Читать книгу The Weight of Snow - Christian Guay-Poliquin - Страница 19

It is the end of the afternoon. When he came back from his walk, Matthias stoked the fire, then went looking for a book on the other side. He reads a lot, and since I show no interest in the books he leaves by my bed, he tells me stories. Like the one about the two tramps quarrelling beneath a tree as they wait for someone who never shows up.

Every time he crosses over to the other side, a cold draft rushes through the half-open door. And every time, the draft rouses me from my lethargy and I lift my head to look into the great lifeless house. But I can see no more than a dark hallway with a light at the end.

We live in the annex of a great manor, in the summer kitchen. A porch with a wood stove and a wide window facing south. When the sky is clear, the light enters and warms the room. But as soon as the sun falls behind the horizon, we have to stoke the fire. Though it shows signs of wear and a few stains caused by leaks, the room seems to have been designed with care. The moldings feature rosette figures. The floors are hardwood. On the walls, you can pick out spots where pictures once hung.

In the centre of the porch floor is a trap door. It gives onto a crawl space. Matthias uses it as a cellar. He stores meat there, and vegetables, and everything that needs to be kept cool but not freeze.

The ceiling is criss-crossed by broad wooden beams that follow the gentle incline. In the summer, I imagine the rain must drum upon the sheet-metal roof. A sort of roll that would recall the comforting interior of cars and the weightlessness of long trips. But for now the snow piles up without a sound. When I listen hard, I hear nothing more than the beams sighing above our heads.

Matthias stands in the doorway. He looks like a navigator in the prow of a ship.

Guess what I found, he says, eager for my answer.

For a moment, the door gapes open behind him. The corridor disappears into the shadows and appears to open into a spacious salon. I picture a manor with high ceilings, comfortable rooms, and hallways branching off. A labyrinth of sorts: some rooms lead into others, but some are dead ends. A wide staircase leads upstairs, there must be a chandelier above the dining room table, an imposing library, and a stone fireplace in the sitting room. One thing is for sure, the house is too big for us. It would be impossible to heat, we would burn up our wood supply in the space of few weeks. Then we would die of cold after burning the furniture.

You give up? Matthias asks.

He stares, waiting for an answer that never comes.

It’s a chess set, he says, sighing. I thought you might enjoy it.

He closes the door with his hip. The labyrinth on the other side disappears as quickly as it appeared and the walls of the porch close in on us.