The Weight of Snow. Christian Guay-Poliquin

doesn’t have a fever, the veterinarian said after she took my temperature.

      That’s because of what I’m giving him, the pharmacist told her. That, and only that.

      The veterinarian came to me and said my legs were fractured in several places. She had operated in a similar way in the past several times, but only on cows, horses, and dogs.

      I looked at her and smiled.

      She ran her hand through my hair.

      You’ll make it all right.

      Then the two of them, along with the watchman, went into the room next door. I heard the pharmacist’s voice through the wall.

      He survived the accident and reacted well to the operation, but sooner or later his wounds are going to get infected. It’s inevitable. He will need a lot of antibiotics and analgesics, and our stocks are limited.

      They wondered who was going to take care of me. My aunts and uncles, no doubt. With the blackout, everyone was overworked. There was too much to do. Who else would have time to look after a gravely injured man? Care for him, feed him, wash him?

      Then their voices dropped and I lost the thread of the conversation.

      A few days later, my legs were swollen and my wounds were so painful I could hardly breathe. I was shivering and sweating. I needed help for everything. People came and went by my bedside. They covered their ears to keep from hearing my feverish lamentations.

      Twice a day, Maria came and gave me a shot. That allowed me a few hours’ respite before the pain returned to blur my vision.

      I knew it, the pharmacist sighed. I knew we would end up giving him all the medication we have.

      With the pills and shots, I managed to sleep a little. But when I opened my eyes, I had no idea whether I had slept a few minutes, a few hours, or a few days. Often I dreamed I was pinned to the ground and that someone was cutting off my legs with an axe. It wasn’t a nightmare. I felt a sudden liberation.

      My aunts and uncles came to visit me frequently. Even if everything around me was a theatre of shadows, I could hear them talking, telling stories, making jokes. Then, one day, they explained they couldn’t wait anymore. It was hunting season. A number of families had already taken to the woods. The electricity was not coming back and food had to be put up before winter.

      We’re going to the hunting camp, they announced. We’ll be back in a few weeks with meat, a lot of meat. We wish you could come with us, but that wouldn’t work. In the meantime, don’t worry, you’re in good hands. We were promised they would take good care of you. You have to do your part and work on getting better.

      They each said their goodbyes, then they left. I wished I could have made them stay.

      Some time later a group came into my room. The watchman, the veterinarian, and the pharmacist were there. Someone began speaking, telling me it was out of the question for me to stay here, in this house. I felt their eyes running along the walls, slipping to the floor, and disappearing into the cracks between the planks. No one wanted the extra burden. Maybe they should have left me to my fate under the car. Then the veterinarian broke the silence and offered to take care of me until my family returned. The pharmacist cut her off immediately.

      That makes no sense, we can’t have him in our house. We did what we could. We have other patients to look after.

      The watchman stepped forward as if he wanted to make a suggestion. But he kept his mouth shut.

      I can solve the problem, the pharmacist went on, in a way that will ease the burden on everyone. You can see how much pain he’s in.

      The veterinarian stared at the watchman, who was standing in the middle of the room. And that’s when, if I remember rightly, he mentioned the old man who had come to live in the house at the top of the hill.

      You know, the old guy who showed up at the beginning of the summer. He had car trouble, he was looking for a mechanic. Then the power went off and he couldn’t leave. He started living in the house on the hill. Sometimes we see him when he comes down to the village. He’s always saying he needs to get back to the city, and that the woman next door to where he lived is going to come for him one of these days. But she never showed up. Nobody believes his story, but everyone knows he always accepts the rations we give him. I came across him the other day near the church. We talked. He’s old, that’s for sure. But he looks in good shape. And he’s a lot more lucid than people like to think.

      Him? the pharmacist said, surprised. He tried to steal a pickup truck a while back. I caught him just as he was breaking into it. He pretended nothing was up, as usual. He’s a wily old bastard. But why not? We could fob off our injury case on him.

      FORTY-FIVE

      In the morning, every morning, Matthias does his exercises. With the concentration of an alchemist, he carries out a series of odd postures, lengthy stretches, and quick contractions. Sometimes he maintains the same position for several minutes. His immobility is powerful and subterranean. Generally he accompanies his movements with deep breathing. He bends, straightens, contorts. His gestures are broad and flexible. When he breathes out, you can hear the strength of his diaphragm, as if he is fighting, with great slowness, a stranger, a bear, or a monster. Then, without warning, he stops completely and stands straight with an air of triumph. His day can begin.

      The sky lightened some time ago, but the sun has scarcely made it above the forest. At certain spots its rays have pierced the trellis of trees. I take out my spyglass and examine the surroundings. The snow is unmarked except for Matthias’s heavy footprints and the skittish traces of squirrels. The other animals have retreated deeper into the woods. They can concentrate on surviving that way, far from our eyes.

      Matthias is making coffee. Since there is not much of it, he mixes two spoonfuls of grounds with one of fresh coffee.

      That was exactly what he was doing when I was brought here. Strange how clear my memory is of the smell in the room. Matthias opened the door to the veterinarian who was standing before him in the rain. Behind her, the watchman and the pharmacist were carrying me on a stretcher. Matthias invited everyone in for coffee.

      Fever and antibiotics had cast me into a state of lethargy that had nothing to do with sleep. I was in a sort of passive wakefulness, halfway between a coma and a coherent dream. I did not move, I did not speak, but I heard everything.

      Who is he? Matthias asked as he bent over me.

      The mechanic’s son, the veterinarian told him. He was in a car accident.

      The watchman looked around the room. There was a woodstove, a rocking chair, a table, and a sofa. A single bed bordered the window.

      You’re well set up here, he remarked.

      The house was abandoned. I fixed up this room in the meantime.

      In the meantime?

      Matthias hesitated.

      Until the neighbour lady comes, he said finally. She’s taking her time, but she’s going to come for me. For sure. She knows I have to get back to town. She understands.

      The watchman rubbed his chin.

      You’ve been saying that for a while now. Why do you want to go back to the city so much? It’s eight hours by car in good conditions, and you know, with the power out, you can’t get around like you used to. There are roadblocks everywhere, militias, highwaymen. They say it’s chaos in the city, accidents at every corner, the stores looted, people fleeing. Maybe your neighbour had a problem, the watchman said, weighing his words.

      She’ll come, Matthias insisted. She’ll come.

      What if she doesn’t? What are you going to do? Steal a truck?

      Matthias kept his eyes fastened on the grounds in his coffee cup.

      There’s no more gas anywhere, you know.

      I have