The Weight of Snow. Christian Guay-Poliquin

to the horses. If I really concentrate, I can still hear his raspy voice and smell the scent of burnt hoof, the fire, the iron. That was the only place where I could believe in something else. As if every animal newly shod could carry me somewhere far away. My parents died young and with them died their way of being, I took over the house and little by little the past fell silent. The flame had gone out in the heart of the forge. The newspapers shouted news of the future and fresh promises hurried to seduce us. A few kilometres distant, we could see the bony structure of the city rising. Dreams came from all directions in scrolls of smoke, there was talk of lighting the streets, digging tunnels, sending up buildings higher than steeples. My children were born, the fields fell prey to pavement, the church disappeared behind office towers. The family dwelling was lost in the corridors of intersections, fast lanes, and billboards. Everywhere you looked, cranes were harassing the horizon, a thick odour of asphalt weighed upon the roofs, in the streets the belly of the city was being opened up and sewn back again. From my balcony I heard the song of sirens. Sometimes I saw flashing lights speed by, other times not. The misfortunes were distant and anonymous. Then the children left and the house became very big and very empty. The rooms echoed with the ticking of clocks. My wife and I were alone to contemplate the endless construction sites, the sweaty foreheads of the workers, the rattling of steam shovels that lifted their arms like docile, powerful beasts. I remember the dust that floated in the beams of sunlight. When the grandchildren came to the house it was a blessing. My wife glowed with happiness. Even after fifty years of life together, I never grew tired of her beauty, her charm, her grace. But time is a thief. My wife started clinging ever tighter to the things she knew. Her memory wavered and her voice trailed off in the labyrinth of her words. She maintained an irritated, confused silence. Her movements became abrupt. Hesitation filled her eyes. I didn’t know who, of the two of us, truly recognized the other. Then one day she fell in the bathroom. I felt the end was near. The phone, waiting for the ambulance. They took her a few blocks away, to a building of elevators and corridors. I visited her every day. Her eyes soon lost their colour, and nothing seemed to bother her anymore. She started smiling again, and showed no intention of returning from her enchanted island. She knew I would be there every day, by her side. With age and fatigue, the chronology of life blurred. We distrust our memories more than we do our forgetfulness. I needed time off. I needed fresh air. I left for a week in my old car. Drive, see the landscape. See the landscape, and drive. Take a long trip, then return and see my wife, my head clear. A few days later, my car broke down in the middle of the forest. I walked to the village in search of a mechanic. Then the electricity went off. At first I thought the neighbour lady would come and get me. That was what she said when I talked to her on the phone. All right, I’ll get on the road tonight, I’ll be there tomorrow. A few days later, she still had not shown up. The phone lines stopped working. I kept waiting. I didn’t understand, she had always been a trustworthy person. I was desperate, I tried to steal a pickup truck, but didn’t know how to go about it. In any case, all the gas had been siphoned off and people kept a jealous watch over their supplies. There was no way out. I decided to settle in here. Then one night the trap snapped shut. They brought me a feverish, crippled young man. That man was you.

      Matthias is still bent over the basin, surrounded by a heap of clothes and a bucket of water. On the line above his head, the pants, shirts, socks, and underwear look like carefully sorted rags.

      My wife is waiting for me, he explains, and he stops scrubbing. She is waiting for my visit. She waits every day. I promised her. I have to get back to town. I have to get back to her side. I have no choice. I promised. I promised never to abandon her. I promised to die with her.

      Matthias’s voice wavers. He will burst into tears at any moment.

      Look, he says, pulling a photo from his pocket, that’s her.

      I don’t know how to react. I pick up my spyglass and scan the empty landscape. The snow gauge shows the same amount as yesterday.

      FIFTY-SIX

      Today the sky has clouded over and the trees huddle together. The barometer is pointing downward. Maybe a storm on its way. It’s hard to say. When the sky darkens we always imagine a storm is brewing. The chickadees chirp among the branches. When a blue jay makes an appearance, they scatter. As soon as it leaves, they return, one by one.

      Matthias brings me a bowl of soup, a slab of black bread, and a few pills. He sits down at the table, absorbed in his meditations, as I take my first mouthful. After every meal, he takes stock of our supplies and stands in front of the trap door for several minutes. Then he sits me on the sofa to change my sheets. He takes me by the armpits to move me. As he holds me in his arms, my legs swing one way, then the other, as if I were a marionette.

      From the sofa, I watch Matthias’s silhouette against the brightness of the window. When he raises his arms, the sheets fill with air and settle gently on the bed. Like a spare parachute. I hear him ruminating, muttering, complaining. He may be talking to me, but his words seem stuck between his teeth. Strangely, as my eyelids grow heavy with the medication, his voice becomes clearer. As if he were speaking to me in my sleep, his words mixing in with my dreams. As if he were trying to penetrate my mind and cast a spell on me.

      Before the snow started, you didn’t want to eat anything and now you eat like a pig. Eating me out of house and home. I was afraid you’d die of your fever. But you got away every time. You’re my obstacle, the stone in my path. And my ticket out of here. You can act like you’re made of ice, I know you hang onto every word I speak. You can face pain, all right, but you’re afraid of what comes next. That’s why I tell you stories. Any kind of story. A shred of memory, ghosts, lies. Every time your face lights up. Not much, but enough. In the evening I tell you what I’ve read. I tell you everything sometimes, until dawn wipes away the night. Like the book I just finished, where all the stories flow together and run into the other a thousand and one times from one night to the next. I come from another world, another time, and you know it, it’s obvious. More than a generation separates us, and everything points to the fact that you’re the stubborn, grumbling old man. We are both living in the ruins, but words don’t paralyze me the way they do you. That’s my survival work, my mechanics, my luminous despair. Are you trying to measure up to me, maybe? Maybe you want a race between two human wrecks? You’re not up to it. Just keep quiet. Keep your mouth shut tighter if you can, it’s all the same to me. You are at my mercy. I could play your game, I could stop talking, you’d sink into the folds of your blankets. You want time to pass, but time frightens you. You want to take care of yourself by yourself, but you’re not up to it. You’re stuck here. You wander through the depths. Even the simplest movement is impossible for you. You spit on your fate. You can’t get used to the fact that in the prime of life your body is broken and ground to dust. You’re wary, I know, but you have learned to accept the care I give you. You’re jealous of me too. Because I’m standing pat. Go ahead and look, and listen, I’m standing on my own two feet. Look, I’m twice your age and I’m standing tall.

      Matthias stops. I hear him turn and move in my direction.

      Since the snow started, the bouts of fever make you moan, and murmur, they drag a few words out of you. It’s not conversation, but I settle for what you give me. At my age, when people cheat, it doesn’t bother me anymore. Imagination is a form of courage. Look, look harder, look better, it’s snowing and we don’t even notice it, and time is going by. Soon, I say soon so as not to say later, much later, you’ll be able to stand up, you’ll hang onto me as you put one foot in front of the other and you’ll go from the bed to the sofa by yourself. From the sofa to the chair. Then from the chair to the edge of the stove. You’ll stare at the door every day a little harder. You’ll weigh your words and not speak them. You’ll calculate the depth of winter and curse the wonderland of storms. You’ll probe the state of your injuries, the depth of our solitude, the laziness of spring, and our food supplies. You’ll listen to me talk and I won’t realize it, and you won’t understand how you cheated death. Soon, I say soon so as not to say now, soon I won’t have the strength to fight for the two of us. I won’t be able to hide behind the slowness of my body or the few hopes I have cobbled together. But I will pretend. And I’ll go on believing in your recovery, the days growing longer and the snow melting. Over and over