Little Beast. Julie Demers

in there, surviving, lying dormant within us. Nonsense is surprising at first, but after a bit there is nothing surprising about it, and soon it makes every gesture not so innocent. I wash my hands. I scrub my nails. I brighten my complexion. I don’t yawn like I used to. I don’t sneeze like I used to. I don’t talk, I don’t laugh, I don’t play anymore. Constantly, at every moment, I put my hand in front of my mouth because putting your hand in front of your mouth is supposed to change everything.

      And one day the passersby no longer stopped in front of the porch. They looked down at the ground but they still eyed us; they closed their mouths but showed their teeth. I thought we would finally get a bit of peace, but it was not to be because Mother kept opening her mouth. And it kept on. It started over, only more so: Don’t get your clothes dirty (particularly on Sunday). Watch you don’t stain them (particularly on Sunday). You have to be careful not to show your underwear (even if it’s beautiful). You have to be polite and say ‘hello’ and not ‘hi’ like a boor, say ‘excuse me’ and not ‘whoops’ like a boor. You don’t have to suffer to be beautiful but be beautiful to suffer, always write in cursive script (because it looks neater), always smile with your mouth closed (because it looks neater), always lower your eyes in front of men and be charming honest virtuous reserved timid docile. Don’t complain if there is violence at lunch. Be fresh and ready for anything and when I say anything, I mean anything.

      But fear not, no no no. Our village is the best village in the world, and our world is the best world there is. But just think about that for a minute. We have always lived in a village. So how can we not be favourably disposed to it? How can we not love it from the bottom of our hearts? How can we not cherish it like we cherish a mother? Here’s my theory: the love we feel for Rivière-à-Pierre results from an emotional attachment. If you love Rivière-à-Pierre unconditionally, it’s because you haven’t cut the umbilical cord. I cut the cord posthaste, and now my village makes me sick. It generates deep hostility in me. I think the whole world should agree that the village leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. I will hear no further argument: the village is ugly. A new verifiable fact, an accepted idea, a universal truth. Yes.