Читать книгу The Weight of Snow - Christian Guay-Poliquin - Страница 11

The window frame is damp. The wood stained by spongy, tinted circles. When it gets very cold, they are covered with crystals of frost. A little like lichen.

Logs crackle in the woodstove. From my bed, I can see the glittering coals through the air vent. The stove is ancient, a massive piece. Its doors creak when they open. This heap of black, burning cast iron is the centre of our lives.

I am alone on the porch. Everything is motionless. Everything in its place. The stool by the entrance, the rocking chair, the kitchen utensils, everything. A strange golden cylinder sits on the table. It was not there this morning. Matthias must have gone to the other side. But I noticed nothing.

Pain leaves me no respite. It holds me, it grips me, it possesses me. To tolerate it, I close my eyes and imagine I am at the wheel of my car. If I concentrate, I can hear the motor roaring. And see the landscapes go by, dazzled by the vanishing point of the road. But when I open my eyes, reality crushes me. I am bound to this bed, my legs imprisoned by two heavy splints. My car a heap of twisted metal somewhere beneath the snow. I am no longer the master of my fate.

My stomach breaks the silence. I am hungry. I feel weak and stiff. On the bedside table, some crumbs of black bread and the remains of oily coffee. Matthias will be back any time now.