Kamouraska (14 page)

I can't go on this way. One day I'll go find him. And I'll say to him, with a haughty air: “Well, doctor, is this how you let your patients waste away and die? Don't you even try to save them? . . . Doctor Nelson, I've gone mad. Doctor Nelson . . .”

“Elisabeth! Why don't you answer me? That's the second time I've asked you the same question.”

You shouldn't be so insistent, Aunt Adélaïde. My mind is taken up, you know. Day and night. Watching the growth of a giant living plant, spreading within me. Ripping me to shreds, devouring me. Yes, I'm possessed.

I have my one idea. Like those lunatics they put away. The ones whose minds seem gone, completely. Locked up, in chains. Still clinging, in their little world, to the wild, demented specter of their one idea . . . I never leave my bed now. Just lie there, tossing and turning, or sometimes too tired to move. Laying down rules for myself to follow if I want to be happy. Not to try to see Doctor Nelson for a time. To begin by making perfectly sure I'm not pregnant.
Keep myself utterly pure. Fight off my husband if he ever tries to come near me. Wash myself clean of Antoine forever. Cleanse my body of every last trace of his tenderness, his violence. Even the very memory of . . . Be born again, into a new life. Untouched and untouchable. For everyone except the one, the only man in this world, coming to get me . . . Passionate, pure, innocent! I'm innocent! Waiting for my love to come and take me, to keep me by his side forever. My one and only joy, this man. The law itself . . .

I'm sleeping in Aunt Luce-Gertrude's room now. Pretending to be like a little child. So utterly well-behaved. Patiently waiting to have my period . . . I hate Antoine when he's had too much to drink. I hate him when he's sober. I laugh, I cry, for no reason at all. I feel so strange, as light as a bubble . . .

“My wife is a bitch!”

Antoine gets furious when I sleep with Aunt Luce-Gertrude. One night he knocks down the servant guarding the door. Tries to come over to my bed. I scream and scream. A kind of rattle, rasping deep in my throat. Some awful mechanism set in motion. Out of control. Nothing human about it now. Choking me. Filling me with horror . . . The flash of a razor blade, just for an instant, right at my throat. Aunt Luce-Gertrude insists that Antoine had it in his pocket. But I'm not sure. I can't be sure of anything. The blade might have been in the room all the time. Hanging by a thread, over my bed, for all eternity.

Disarmed, shown the door, thrown out. Antoine leaves the house on Rue Augusta. Goes running off to Horse Marine, to nestle his head in her stinking Irish lap and weep. Swears to stay with her for good, to forget his wife. That scrawny Horse Marine. So thin that when she lifts her arms you can count her ribs. Like the skeleton of a ship.

One morning I wake up. There, between my thighs, the trickle of blood that will set me free. The sign. Unmistakable. Now never
again will a child of Antoine's come to life in my womb. Never take root. Never choose itself a sex, a face, deep in the darkness. I'm free now. Barren. As if no man had ever touched me. A few more days and I'll be pure again. And free . . .

I must go see the doctor. Nothing in this world can stop me. Nothing and no one. I've told Aurélie what I plan to do. She glows with a look of grim delight. Pretends to be obeying me against her will. Grumbles a little, then says yes, she'll take me. Says she'll drive the horses herself. Fixes my hair and helps me dress, without a word. Absorbed in a kind of strange, almost religious reverie. Brings me my fur coat, my shawls, those fur-lined mittens of Antoine's. Then goes to dress the children.

Wrapped in my furs, I'm shivering, shaking . . . All at once I rip the mittens off, fling them out into the snow. Feel a tremendous relief at what I've done. Thrust my hands into my muff. Cheerfully. Dream of throwing all of Antoine's things away. Lost forever, strewn about the countryside. His pipes, his bottles, his guns, his jackets, his shirts, his belts, his suspenders . . . How heavy the children feel in my arms. Antoine's blue eyes, twice over. A sudden spasm shakes my body, wakes little Louis, sleeping on my lap. Starts him crying . . .

And right and left it's “Good morning, Madame Tassy!” . . . And how are you, Madame Tassy! . . .”

The folks in Sorel are out to see you, Madame Tassy. And the
ones outside of town. To watch you go riding by, all pale and trembling, with that wild-eyed look of yours. You and your little blond babies, with their rosy-apple checks. A perfect alibi. No need to worry.

The long blue shadows on the snow fade into the spreading darkness. We've reached the doctor's house. Ever so gently the children pass from my arms to Aurélie's. Go back to sleep. I step down from the carriage, alone.

A voice, loud and clear, is asking me in . . . Here in the waiting room now. An old horsehair sofa. Plain wooden walls, unfinished, covered with knots. A small cast-iron stove, round and black. standing on giant twisted legs . . . I'm waiting for the doctor to finish with his patient.

Behind the partition, the sounds of people moving here and there, huffing and puffing. A jumble of footsteps. Muffled gasps. As if two men were wrestling with each other . . . I try to fix all my attention on the stove in the middle of the room. Amuse myself trying to read the fancy letters entwined with garlands of flowers embossed on the metal. Make out the name “Warm Morning” . . .

Suddenly, a scream from behind the wooden partition. Then a long groan. And a chilling, seemingly endless silence. A few moments later, barely audible, the rustle of cloth being rolled up carefully and put away . . . At last, the door opens. A young boy steps out, his arm in a sling. Moving so slowly, he seems ready to fall with every step he takes. He turns his pallid face in my direction, streaming with tears. Studies me long and hard. A kind of quizzical, melancholy look. Lost in wonder. He staggers a little. The doctor has to take him by the shoulders and help him to the door.

George Nelson is in his shirt-sleeves. Cuffs rolled up. Hair disheveled, as if he were just getting out of bed. His movements, quick and precise. Energetic. He casts a suspicious glance my way,
then strides off into the kitchen. Takes the lamp with him . . . I'm alone in the darkness. The doctor is washing his hands and face. Great loud splashes of water under the pump . . . He's coming back now, rolling down his sleeves, face dripping. Mopping his brow with his handkerchief. Looks me in the eye. A strange, insistent stare, not very polite.

“I had to break that youngsters arm so I could set it for him right. Some butcher went and set the bones all wrong. Really, this place is crawling with charlatans! Everywhere. Ignorance, no matter where you look. Quackery, superstition . . . It's a scandal, that's what it is! We should keep those medicine men from going around killing people. Give everyone proper care, whether they want it or not! Keep your girl Aurélie from doing her magic tricks on newborn babies! . . .”

The white of his shirt, flashing. He holds up the lamp to his face, furrowed and gaunt. Never at rest. Seething with rage . . . I look at him, watch for each spark of life flickering across his swarthy face. I listen to his every word. As if I myself were the object of all his angry passion. Waiting for its secret meaning to be revealed. To turn on me, forever. To shower me with the holy wrath he feels . . . My, my, Doctor Nelson. How you're looking at me! No peace in that look, Doctor Nelson. The blade of battle . . . That sudden pallor. That fever in your eyes. It must be the lamp. That dark shadow over your cheeks . . .

“Is there something strange about me, Madame Tassy? Something that makes you look at me that way? Do you think I go around casting spells? Do you really think I can put the curse on a woman's milk?”

He laughs. A dry little laugh that sets me on edge.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit? I suppose you're here about Antoine?”

I tell him “no.” If the answer were yes, I would have said “yes.”
No word seems short or sharp enough to do away with all the useless chatter between us.

“You mean to tell me nobody sent you? You've come here on your own?”

I tell him “yes.” But this time I'd like to go on, to say more. To explain myself. Defend myself . . . An odd, sardonic little something in George Nelson's smile — or rather in the whiteness of his teeth — staggers me to the very depths of my being. Won't let another word pass my lips.

He raises the lamp over his head. Asks me to follow him. Shows me around the house.

“Now that you've looked me over, take a good look at the house. Everything perfectly normal, you see? Just a nice little country cottage, like any other. Except for the books, that is. But I'm sure you're not one to go thinking that just because I have some books . . .”

Several square, half-furnished little rooms. Looking so painfully like wooden crates. White, rough, full of splinters. Books on shelves, books on the kitchen table, books piled high on the floor, books used to prop up a massive cupboard.

“Did Antoine tell you about me? Did he tell you how we used to play chess at school? I think he used to like to lose. He never could beat me. Never. Not even once, you hear?”

He's raising his voice again. Almost defiantly. Then suddenly, silent. Becomes very sullen. Withdraws within himself. Drifts off without so much as a by-your-leave. Absorbed, I imagine, in a silent, skillful game of chess, with a young blond fellow, beaten before he starts. I have to bring him back. Quickly. Break up this ghostly game . . . I love you wildly, madly, Doctor Nelson. Please, let me go with you. Cross the stream, back to your childhood. Back to the source. Flowing there, to my chagrin, all intermingled with Antoine's . . .

My legs are shaking. A shudder rocks my body from head to toe. I'm clutching the back of the sofa to keep from falling.

“I've come to see you, Doctor Nelson. Aren't you going to ask me how I am?”

With one bound he's beside me. Makes me sit down on the sofa. Goes to the kitchen. Brings me a glass of water. Paces back and forth. Takes my pulse. Unnerved. Distraught.

“Not ask you how you are? Good God, poor child! Seeing you bruised and tortured the way you were . . . Do you think I've thought of anything else since then? . . . Not ask you how you are, poor thing . . . For goodness' sake, why did you marry Antoine Tassy? Why? Tell me why . . . You're looking better despite the way he . . . I took good care of you, didn't I? I'm a good doctor, don't you think? . . .”

“You know how miserable I am . . .”

His whole face quivers. He speaks in a whisper. Won't look me in the eye. Pushes me away. His words, one by one. Like stones.

“There's nothing I can do for you, Madame Elisabeth. I'm a total stranger . . .”

Our giant shadows on the wall, so far from each other. A kind of emptiness, digging its way between us. Silence. Space . . . George is leaving me behind again. How can I catch him? I'm weighted down. Oppressed. Bound hand and foot. Prisoner of Rue Augusta and the town of Sorel . . . Oh, to break my bonds. Recapture my childhood, strong and free. That little girl within me, with the close-cropping hair, climbing out the window. Running off to join her nasty gang . . . What should I do, Doctor Nelson? Tell me. One word from you and I'll obey. Cut off all my hair again? Is that what I should do? Run away? Leave my house, my children? . . . Out of this world, if that's what you want. That's how far I'll go to meet you. Free, an entity unto myself. A stranger to everyone and everything but you . . .

“And you don't think I'm a total stranger too? . . .”

He turns aside.

“You don't know what you're saying.”

“More than you think . . .”

Silence. Again, a wall between us, smooth and hard. His schooldays, that flimsy defense, hurriedly dredged up out of the past.

“I never had any friends at all. Not as a student, not later either . . . But I used to like to play chess with Antoine Tassy . . .”

“And I suppose that's why you go riding past my windows every night?”

This time he looks me right in the eye. Furious. Mortified. Like a child caught doing something naughty.

“You shouldn't have said that, Madame Elisabeth. You shouldn't have. Really, there's nothing I hate more than being found out . . .”

“Madame Elisabeth” . . . He called me by my name. For the first time. I look down at my lap to hide my delight. Bend over my needlework. Careful not to look at my mother or my aunts. A quiet evening at home on Rue Augusta. “Petit point is done in two steps, diagonally across the canvas. First a vertical stitch, one row down, from left to right. Then a horizontal stitch, from right to left, up the next row. With a wool three strands thick, following the mesh . . .”

The green felt covering on the study table, slashed with knife marks here and there. That ever-present odor of sour cabbage. Mass, evensong, vespers, Rogation Days, Lent, Holy Week. (My knees!) The chalk scraping over the blackboard, the teacher's cane coming down on ink-stained hands. The barrack-room smell of the dormitory. The ice that has to be broken every morning in the pitchers. The tearful look on Antoine's face, bending over a basin filled with floating chunks . . . My, my, Master Nelson, the way you're staring at that big, fat, miserable lad! Why are you turning away? Is it out of pity? . . .

“Protestants can't get into Heaven, into Heaven . . .” Fifteen young fellows, chanting with ferocious glee. The gaunt, dark
youth they're teasing is wearing a muffler full of holes and an old sealskin cap. Rumor has it he's a foreigner. No family. He's learning French and studying to become a Catholic. But neither one with very much enthusiasm. Père Foucas is fed up with all his arrogance and disrespect. One day he gives him a thrashing with a hockey stick. Beats him within an inch of his life. But George doesn't make a sound. Not even a whimper. There, Master Tassy. That rugged strength, that's what you lack. That strength, so fascinating and yet so offensive. Two young fellows without a thing in common. Except in the deep recesses of their souls. A silent, premature experience with despair.