Читать книгу Little Beast - Julie Demers - Страница 8
IV
ОглавлениеBefore I ended up here, I was somewhere else. I was in a place where there is no forest, no trail, no cabin. I lived on the riverbank filled with trawlers in a village that only the river bothered with. There was a school, a fountain, and a mill. You could run along the rooftops and throw apples at the gulls. The church bells chimed and sometimes the horns trumpeted. At noon, the sun beat down on the face of Christ, and it was like a revelation.
In the village, I was bound by the north and its polar magnetism; its power reached the place where the river lies dying, right there, at the foot of the mountains. Huge branches of the river stretched out as far as the eye could see to bash at the ravines. Its tides ate away at the banks. Worn-out fishing huts piled up against the cliff faces. Teetering, huddled together, they held their breath until they were smashed by the tides, offering up a few rotten wooden planks to the sea.
In the village, the river calls to its death anything that cares to live near it. For centuries, white birds have plummeted into the waves. Sailors and their sea legs follow closely behind, surrendering to the depths like wreckage. Whales – those virtually imperceptible giants of the water – martyr themselves on the beach. They lie dying for a day, two days, three days … too long, at any rate.
Every summer, Christians make the climb to plant a cross on the summit of Mont St. Pierre. Every winter, the gusting winds hurl the cross into the water. In my village, everything done is done in vain.
The dormer window in my grey bedroom looked out over the river’s rage. With my nose pressed to the glass, I counted the masts of sea-worn boats bobbing wildly, measured the force of tides, and feared for the drowned. Whether I looked to the east or the west, whether it was winter or summer, I was hemmed in. And not just by the river and the mountains. I roamed only as far as the line Mother drew. My comings and goings stopped at the walls and the locked doors. I was strictly obliged to watch the outdoors from my hiding place behind the curtains. I had to see without being seen.
I never went to school, although school tried to come to me. When the priest, the notary, and other authorities came to the house, they were greeted by Mother’s contemptuous silence. They would lecture her, but they always left, their arguments spent. Mother would tell me that I didn’t have a head for language or what it took to learn the classics. I expressed myself with my face.
Mother’s lessons would start at daybreak. She would heat water on the stove, then fill a basin until its thirst was quenched. The first sunbeams would come in through the sheer curtains on the window, encounter the steam, and die on Mother’s face. She would take off her nightgown and let the water run down her chest. Because Mother was naked, I would listen to what she said and mimic her gestures. I wanted to show her that I was a woman despite my face.
Carried by her tongue, Mother’s words permeated me. Her familiar voice took over my vocal cords. Her words thrust themselves into my throat and came out blaring. In the worst of my worst moments, Mother’s melodies became my language. I must have been made for it – it is my mother tongue, after all.
Sitting at Mother’s dressing table, I spent hours looking at myself, trying to make out the sort of woman my features foretold. I imagined myself a lascivious redhead, an innocent blond, a buxom brunette. But at age nine, the mystery gradually lifted. I lost the enigma of youth, my beauty in draft form, my promise of a work in the making. At age nine, I was already complete. The hint of apple that sometimes coloured my cheeks had turned to cider. When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I no longer imagined the future. I would grab the present by the scruff of the neck, reach for Mother’s cosmetics and creams, and hide my face. All women perform a comedy of manners when putting on makeup; I learned to be a clown.
I worked on enduring my reflection. I was on the verge of accepting that having to live with myself was an endless bore and that looking at myself in the mirror would bring me no joy. ‘Be satisfied with your looks,’ Mother would say. But I would repel everyone. I would end up scaring males: grimy old men and ugly runts alike. They would lock me in my bedroom and shake me, each one harder than the last. Only beautiful things are precious: those who have to be satisfied with their looks can be shaken silly.
My face didn’t belong to me. It took over my entire being. It came with me wherever I went. For me, existing involved my face, and facing the world meant showing it. Which is why, as a precautionary measure, Mother closed everything: the doors, the windows, the curtains, even her eyes when she had to look at me.
I was the only one who could read the passage of time on faces. Between when Father left and when he came home, his beard would have grown. Between when Father left and when he came home, I would have grown older. But he didn’t see me; when Father came back from the bush, he didn’t bother looking at me. He came back only for Mother. He came back to touch her difference.
I was always alone; Mother was the only one who ever came close to me. But her voice whispered too many maudlin things to ring true, truly true. I could see her tremble in my presence. She told me the kinds of things that one says but that don’t need repeating. She told me that the world is ugly and not worth the effort. She told me that you shouldn’t lift your skirt or walk alone in the forest, because there are dirty old men waiting for just that. She told me that you shouldn’t drink or eat too much, you should be desirable but let yourself be desired, be unforgettable but be forgotten, don’t let the sunlight in, remember the curtains, if people saw us what do you think they would say? The sun is for outside, happiness is for later, whatever you do don’t forget to say your prayers, and don’t bite your nails, always listen to Father and when he talks to you bow your head, when he scolds you bow it even more, don’t expect anything from life, anyway there is nothing more, climb up on my lap, come into my arms, take this slap, don’t duck the blows, and keep smiling.
Every day in the cabin, my pen flits above the cistern. I write for posterity, but also to replace Mother’s words with my own. If someone finds me, they can gather my remains and file my thoughts by topic and date. If, on the other hand, scientists eventually manage to bring the dead back to life but hesitate to do so as a matter of right, be they advised: I want them to revive me. I hereby give them permission.