“Your finger’s bleeding. You should clean it up. How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know. An hour, I guess. I don’t know how long it took me to phone you. I lost track of time.”
“Don’t worry about it. Take your time. If you can’t describe what happened in the right order, it’s no big deal. We’ll figure it out later.”
“I remember that the wallpaper was cold in the bedroom. It seemed to close in around the bed. Then I noticed that the crucifix wasn’t straight.”
“Was anything else out of the ordinary?”
“No, other than the fact that it was incredibly cold. There wasn’t any light either, except for the light coming from the digital clock.”
“Everything was where it should be; that is, was anything out of place?”
“Not that I know of. I haven’t gone into the other rooms.”
“Did he have any debts?”
“H’m.”
“Big debts?”
“The tannery closed, sir. He was the manager, as you know. He felt like he was responsible for it closing. He didn’t tell me that straight out, but I know it. He held himself responsible for our jobs, our lives, our families. He held himself responsible for eventual deaths; do you know what fishermen do when they can’t fish anymore?”
“…”
“He sometimes got threatening letters from environmental groups; do you know how we’re viewed? Do you have any idea how the Europeans see us? As savages! Barbarians! He carried that sense of responsibility, yes, carried it every day. But he stood up against the EU and the Danish G. Greenland bosses. He’s Danish too, a Dane who learned how to live like a Greenlander.”
Fari lights a second cigarette, his face grows expressionless, he thinks about those first moments in his friendship with Jo, Jo hanging skins, smoothing them out flat with his hands, him sitting with the other employees to tan the leather, guaranteeing skins for each one of the families, once, he evoked amoq, the polar night’s attack of madness. During the attack, the knife buries itself within the soul, sharpens itself by ripping down the length of nerves, misses not a single vein; the man relies on nothing other than his heartbeat, he’s no longer a reference point, only a knife falling upon the world. One of the worst episodes reported was the story of Jo’s cousin, a jovial man, a man who loved to laugh. One night, as he was playing cards with some friends, his brother, and his wife, he became fixated on the hand his neighbour had spread out: hearts, clubs, spades, everything all around him went red. The guests were swept away in a wave of blood, by the madness of a hunting knife. Eight deaths. The man was never himself again. Fari thinks about this story, worse than the cold, the darkness, the sun’s disappearance, death, the Inuit fear amoq above all else. Jo perhaps thought back to this story too, afraid for his own soul.
Fari exhales his last puff almost in the policeman’s face, the officer understands that any further question would be pointless. He takes the folder with him, studies the wallpaper a few seconds more, his kamik left two rings of water on the floor.
The Danish employees come to empty the tannery, one morning, a few days after Jo’s suicide. There is no sun, only a night that runs on, runs into another. The street light at the front entrance threatens to go out, the thermometer reads -27, the men shiver in their mid-season parkas, a welder busies himself cutting the lock, frosty clouds of breath press against him, the night does too.
Fari thinks about what happened at Ittoqqortoormiit a while back, desperate hunters killed about fifty narwhals, leaving their bodies to rot on the bank. They had their fill of fighting the environmentalists, they finally broke down. The hunters would not have acted this way if they had not been angry with the eco-freaks. All this pressure ends up transforming people into beasts, Fari thinks. Juliann finishes stretching a last skin, Fari sews, needle in hand, he constantly pricks himself, groans, but the long train is almost over; almost.
The welder opens the door, feels about for the switch, it’s completely quiet in the tannery, it’s hardly warmer than outside, one of the men curses loudly, why did they already cut the generator? The welder starts to feel flustered, his blue fingers feel for his lighter, behind his back, a series of groans goes off.
The scene is a horrible sight, the workers are stunned, opened-mouthed, fear paralyzes their bodies, seizes their muscles, halts their respiration. A dozen tannery workers are sitting on the cold cement, one long train of seal skin links them to one another, they are tied to a rusty post, stained with blood in some places. The floor hasn’t been cleaned, the walrus blood sticks to the Danish employees’ boots; around them, the pieces of skin form a frontline. The men say nothing, they look at the horrified Danes. A few leave, nauseated by the sight.
The sit-in lasts several hours, the workers refuse to dialogue, to budge. The chain of skin fashioned by the workers and their stitches is cut apart with a hunting knife by the police, the dissenters are carted off, it all happens very slowly.
It’s not until the next day that five policemen seize the pieces of seal skin to chuck them into the trash.
Nunavik
Uri, the Dog, and the Guns
Grandfather is not a talkative man, he observes—a bird on the lookout—his voice he reserves for stories, journeys, giving the impression that his words are trapped in the ice that his silence covers like the snowfalls of winter. His wrinkled face accords him a wisdom that is inscribed only in the lines of time, on the bark of a tree, or in the furrows of eroded rock. Uri, the grandson, loves this face wrinkled like an old apple, tells himself that behind it hides lifetimes that could unfurl endlessly on. The old man gingerly slides in the tub, his shoulder blades graze the acrylic edge, he tenses up but lets his grandson take his arm. He is proud to bear the same name, he believes they gave it to him so that his grandfather could resonate on within him. Uri gently lathers his grandfather’s forearm, a long scar, like the fleshy body of a grass snake, runs along it, the boy follows the scar trailing up to the neck. The old man doesn’t say a word, he didn’t accept, at first, their taking him in, their watching over him, the last thing he wanted was to be a burden, another cross for the family to bear. Uri spends a very long time washing the old man’s hair, massaging his scalp; he finds handling his grandfather’s head this way strange, he feels like he’s holding a quail’s egg, like all the fragility in the world lies between his hands. Long foamy coils finish their course at the base of the tub, there is water all over the floor, Uri feels nervous, he’s always afraid that his grandfather will slip or that he will bring his elder down with him. The old man, habitually impatient with this kind of quotidian ritual, is silent; he holds his head straight and proud as Uri combs, draws a line in his coarse hair.
Uri hands him a towel, he notices a protruding spinal cord, skin as soft as a cinema curtain worn through and through with time.
“I think the dog wants in. I hear it scratching at the door.”
Uri hadn’t heard the creature who’s noisily sniffing the doorframe, his claws shredding the wood, his paws joyfully drumming. The boy opens the door and the dog leaps into the tub still full of soapy water. The mutt splashes the tiling, the walls, the two men, it kick-starts its little game several times, until Uri gives it a little tap on the side, he doesn’t scold the animal, he knows it wouldn’t do any good. Grandfather gets the creature out of the water, towelling it dry all the while, welcomes it onto his lap, the triumphant dog complies, hollowing out a place on old Uri’s knocked knees.
“He’s seven years old, but he’s still a big baby. I never saw such a disobedient dog.”
Grandfather studies the creature a long time, ruffles its head, holds it very close. The octogenarian prides himself on this privileged connection with the animal, he has always loved dogs, has always considered them full-fledged members of the family. He loves their way of being faithful and devoted, he appreciates the silly little games they give themselves over to. When he was little, he had a habit of sleeping between two big sled dogs,
to escape the world, to keep from freezing to death. Later on, during his days of hunting, he had his favourite, a courageous creature, a matchless hunter, a companion who, throughout the black nights, watched over him with silver eyes. Uri listens to his grandfather brushing against each of his memories, sagaciously dusting off his stories of snow, of guns, of the canine tempest.
Nunavik, 1962
Uri tosses a large chunk of seal meat in the direction of the six sled dogs; immediately, six cavernous, salivating jaws zestfully fall upon the red meat, the bloody hide. The sounds of splintering bones and clinking teeth resound in the air. He can hear sucking noises, contented grunts. Uri waits for his six creatures to finish eating before petting them, he gathers up the few bones scattered here and there, will use them later to add the finishing touches to his inugait. The dogs are insatiable, they clamour for another piece of meat, roll about in the snow, parading their bellies, their unsatisfied hunger. Uri protests but tosses them another chunk of seal meat anyway, a piece he planned on keeping for his supper; there’s enough meat for him to make something else. The last few days of hunting have been long and arduous, of course they can have some of my food, Uri tells himself. He approaches to remove their booties, the snow sometimes forms a hard crust that cuts their paws. He doesn’t want to relive the scenario from last winter when one of his dogs was seriously injured, even seal fat failed to mend the animal’s wound. Issi, his favourite of the six, the alpha of the pack, delivers a blow with her paw to the youngest to make sure he leaves some food for the other three. Issi is the scout’s flare, the beacon, she’s the one who smells out the danger, who wakes the pack, who leads the cavalcade, always dignified, a dog who slices her way through the storm. Looking down her muzzle upon the band, she leads, with a light step but serious eyes, she’s the one who cares for, warms the young bodies, covers the nest with her head. She was the one who saved Uri from certain death more than once, she’s the one who detects black ice, who often gets ahead of the winds’ tragic race. Uri keeps a piece of meat for her, later on when she nestles herself down on his knees, he’ll give it to her.
Right now, Uri thinks of Issi’s first hunts, the feisty but incredibly clever pup, the curious and voracious pup, the pup who was already alert to the shadows of animals and the shadows of the night. The isuraqtujuq’s black fur dashed through Nunavik’s frigid air. It was always Issi who, sensing a predator, sounded the alarm, who warned Uri that a bear was approaching the camp, she became the arrow’s point, and the eight dogs chased the bear into the distance. She could study aglus for hours, resolutely awaiting the seal. She trailed the animals’ scent, taking borrowed detours, she didn’t miss a single track, any hint of urine. Uri has lost two dogs since those days, but Issi remains. She has prevented many a death, many a chilblain, and even just boredom, Uri trained her a long time, his canine tempest, his qimmiq became a spear, a whip, a harpoon against the wind. All the village children are amazed that they can approach Issi so easily, she lets herself be petted, cuddled, doesn’t growl and acts as their guide until nightfall.
Uri takes a large bucket out and begins to wash his jacket, spotted with blood and mud. He feels springtime approaching, the snow, riddled with holes, sometimes forms little lakes in places, it exposes a few mounds of dirt and rock. The sun reigns again as the tireless master of the earth, the people living there no longer run the risk of chilblains, no longer risk plunging beneath the black waters of endless nights. Uri remembers a hunter he met one day, his nose had literally been eaten away by the cold, scars and lumps wreaked havoc on his face. He didn’t seem bothered by it, he preferred to set traps and live at the edge of the world. He refused to live in a log cabin, preferred to carry on his ancestors’ way of life, without fail he built an igloo in winter and slept in his tent of bird skins in summer. He refused to let anyone impose on him a manner of living that was not his own, he refused to go round in circles in a knot of cabins.
Uri loved the strange sentences the man catapulted now and again into his conversations: this land does not belong to us, one day the white man will take possession of our souls, man has never ruled over nature, he has been subject to it, if he thinks he can become one with it, he has not yet understood it. The man had lived through much, but the changes that were taking place in Nunavik made him tremble, he feared renouncing this fragile liberty, liberty as fragile as a gull’s egg, a liberty that had been essential to his survival. He feared not being able to stand before the almost glazed white suns of the North, so far off, mirages of glaciation or of madness. He feared having to renounce hunting when the body’s electricity short-circuited in panic, when his own rhythms set when he would cross paths with the animal. Above all, he feared that the Inuit would be brought down, down into an alienating sedentary lifestyle and that their rituals would be torn from them, that flags would be erected on the vanquished bodies and that they would pride themselves on the playgrounds now taking the place of ancestral graves. Uri sympathized with this man, who, though strange, was nonetheless interesting; he had almost never met anyone as insightful. This man had opened a breach in Uri’s conscience. Right now, the boy thinks that he would really love to see him, that the spring melt might bring the man. He hoped that this spring would be the season of possibility, when everything would fall into place.
Uri hears a bang! Deafening, followed by another, then a third; he can’t figure out where the sound is coming from but the gunfire roots him to the spot, the dogs perk up their ears, the six creatures are on alert. Issi was the first to her feet, her body shuddered for a split second, as fast as the bullet. Uri is sure the sound came from a gun, a rifle, maybe, people have come out of their houses, everyone is looking in different directions, wondering who in the world would have shot so close to the houses. Issi senses something, she barks, uncontrollably. Uri pulls her toward him, but she breaks loose from his hold, her barking resonates all the way to the village entrance, she’s nervous, she’s agitated, seems ready to spring forward. The whole village is reeling after the seismic gunfire; quickly, the rumor spreads that a dog was shot. Hearsay is exchanged from windows, no one dares to leave their home, the sound of gunfire has frozen the village in place. A second shot goes off. No one dares to leave, the dogs are howling at the top of their lungs, their noses have detected the smell of death. Uri’s dogs are not tied up like most of the village dogs, he can’t bring them inside, they’re too agitated, across from his place, Josie has absolutely no control over her team anymore, the huge dogs are giving a concert that roots the villagers to the spot, fear settles in, sinks its claws into backbones and softly breathes down spines.
Bodies tense up under fear of gunfire, the dogs are untied, they crowd together around the houses as though they’re imploring their owners to let them inside. One last gunshot brings the concert to a close. A man leaves his house, unable to stay there any longer, he heads toward the village entrance, several villagers join him and a few minutes later, the entire village clusters around the massacre. It’s a horrible scene; the bodies of three dead dogs, those that are alive are furious, drawing the truth of the situation from the ground. The adults stare at the long streams of blood snaking their way from the bodies, no one knows what’s going on, why three dogs lie on the ground stock-still. A few people circle the carcasses, like deranged gulls, they are shocked by such cruelty toward animals, they search for a trail, a culprit, a shameful clue, but no one breathes a word. A few women bring their children back inside, the cries and tears have begun their work of despair. A young man is talking to one of three police officers, they’re holding rifles, one of the officers is staring strangely at the carcasses. The young man is trying to get an explanation, he raises his voice, fires off a million questions at the officers, none of them speak Inuktitut and there’s no one around who can interpret, only Uri can make out a few words of French. It’s a matter of following a rule for the next while: for some time, all free dogs will have to be tied up during the day just like at night, they’ve bec
ome a menace to citizens as well as to children. Citizens must obey these rules, otherwise other dogs will be killed.
Uri doesn’t catch the details, all he understands is “tie up dogs,” his anger flares, he tries to explain to the police officer that it’s not possible to “always tie up dogs,” they’ll get bored and then they’ll really become dangerous. The officer doesn’t listen to what Uri says, the officer doesn’t understand his sentences, a mix of Inuktitut and French. He wants only to get out of here, he feels a sense of grievance mounting. The police officers manage to exit the horrified circle, one of them is still holding his rifle, pointed to the ground, a ghostly stick, a massacre has just created two distinct worlds. The Inuit have already piled rocks on the unspeakable carnage in their memory. Uri leans over the three animals, he’s not well, he tries to catch his breath between swells of anger and rushes of blood, he thinks back to what the prescient man loved to repeat like a dreadful mantra: One day the white man will take possession of our souls.
What Uri believed was the start of liberating spring turns out to be tinderbox. A wretched opera of growling and barking fills the village, a deadly wind seizes the air, no one dares to silence the animals, the villagers are unswervingly faithful to them during this concert of death. The dogs gouge the few square metres assigned to them, bloody prints, mixed with excrement and urine, splotch the ground. The huskies have transformed into dogs of war, a collection of wounds, they divide up into hordes of enraged and menacing dogs, sport coats that are streaked with blood and dirt. They envy the other dogs who are still free, being so close to one another sparks a strange chaos, the ghostly packs never stop slinking along the walls, pulling at their chains, like the condemned.
As soon as one of the villagers feeds his dogs, the others yap, hope for some of the booty, butt against each other’s muzzles, beset by uncertainty. Their owners do their best to keep them alive, they stoke the fires and take turns standing on guard, afraid of finding carcasses on their doorsteps. A few children try their very best to re-tame the big dogs; they are sometimes seen, with their parents, throwing seal scraps to the animals. The days stretch on to the rhythm of the huskies’ lengthy howls, the villagers grow tense as they watch the sky turn pink. They feared the police most of all, more burials, lives to rebuild. Every morning Uri’s neighbour, Josie, gets water and tenderly gives it to the dogs, it’s the only contact I’m able to have with them now. She can hardly handle the tumult, the dark noise of their pain.
A Blanket Against Darkness Page 5