to one of the islands, hopping across the stones, and fish using the rudimentary tackle he’s got hidden in the bush. If he’s lucky he could catch a bass or pike. But he doesn’t have a fishing licence, and it would be hard to sell the fish. Potential buyers have been aware of pollution’s effects for a quite a while now, and they are wary: “A nice pike, ma’am?” “No, sir! Your fish is pretty fishy!” In ecology, wordplay often replaces logic.

He has another idea: he could go over to Laval West and make some money on the golf course. Then he could catch a train to Montreal. To do that, he’ll have to use the train bridge. That makes him a little nervous, has ever since the accident a few years back when Ti-Nest Laroche got killed that way. The urchin hadn’t counted on the express train coming through and he was out in the middle when the train started onto the bridge. The jolting of the metal structure he was clinging to made him lose his grip, and he smashed his head on the rocks that protruded from the current’s web. The current was strong just there, and his body was fished out well downstream.

Étienne makes sure no train is coming by putting his palm on the steel rails, which still hold night’s coolness. He even puts his ear to them, like a Plains Indian would have done. If anybody’s watching, what will they think I’m doing! He gives the finger to potential spectators and stands up, satisfied. Then, with a vigorous stride, he starts onto the tracks, taking two ties with each step. It’s clear sailing — no railway workers are around and the station is out of sight. At the bridge, he gazes down at the boiling water beneath him. Then, trusting his Indian genes to protect him from vertigo, he ventures onto the bridge. But now he doesn’t skip ties. He moves with mincing steps that make him look like a clown or a queer. In spite of all his precautions, he doesn’t feel safe: a train could have been stopped at the station while he was checking the rails. The fear just grazes him; he’s not the kind of boy to be scared for no reason, especially now that he’s past the age of childish terrors. The time for complacent shivers is over, and that’s too bad, since fear added spice to the adventure. Now, he’s left with only the satisfaction of tearing himself away from what he loves and which demeans him.

In the middle of the bridge, Étienne pauses to watch the spectacle of black and foaming water, the eddies assaulting the rocks and being sucked under by the current. The drop in the riverbed is so great that during the summer the liquid mass gets concentrated in a relatively narrow passage, unleashing all the demons of the element. The sky around him is now very blue. He stands above the void and, like his mother when she swims above the abyss, he feels the need to empty himself, to commune with the economy of water. He liberates his penis and empties his bladder, while the gulls circle in the July sun. Now, lighter, he starts toward the shore once more, wholly recovered from his painful awakening in that hot, dirty house, as if he had bathed in the frigid waves.

Nearing the golf course, which is bounded by high cedars whose fragrance, in the dense shadow, evokes holidays and forests, Étienne recalls the summers during his childhood when he hired himself out as a caddie. Back then, the trains came more often, and conductors shut their eyes to the bunch of rascals who crowded on the train’s steps to sneak from one side of the river to the other. Étienne preferred to offer his services to English people. They paid well and exempted him from conversation, which he showed himself incapable of. Yes, no, thank you: that was the limit of his powers of expression. As for the rest, his gallantry and handsome little face went a long way. He had an air of honesty about him that inspired confidence. One regular tenderly referred to him as my little frog.

This is his first visit to the clubhouse this year. Every year, he comes now and again to proffer his services. He’s a specialized caddie, meaning he helps beginners. There’s always some idiot who, nearing forty, decides to become an athlete and shows up with a bagful of brand new golf clubs and a head stuffed with dreams of glory. Or a wife in her thirties who decides to cheat boredom while her husband is off killing himself at work or love. Étienne has seen enough good golfers in action that he can offer some useful tips, correct poor stances, recommend the right irons, and suggest the best way to get out of a bad lie.

Annie is at the counter, a nice girl with an imposing exterior who is sought after by no one and consoles herself as best she can. She welcomes the young man with her most winning smile.

“If it isn’t my gorgeous Étienne!”

“Well, well! Annie herself! How are you?”

He places a kiss on her flabby cheek, which is instantly suffused with crimson. Her blue eyes stare at him intently, a little lost in the vastness of her face. He turns his head slightly to hide from her supplication. She inhales anyone who looks at her, sucks them in like a bottomless pit. Enough to give even an Indian vertigo, thinks Étienne, amused, picturing himself in the throes of grappling with this lump of fat flesh and sentiment. All the same, nice girls like Annie are rare; the object of her affections will be guaranteed perpetual adoration, not to mention constant devotion. For now, she languishes in her too-tight dresses: there really is no god of fat virgins.

“So,” he asks. “Are you having a good year?”

“It’s always a good year, Étienne. Golf is the only sport that never has a recession! The weather has to be really bad to keep the golfers away.” Her mellifluous voice emits a flood of tedious remarks that seems like it will never end. When she pauses for breath, Étienne jumps in:

“Do you think I could make a little money this morning? Do old caddies like me still have a chance?”

“You know, caddies are kind of out of style right now. The players all have their pull carts, or else they rent electric carts. Though there are still a few eccentrics around who hanker after the good old days.”

“What I’d like is someone who’s just learning and needs some help.”

“Hmm ... The pro had better not catch you!”

“Don’t worry, I’m in his good books.”

“Okay, wait a second, I’ll take a look at the bookings ... Hmm, no, those are old regulars, and they really like their golf carts! They kick up a big fuss if I don’t have any left! You really can’t teach those guys a thing. Then ... next, there’s ... yeah, maybe this guy, I’ve never seen his name before. He might be interested. Yeah, see that beanpole over there, coming this way? That’s probably him.”

Fifteen minutes later, Étienne is trying not to laugh at the beginner’s struggles as he tries vainly to get his ball off the ground.

“Can I give you a tip?”

“What? Yes, yes, don’t be shy. As you can see, I need all the advice I can get!”

The admission comes with a big smile, and Étienne almost recoils from it. He’s so humble, it’s almost shameless. Yet another masochist, Étienne says to himself, vaguely disgusted.