what will they think I’m doing! He gives the finger to potential spectators and stands up, satisfied. Then, with a vigorous stride, he starts onto the tracks, taking two ties with each step. It’s clear sailing — no railway workers are around and the station is out of sight. At the bridge, he gazes down at the boiling water beneath him. Then, trusting his Indian genes to protect him from vertigo, he ventures onto the bridge. But now he doesn’t skip ties. He moves with mincing steps that make him look like a clown or a queer. In spite of all his precautions, he doesn’t feel safe: a train could have been stopped at the station while he was checking the rails. The fear just grazes him; he’s not the kind of boy to be scared for no reason, especially now that he’s past the age of childish terrors. The time for complacent shivers is over, and that’s too bad, since fear added spice to the adventure. Now, he’s left with only the satisfaction of tearing himself away from what he loves and which demeans him.
In the middle of the bridge, Étienne pauses to watch the spectacle of black and foaming water, the eddies assaulting the rocks and being sucked under by the current. The drop in the riverbed is so great that during the summer the liquid mass gets concentrated in a relatively narrow passage, unleashing all the demons of the element. The sky around him is now very blue. He stands above the void and, like his mother when she swims above the abyss, he feels the need to empty himself, to commune with the economy of water. He liberates his penis and empties his bladder, while the gulls circle in the July sun. Now, lighter, he starts toward the shore once more, wholly recovered from his painful awakening in that hot, dirty house, as if he had bathed in the frigid waves.
Nearing the golf course, which is bounded by high cedars whose fragrance, in the dense shadow, evokes holidays and forests, Étienne recalls the summers during his childhood when he hired himself out as a caddie. Back then, the trains came more often, and conductors shut their eyes to the bunch of rascals who crowded on the train’s steps to sneak from one side of the river to the other. Étienne preferred to offer his services to English people. They paid well and exempted him from conversation, which he showed himself incapable of. Yes, no, thank you: that was the limit of his powers of expression. As for the rest, his gallantry and handsome little face went a long way. He had an air of honesty about him that inspired confidence. One regular tenderly referred to him as my little frog.
This is his first visit to the clubhouse this year. Every year, he comes now and again to proffer his services. He’s a specialized caddie, meaning he helps beginners. There’s always some idiot who, nearing forty, decides to become an athlete and shows up with a bagful of brand new golf clubs and a head stuffed with dreams of glory. Or a wife in her thirties who decides to cheat boredom while her husband is off killing himself at work or love. Étienne has seen enough good golfers in action that he can offer some useful tips, correct poor stances, recommend the right irons, and suggest the best way to get out of a bad lie.
Annie is at the counter, a nice girl with an imposing exterior who is sought after by no one and consoles herself as best she can. She welcomes the young man with her most winning smile.
“If it isn’t my gorgeous Étienne!”
“Well, well! Annie herself! How are you?”
He places a kiss on her flabby cheek, which is instantly suffused with crimson. Her blue eyes stare at him intently, a little lost in the vastness of her face. He turns his head slightly to hide from her supplication. She inhales anyone who looks at her, sucks them in like a bottomless pit. Enough to give even an Indian vertigo, thinks Étienne, amused, picturing himself in the throes of grappling with this lump of fat flesh and sentiment. All the same, nice girls like Annie are rare; the object of her affections will be guaranteed perpetual adoration, not to mention constant devotion. For now, she languishes in her too-tight dresses: there really is no god of fat virgins.
“So,” he asks. “Are you having a good year?”
“It’s always a good year, Étienne. Golf is the only sport that never has a recession! The weather has to be really bad to keep the golfers away.” Her mellifluous voice emits a flood of tedious remarks that seems like it will never end. When she pauses for breath, Étienne jumps in:
“Do you think I could make a little money this morning? Do old caddies like me still have a chance?”
“You know, caddies are kind of out of style right now. The players all have their pull carts, or else they rent electric carts. Though there are still a few eccentrics around who hanker after the good old days.”
“What I’d like is someone who’s just learning and needs some help.”
“Hmm ... The pro had better not catch you!”
“Don’t worry, I’m in his good books.”
“Okay, wait a second, I’ll take a look at the bookings ... Hmm, no, those are old regulars, and they really like their golf carts! They kick up a big fuss if I don’t have any left! You really can’t teach those guys a thing. Then ... next, there’s ... yeah, maybe this guy, I’ve never seen his name before. He might be interested. Yeah, see that beanpole over there, coming this way? That’s probably him.”
Fifteen minutes later, Étienne is trying not to laugh at the beginner’s struggles as he tries vainly to get his ball off the ground.
“Can I give you a tip?”
“What? Yes, yes, don’t be shy. As you can see, I need all the advice I can get!”
The admission comes with a big smile, and Étienne almost recoils from it. He’s so humble, it’s almost shameless. Yet another masochist, Étienne says to himself, vaguely disgusted.
5
Father Lanthier is driving slowly toward the presbytery, his beautiful panama glued to his sinner’s head. For a moment, he wonders whether he should instantly go and seek absolution from one of his colleagues, but he pictures himself in clothes defiled with the sweat of lust and longs only for icy water with which to scour away his vile sin. O Lord! How could he? At his age, with his experience, how could he have fallen for that witch’s game? Yes, she’s a witch, with the black cauldron of her sex, her great laughing lips with crooked teeth! He sees himself between the vampire’s legs. Forgive me, Lord, forgive me for offending You! He prays, but the words carry the smell of flesh and hair; the abominably soft sensation of a woman’s belly brushing against his — a belly that bathes daily in the river’s silty water — tugs at his groin. O God, such softness! Never with Marthe, his housekeeper, has he known such complete delight. Marthe is simply a matter of hygiene, a monthly affair that has no further meaning and with which both God and the confessional are well acquainted. But Lucie! This is woman in all her horror! Woman as whore, as cunt. The hideous word returns to his lips ceaselessly, tainting them forever. Cunt!
He enters the presbytery like a hurricane and heads for his apartments, but Marthe, who had been on the lookout for him, intercepts him.
“Father, there’s a man waiting for you. He’s been here for almost an hour for a birth certificate.”
“The office opens at one-thirty. You know that.”
“Yes, but he’s really in a hurry. He came all the way from Montreal.”
“All right, I’ll take care of it.”
There’s no time for solitary contemplation of his sin. His impure hands have touched the beautiful, sweet abomination; his hands, still glazed by pleasure, will perform the office of the priest, or rather the bureaucrat in charge of an administrative department that registers births and deaths, marriages and baptisms, all the acts that humans use to certify their presence on earth or their departure to the hereafter.
“You are ... ?
“Vincent Lemire. Forgive me for coming at the wrong time, but I need a birth certificate urgently.”
The man is in his thirties and fairly well dressed. He speaks correctly and with a certain ease. Could be in accounting, or insurance ... As he fills out the certificate, Father Lanthier looks him over discreetly and wonders if he, too, is