Читать книгу The Weight of Snow - Christian Guay-Poliquin - Страница 24

Yesterday, the wind turned calm and fat heavy flakes began to fall. The snow continues to fall in tight ranks, in parallel formation. We can hardly make out the snow gauge. The trail that Matthias left over the past days has been completely swallowed up. A cottony silence has settled over everything. All I hear are the flames licking the sides of the woodstove and Matthias rolling out pie dough on the counter.

There is a knock on the door.

Matthias turns around, shakes the flour off his clothes, and rushes to open the door. A man walks into the room, covered with melting snow. He is carrying a bag on his back, and he sets it down and goes to sit on the stool by the entrance. He pulls off his coat and catches his breath. We quickly recognize the man, his face, his beard, his high forehead. It’s Joseph.

Matthias is happy to see him, and it shows. He offers to make him coffee, then tells him to get warm by the stove. Joseph thanks him, rolls up the sleeves of his woollen sweater, and takes out his tobacco. Joseph lights his cigarette, sending thick scrolls of smoke into the air. He gives us both a long look. Matthias puts water on to boil and casts an eye at the bag our visitor has brought, while I sit up as straight as I can in my bed.

And so, he asks, trying to hide a look of disapproval, how are things?

At his feet, the snow is melting, turning to water, and forming a pool. It is as if he were sitting on a rock, looking off into the distance, toward our desert island.