this way, the signs of time elapsing, trails in the snow that keeps on snowing. I spot hooves and claws. I study the migration of species. Traces of blood don’t scare me one bit. As long as there are no boot prints in the snow, I’m in no danger. Once my worries lift and I am certain that the Boots are far away, I add a mark to my 1944 Gaspésie calendar.
I look out at the storm that just keeps storming. There, right out there, the bushes, the animals, and the dens are being buried in snow, the ice bridges are collapsing. All around, animals have built coffins of ice. They stay awake by blinking an eye, as if they have put life in parentheses, and I alone watch winter without joining in, my forehead resting on the window pane. I don’t even dare stick my nose outside. If I were to open the window, my nostrils would freeze shut; they would stick together, and it would be the end of me. It is hard to bring the outside in. It always hurts a little.
There is no smoke rising up through the branches around me. There are no human smells (dirty, foul smells). Only a few animals know the way here. They are called wolves, cougars, flying squirrels, moose, and deer. When we come face to face, we look at each other the way we would look at a foreigner, with a mix of respect and fear. Sometimes guile wins, and it is better to stay hidden. We recognize each other by our tracks.
I take Hare’s body and press it to my chest. I take my chest and press it to Hare’s body. He spent the night by the fire, and now, even though he is gone, it is like he is here. I rock him and hear him purr. He digs a delicate furrow in my neck. Hare looks at me through beady little eyes set in his eye sockets, and even though he is dead, we still love each other with a love that cannot be denied.
Sometimes I take him with me to the cistern. The water, the heat, and our bodies pressed against each other make us forget that we are not of the same species. What purpose does a species serve, anyway?
I look Hare and his furry, grey pelt up and down. I grab his body, squeeze it, press my face into his carcass. The smell of his decay envelops me. With his big, wild eyes, Hare tells me it is my fault he has no more flesh, that he isn’t moving. Yes, I was a formidable trapper. I had loads of snares. I put them in the forest, hoping to collar the necks of the living. Preening animals let themselves be trapped; that is what happened to Hare. It was a long time ago, in the village of Rivière-à-Pierre, before the cabin doors shut forever, never to be opened again, and I lost face.
Rivière-à-Pierre. The name paints an image. I can see my village from here. Yes, I can see it, I swear, with my eyes that remember. The men bring home their bodies and their prey. Their beards are longer than before. The women’s cries are as plaintive as can be. Mother wears her shawl of misery over her hunched shoulders.
The memories are vivid.
But I must fight them.
But the memories are vivid.
But I must fight them.
No.
It’s not weakness.
Yes.
It’s a wave of fatigue.
IV
Before 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