‘Here, eat that! Eat that!’
She throws her sunflower seeds, arm outstretched, another handful, and another, empties her bag.
The girls watch her in silence.
Mélissa is crying.
* * *
‘Look, Dad.’
Roxane takes her violin from its case.
She brings it to her shoulder. Slides the bow along the strings. A sustained, graceful gesture. A long, perfect note.
Marc, eyes glued to his daughter.
Love in his eyes, which hardly ever happens.
Another note. Longer, even more beautiful.
Marc’s eyes move from the violin to his daughter, from his daughter to the violin.
Sticks his head out in the hall.
‘Hey, come check this out, Jean-Luc! My daughter can play the violin!’
Roxane focuses. Another long note like a stream, perfect, delicate but solid, to the point that you could walk on it on tiptoe without falling.
Slowly, the guys file into the little bedroom.
A herd of men, flayed, the shards of a life, basement warriors, they all let the light in for a moment.
Mélissa walks slowly. She’s broken a wing and is going home.
Roxane, clutching her violin, crosses the street.
In his bedroom, Marc lights a cigarette and watches her disappear into the night. Hopes life will take care of her. Leaning against the window is the gift she gave him a while ago. His little boat. With some of its sails still white. Marc takes the sailboat in his big hands, blows on it. The dust takes to the air.
He gently puts the boat back in front of the window. Outside, the storm blusters. Marc turns the boat so its nose is facing outside. Course set for the storm. A beat.
Marc turns out the lights and lies down.
* * *
Roxane pushes open the door of the apartment block, goes inside. In the distance, she spots Mélissa advancing along the sidewalk. She looks small in the dark. As if she could disappear without anyone noticing.
Roxane waits for her, holds the door.
‘Hi.’
‘ … ’
Mélissa’s hair is covered in snow.
She notices Roxane’s case. ‘You’re the one playing the violin?’
Roxane nods.
They climb the stairs. Mélissa holds the handrail.
‘Did you hurt yourself?’
‘No.’
They get to their floor.
Roxane looks at Mélissa, who is trying to get her key in the lock.
She can’t do it. She’s trembling.
‘I’m playing a concert with guests soon. You can come if you want.’
Mélissa gets her key in the lock.
She pushes open the door. Looks at Roxane.
It’s like even her eyes are cold.
She goes in.
Roxane stays there for a moment. Then she goes inside too.
девять
9
It’s sunny out. A true winter morning when people are scurrying and looking up to catch a few rays. Mélissa walks to school, the boys hanging off her coat.
The prostitute corner is empty. Meg must be sleeping. Mélissa thinks about her mother, who is sleeping.
The notes aren’t in the cracks in the gutter anymore.
Yessss!
* * *
For once everyone is looking at them. Kathy and Kelly. For a moment they exist. Finally, a light is shining on their life on the street, the time it takes to scream. Kathy’s arms are being held behind her by a cop, who is putting handcuffs on while another one restrains Kelly, who is seething with rage, consumed – ‘LET HER GO’ – Kathy is pushed against the car – they’re saying she killed someone – Kelly, released, rushes at the windows, ‘IT WAS FOR FOOD!’ – who trembles – it was for something to eat – who strikes with her hands, body, head, ‘LET HER GO’ – who with a groan lies down on the ground while the car leaves with Kathy, leaves with what remained of her life.
A child curled in a ball is crying surrounded by the dogs. Eyes brush over her in a caress, then disappear.
The epilogue of Lost is showing on one hundred screens.
* * *
Meg throws up on a metal step deep in an alley. In her hands, a pulp of sealed envelopes, bits of paper damp with dried tears.
The stork is beside her, smoking.
‘I wanted to give them to you anyway.’
‘I don’t want to read them anymore, Jesus, it’s too much!’
Her voice is trembling.
She wipes her mouth.
‘So stop reading them. Save them for later.’
‘Later when?’
‘Just later.’
‘When things get better?’ in a quiet voice.
‘Exactly. When things get better.’
Silence.
* * *
‘It’s for my concert. It’s important.’
‘Well go practise downstairs. I have a headache.’
‘Downstairs?’
In pyjamas, feet in yellow plastic boots, violin in one hand, bow in the other, Roxane goes down the apartment block stairs. A life behind every door, she tells herself. Which one.
It’s cold. Opens the door to the basement. Dark. Goes down.
Frozen concrete, piles of stuff, spiderwebs, her old Big Wheel under a mildewed tarp, Roxane pulls it out, sits on it. Puts the score on the floor.
Okay.
Shivers. Sits up straight. Breathes.
Do-do-la-mi-ti …
And plays.
Sitting on her Big Wheel, in pyjamas, yellow boots on her feet, she plays the violin.
In the dark of the cold foundation of an old decaying apartment block, Roxane plays Vivaldi.
She’s happy.
• • •
At the end of an alley, smoothed-out notes:
‘Mom, I borrowed your lipstick.’
‘Mom, it’s my birthday in eight days.’
‘Mom, the apartment stinks.’
‘Mom, a lady from Youth Protection called. I did like you told me.’
‘Mom, do you remember the time I told you to shut up? I’m sorry.’
‘Mom, Francis has started wetting the bed again.’
‘Mom, I got eight out of ten in math, and I got a good grade in dictation too.’
‘Mom, I’m sick. I think I’m going to die.’
* * *
The door to Kevin’s bedroom opens slowly. Kevin steps out. The red cape around his shoulders drags on the ground. The apartment is silent. Steve has fallen asleep in the living room. Kevin goes over to him. Looks at his dad. Kevin tentatively moves even closer.
Slowly, he puts his arms around Steve’s shoulders, gets on top of him. Then curls up in a little ball against his torso, where he lays his head. He pulls the red cape like a blanket over the two tired bodies. And after making sure his father is properly covered, Kevin falls asleep at his side.
A moment.
Steve gently puts his big arm around his sleeping son’s delicate body.
* * *
Midnight. Kicks the Big Wheel back under the tarp. Goes up the cold basement stairs. It was a good practice. She’ll be ready for the concert. She walks by the building door. The moon is up. Not many people on the sidewalks. A few prostitutes on the corner.
The wind kicks up the snow. The prostitutes are in their short skirts behind a curtain of snowflakes. They look like they’re inside those glass globes you shake, like little elves under fake snow. The neighbour’s mother is there. She still recognizes her over her bones.
Roxane would play a concert just for them. A prostitute concert, a concert for lost women by a lost girl. The music would be just for them and would warm everyone up. Even when the music was finished, it would stay in their stomachs, or somewhere close. Like a fire that reminds you that you exist and gets you through the night.
Roxane goes up to bed.
десять
10
T
he boys knock on the bathroom door, but Mélissa doesn’t answer. They’re hungry. They’re hot. They smell. They need her so she stays locked in there. She has nothing left to give today. They keep knocking, but Mélissa stays frozen in front of the mirror.
A space suspended in time. As if everything stopped.
Two red fingers. Index and middle finger.
Blood on her fingers.
Small in the large bathroom. The knocking on the door farther and farther away. Blows, muffled cries.
Mélissa is all alone and puts her fingers between her legs.
Red fingers.
Mélissa in the mirror. She pushes back her long hair and finally looks at herself.
Eyes looking into eyes. Fingers at her mouth. Slowly. Paints one lip. Then the other.
Red lips.
Today Mélissa is a woman.
* * *
People are hurrying along Rue Ontario. Arms filled with packages. Eye level with the bags, Kelly tries to guess what’s inside them. Pyjamas. A plant. A book. Chocolate. Sparkly jewellery. A red dress. A bottle of wine. Champagne. Warm sauerkraut. A Christmas tree with lights. A fireplace. Music. Kathy.
A gun.
* * *
In the schoolyard, Roxane is talking to Anastasia. She’s getting to know everything about her. She sees her more and more often. She feels good when she’s with her.
Roxane gets hit on the back of the head.
Doesn’t matter. She continues the conversation.
* * *
In violin class, the students are listening to instructions. The concert is coming up, and the teacher in his white shirt passes around a sheet on which students write the name of their guests. It’s Roxane’s turn. Mom, Dad … Anastasia.
She has guests, like everyone else. She is like everyone else.
* * *
Her head is pounding. Even though she didn’t drink today.
Louise is sitting at the table, chopping onions. Today she is cooking for her daughter. It’s been a while. She can’t even remember the last time. Roxane is in her bedroom playing the violin. It sounds like the same note over and over.
Shepherd’s pie.
Ouch … It’s like cramps in her head; it starts from the middle and goes all the way around. Have to remember how to make it – onions – are there onions? She chops them into small pieces. Her head is pounding. The knife falls, she picks it up, bangs her knee – fuck – everything is so hard – the onions make her cry, she can’t see anything, the can of corn, the can opener, what order?
The meat in the freezer – have to take it out – shooting pain in her head – the violin – Christ, that’s loud – she doesn’t want to shout – she doesn’t shout she won’t shout – the meat the meat the corn okay the corn – drops the can, it all scatters, yellow all over the floor …
Louise sits down. A weak fuck on her lips. Then, head in her hands, cries. Cries for the stupid corn on the floor, the ruined shepherd’s pie, the goddamn violin pissing her off – why does it piss her off? – cries for her ugly, ruined life, the smacks she’s received, the shit she’s eaten, her daughter who’s messed up because she’s fucked everything up, even the goddamn shepherd’s pie …
‘Mom?’
Louise is bawling, her head in the onions.
Roxane cleans up the corn from the floor.
Sits beside her mother.
‘It’s okay, Mom. It’s good without corn too … ’
‘Noooo.’
‘Yes, it is … ’
Loud sobs move in waves along her back.
Roxane puts her hand over them, rubs her mother’s shoulders.
A long pause.
Louise slowly lifts her head, sniffs.
The two women look at each other.
Mirror.
Don’t fuck up like me. Don’t fuck up.
Roxane stands up, takes the meat out of the freezer, gets out the bag of potatoes, sits across from her mother, hands her a knife.
‘First you need potatoes.’
Louise wipes her eyes, pulls a potato toward her, starts peeling it.
Roxane does the same.
Louise and Roxane cut potatoes in silence. Sometimes they lift their heads and look at each other.
* * *
‘Reptile and slow … ’
‘Turtle! Turtle!’
The real point of the game is to answer with your mouth as full as possible.
‘You got it!’
‘Yesssssss!’
Watching a crappy game show hosted by a guy who smiles too wide, they eat their shepherd’s pie without corn and too much ketchup and it’s really good.
* * *
Salvation Army.
Marc in his small bedroom.
A mickey on his table less than three feet from him – a bitter oasis. Marc closes his eyes. He’s hot. He’s cold. He takes a deep breath.
The wood cracking, the wind blowing, the comforting fire – the ocean – its smell reaches him. Feeling alive. He misses it all so much.
Don’t do it.
Feeling his feet on the ground somewhere, feeling part of the world.
Don’t drink, you idiot.
Marc is trembling.
The boat on the window ledge.
Think of his dreams – come on. His house in the woods on the edge of the cliff perched over the proud sea.
Feeling alive.
His entire body, resisting, trembles from desire and crushing fear.
Don’t drink.
Don’t drink.
* * *
Roxane holds the phone in both hands, tight, as if she might drop it.
‘Hi, Dad?’
‘( … )’
‘Good. You?’
‘( … )’
‘You sound tired.’
‘( … )’
‘Are you moving out of there soon?’
‘( … )’
‘Oh.’
‘( … )’
‘Hey, Dad, tomorrow’s my concert. You didn’t forget, right?’
‘( … )’
‘Yeah, tomorrow. You’ll come, right?’
‘( … )’
‘Yeah, I can’t wait!’
‘( … )’
‘Lots of pieces.’
‘( … )’
‘Why now?’
‘( … )’
‘Okay.’
Roxane puts the phone down on her bed and sets the violin at the base of her neck. She plays for her father.
* * *
The violin is nice; maybe one day she will play too. Romantic music or music from some movie about the olden days, where people dance in a big room with big dresses and potential lovers while outside a war is starting. Or something like that. She could ask Roxane to show her the notes. She may be weird, but she’s good. She can really play.
Mélissa roots through a big case, takes out some lipstick. Red red red. She likes that one.
‘Fuck!’
The lipstick breaks in her hands; she has red grease everywhere. They say it’s made with seal blubber … Dying on an ice floe to end up on a girl’s lips. Not such a bad fate, really.
She runs her index finger over the red and spreads the colour over her lips. She wishes her lips were thicker. Smutty lips.
They already look better with the red.
Her mother would have wet her finger and wiped away the stuff outside the lines.
But she’s not here.
Black now. Around her blue eyes it looks tough. She looks like a rocker.
Her hair is bugging her. She has baby hair. Too soft. They’ll never believe her.
She pulls it back. A ponytail. Like her mother.
That’s better.
There’s no long mirror, so she sees herself only in little bits, detached pieces.
She slowly moves the little mirror over her face. Her big blue eyes are made up with very black black, top and bottom. Her cheeks are pink on her pale face. Her mouth is red and shiny. She looks a bit l
ess like a kid … Anyway, it should be fine in the dark.
She keeps moving the mirror around. She has on her mother’s little leather top. And underneath, fake tits. Stuffed with pads. It works.
The skirt is a bit too big, but still sexy. The nylons aren’t great; they have runs. But in the dark, no one gives a shit.
Slowly she brings the mirror down to her shoes. It’s the black shoes that make it. Shiny. High. Real shoes. Meg’s shoes. Her shoes now.
одиннадцать
11
Steve and Kevin are walking side by side. Kevin takes twice as many steps to keep up with his father’s. He likes walking beside him.
They get to the pawnshop at the corner.
‘Bye, Dad.’
‘Bye.’
Steve quickly adjusts his son’s toque. Takes out his keys, goes into the store.
Turns on the lights.
Knock knock. Turns around.
Kevin presses his face up against the window, makes a funny face.
‘Hey, you’re getting my window all dirty!’ Steve smiles. ‘Get out of here. Scram!’
Kevin takes off running.
The pawnshop window is spotless, and a cleaner is carefully mopping between the piled screens where a hundred times over Superman saves lives that count. He bends over, pulls the plug. Everything goes out.
Steve wrings out the mop with one hand and keeps cleaning.
* * *
Roxane ties a red scarf around her head. Like Anastasia.
She leaves a few tendrils of hair showing.
Pretty. She thinks she is pretty. Her long dress hangs down to her shoes. She has lengthened her eyelashes with mascara. It’s the first time. She has smoothed her short hair with gel and even put on perfume from the little bottle in the bathroom. Pretty. She thinks she is pretty.
She picks up her violin case just to see what she looks like with it.
The dress, the shoes, the violin. Roxane smiles.
Has to leave.
Comes out of her room.
The TV is off. She doesn’t remember the last time that happened.
The TV is off, and the shower is running. Almost like a normal household.
Her concert is tonight. Her concert.
The TV is off, and the shower is running because her mother is going to come and is getting ready.
Neighbourhood Watch Page 8