by Abla Farhoud
Nzimbou was the latest one. Her friends called her Zim or Zimou. She not only kept her word, like the young people who had lived there before, but she was extraordinarily gentle and caring. You have no idea how much the slightest kindness, which would have meant nothing to someone in good health, helped to comfort Madeleine, who was helpless, practically disabled. Irene had written to her from Togo, and had recommended this beautiful woman Nzimbou. She was quite simply a godsend, an angel.
And it was this angel who introduced Madeleine Desrochers to the internet, which changed the disabled woman into a world traveller.
Nzimbou had come to Quebec to study computer science, a field that fascinated her more and more. As with all passionate people, Nzimbou’s enthusiasm knew no bounds. She had been talking to Madeleine about the internet for a long time. She had vaunted its advantages and multiple uses, telling her about social networks that could be set up and accessed from home. It was not that Madeleine lacked intelligence, but she found the world of computers intangible and hence incomprehensible. By comparison, fairy tales in which carriages turn into pumpkins, even the story of Aladdin and his magic lamp, seemed more plausible. At work, she had learned to enter information into a computer, that was the extent of it, and now this young Togolese was telling her that she could communicate with the entire world. For her, “it just didn’t compute,” as the Americans would say, until Nzimbou began talking to her about philanthropy and pointed out that the foundation she had set up to help children in Togo and Benin would be able to use the
internet for fundraising.
Philanthropy, a magic word, suddenly lifted her spirits, and Madeleine was all ears. But Nzimbou, who was a smart cookie, understood that no matter how much she talked and explained, no matter how willing Madeleine was to listen, it was not enough. She also had to see the miracle with her own eyes.
She needed to get hooked up to the internet right away. High speed, wireless, while we’re at it, and why not a high-performance laptop computer? With her landlady’s credit card in hand, Nzimbou made all the arrangements while Madeleine lay on her couch doing nothing, pumped full of pain killers, patiently awaiting the miracle.
Nzimbou enjoyed playing the role of magician, if only to see Madeleine’s mounting delight and amazement. Nzimbou was a good teacher – that was what she wanted to do with her life – and Madeleine was a good pupil, who was rediscovering the joy of learning. She remembered being in grade one, when a few letters magically became a word or two, and then a sentence. Now, as before, she saw a world open before her, wider and wider each step of the way. How had she managed to live until now without being part of it, without even having an inkling of its existence? Everything was at her fingertips. She could see and hear what she wanted, she could discover new things, study, look things up in encyclopedias, consult specialists, sign petitions, take part in discussion forums, and even laugh. It would take more than a single lifetime to see everything that was available. The only things missing in this great adventure were smelling and touching, but Madeleine felt that she had used both of these senses too much in her previous life.
Nzimbou was delighted to finally have access to her Hotmail account without going to a coffee shop or the university. She could do her homework and send the assignments in by email while Madeleine was resting. The creation of an attractive and efficient website for the Foundation was coming along. She had spoken to her professor who was very open to the idea, and he even agreed to give her credit for her work on the project.
The training sessions took place either at the kitchen table when Madeleine’s back and legs allowed her to sit up, or at the comfortable sofa in the sitting room next to the kitchen. One day, there was a moment of magic. Madeleine had said, “If you can see the whole world, show me your country.” Does Togo exist on the internet? Nzimbou had never thought of checking. Suddenly, she was afraid that she wouldn’t find Togo, such a small country to which everyone but Madeleine and a few people like her were oblivious. Two or three clicks later, the map of the huge African continent came up. Then she zoomed in on West Africa, and Togo appeared. She got goose bumps all over. In less than a second, she found Lomé, where she was born and where her whole family still lived. Everything was still there, just as it was before she left.
Nzimbou was much more moved than she let on. Madeleine, too. This little journey, albeit a virtual one, had made her understand something about the young woman, about her origins – she didn’t know exactly what. She looked at Nzimbou and, at that very second, it was as if she were seeing her for the first time. A current of affection and recognition ran between them. A sisterly bond had been kindled despite all the borders that separated them.
It’s crazy how a single image can arouse and expose feelings that are sometimes difficult to put into words. But between you and me, do you really have to say everything?
Françoise Camirand
She saw her coming from a distance. She stood out because of her long grey hair, her faded clothing and her tottering gait.
Jacinthe Beaulieu is crossing the street without even looking to see whether any cars are coming, and then she passes Françoise without seeing her. Her complexion is pasty like that of the Hasidic men.
Listening to her babbling incomprehensibly, Françoise immediately thinks of Jacinthe’s children, who are now big. They have been marked forever, even if their mother no longer has relapses, because you can never completely recover from your childhood.
Very quickly, Françoise goes up to her office. She feels the weight of all the suffering in the world, and she hasn’t had the time to protect herself. In front of her computer screen, she wipes away the tears and begins to work.
She had often seen Jacinthe Beaulieu, sitting alone in front of a cup of coffee smoking cigarette after cigarette in the days when you could still smoke in a restaurant. Sometimes, too, in Outremont Park with her son and
daughter, old before their time, with an unimaginable sadness in their eyes. They would sit close to their mother. They didn’t play like the other children. She spoke to them in a gentle voice, she told them to go play, but they didn’t move. One day, she went to sit on a swing. They followed her, and got on the swings beside her, which were free.
“Do you want me to give you a push, sweetheart?”
Françoise remembered the words, the sweet sound of her voice. Seeing what a state Jacinthe was in, she knew that she couldn’t give a push to anyone at that time. She was the one who really needed one … Her demons had taken over.
Jacinthe Beaulieu, whom her parents called Cynthia with undying love …
Life is cruel. There’s so much love proffered with nothing in return. It’s beyond belief. How can we come to terms with life?
Even though she knew that Jacinthe’s life was a hellish roller coaster, she wanted to write about it with a smile, to find a glimmer of hope in it. In thirty years of writing, she had learned that you sometimes have to stand back a bit in order to grasp your subject better. Like the painter, who steps back, squints, and stands at a distance from his model in order to see her better.
Jacinthe Beaulieu
She often wished she had never been born.
Jacinthe Beaulieu’s existence teetered between going through hell and being afraid of it. If a patch of blue appeared in the sky, it soon got covered over by clouds of apprehension. You might as well do without the sunshine.
At times she would thank God for the flashes of light He gave her, and at other times, she was damned mad at Him for taking her wits away without thinking for a single second that she needed all her marbles to raise her children.
No one had been spared in this mental fiasco. Her eldest daughter could be blown over by the slightest gust of wind, and her son was a carbon copy of her. Although she asked, why her, why him, why me, God didn’t answer. God, whom she continued to love despite everything, wasn’t talking. You could say he was mute, actua
lly. Genetics? She didn’t understand it at all, although she tried to, she was its victim, that’s all she knew. Fate? She wished she didn’t know that word, which she found so absurd. Fate was a double-edged sword, as she well knew from experience, it depended on which head it was going to come down on. She was the one in her family, one out of the five children. The sharp edge of the knife had been pressed up against her throat, leaving her hanging on to life by just a thread.
Just enough to allow her to finish high school, before chaos set in. She didn’t remember much about what had happened to her between the ages of sixteen and twenty. The baby growing in her belly brought her back to reality. She wanted to keep it. Her family had helped her and she gave birth to a healthy daughter, thank God. She had a year of relative calm during which her head let her live her life. Then she began going off the rails again. She heard voices once more, and she had to run away to escape them. After living out on the street, she landed in the hospital. But between the street and the hospital, another baby had popped up in her belly.
The medical treatment she got turned out to be miraculous. She began to believe in God, and in the medication she took assiduously, thanking God and her stock of pills for having saved her life.
Her head had given her a break for a while, but it was a precarious rest. Someone who has experienced that kind of meltdown is always on edge. Thanks to her meds and her parents, with whom she and the two kids lived, there was once again a glimmer of hope. Thanks to her strength of character, too. Jacinthe Beaulieu was brave. All she asked of God was to keep her from relapsing and to give her the strength to raise her children properly. She wanted to study, work, rent an apartment for herself and the kids, and become a self-sufficient and normal person.
One of her parents’ neighbours taught her the techniques of Swedish massage. Jacinthe was good at it and the neighbour referred some of her clients to her. It was a new beginning. Jacinthe had her fingers crossed. She prayed to God, took her medication and found an apartment on Hutchison Street, not far from her parents’ house. The apartment wasn’t big, but it wasn’t very expensive either. It was paradise! With support from social services to supplement her income, she had two whole years to look after her children, doing work that she loved. She enjoyed two years of stability, although she was always torn between latent anxiety and hope that was struggling to emerge. No one had declared a “cure” with a capital C and an exclamation point. But you never know, miracles are always possible, it has happened before. Lying on her bed, with her eyes closed, she would count the days since her last breakdown, and she would smile. She felt good, with her children asleep in the next room, and she told herself that all was well. Everything is going great. Maybe it will last. Maybe I’ll have a nice life …
She was taking her meds conscientiously, and her life appeared to be going well, when, without warning, disaster struck again and she was torn to shreds. That year, it knocked her off her feet with unprecedented intensity. Cynthia was devastated. Jacinthe was brought to her knees. She collapsed, and was out of it for several long months, during which she didn’t even recognize her children.
It had been the same each time, for over twenty years. As soon as Jacinthe’s life began to have the semblance of a normal life, the beast struck her down again. Her children were caught up in a hit-and-miss cycle of breakdowns which they could feel coming on, hospitalizations and grandparents who did the best they could. Worrying about relapses, afraid of not recognizing their own mother anymore, and absolutely terrified that she would no longer recognize them, they ended up damaged by all the years of fear, helplessness and constant upset in their lives.
If you’re ever on Hutchison and happen to meet a woman in her forties who looks like she has been to hell and back multiple times, if you hear her talking to herself or speaking to someone you can’t see, don’t be afraid. Treat her with kindness and smile at her, if you don’t mind. In any case, she won’t see you, because she’s too busy struggling to avoid the troubles that are looming. If she’s fucking pissed off at her stupid god-damned life, and can’t find any other words to describe how she feels, it’s because she’s trying to offend her God, whom she loves dearly nonetheless, her God who’s not very talkative and who’s just let her down once again. When gods are like that, it’s not really worth hanging on to them, is it? But Jacinthe Beaulieu, for one, believes it is.
The Diary of Hinda Rochel
My cousin Srully is going to New York. My mother told me, and she is sad because she likes Srully a lot. She wanted him to become a rabbi. “In New York, he will never become a rabbi,” my mother said.
I didn’t tell her because she was feeling too bad, but I know that Srully doesn’t want to be a rabbi. That’s why he is going to leave. I remember that one day, when I was still little, Srully came to our house to borrow something from my father. While waiting for Papa to come home from work, Srully went to sit in the backyard and took out a book to study. I went up to him, and got very close to him. I would never do that today. I was little and I didn’t know that you should not disturb someone who is studying. He asked me if I knew how to read and if I liked reading. I answered yes to both questions. Then he said, “Listen.” He closed his book, closed his eyes, and recited a long passage by heart. It was very beautiful. Even though I understood almost nothing, I found it magnificent. It sounded like a song without a chorus. When he was finished, he opened his eyes and sat there for a long time without speaking. I was standing next to him. I kept very still even though when I was little I always squirmed a lot. Without looking at me, he asked, “Do you like studying?” I said yes. “Would you like to study for your whole life?” I said yes. He looked at me as if he felt sorry for me. “You can’t study, not even the Talmud, because you’re a girl. That’s why women must obey the laws without even understanding them. They don’t have the right to study for a long time. I am lucky.”
He kept quiet for a while. He closed his eyes. He said, “That’s what I want to do. Spend my whole life studying. That’s what I want.”
All of that came back to me as soon as my mother told me Srully was leaving. I’ll never forget Srully’s voice when he said, “That’s what I want to do, spend my whole life studying.” Even though I was just a little girl back then, I will never forget. Never.
Srully
He was the fourth child in a family of ten children. The oldest were already married and had several children. He was next in line to get married. He hadn’t been keen on the idea, not so far, even though his mother had already begun to hint that the sooner he got married the better, he was already nineteen years old.
But Srully loved to study. That’s what he liked best in the whole world. He knew that it was honourable to support a family, and he knew that the community valued having as many children as possible. But he also knew that it was an enormous responsibility and that if he got married he would have less time to study.
He had thought of becoming a rabbi. But you can’t become a rabbi just because you want to. You had to be chosen by the richest and most influential members of the community. It was their decision, and there were many boys with ambitions to become a rabbi. There was nothing about Srully that would appeal to the elite. He blushed when he spoke in public. He didn’t have a good voice. He was skinny, short, and stooped. He was not a good speaker. It wasn’t enough to be devout, you had to be able to communicate your message, you had to be able to make the Torah readings come alive and arouse feelings of piety in the faithful.
Srully was very religious, but above all else, he loved books. The beauty of the books. The way in which the words of the holy scriptures resonated with him. He loved to ask questions, to try to understand, to see connections, to search for meaning, to find it and lose track of it again, and to search for answers over and over again. And then, being a rabbi meant devoting yourself to the community. It was a heavy responsibility, more onerous than being head of a family. To answer to this on
e and that, to solve problems people had, however large or small, to resolve disputes or settle quarrels between husband and wife, among neighbours and among brothers and cousins. Disagreements had existed since Cain and Abel and ended very badly, he had read these tales so often that it was enough to scare him off. You had to settle people down, steer them in the right direction, find solutions, provide advice, approval and guidance, and impose order. And the very worst obligation, it occurred to Srully, was that if he became a rabbi, he would have to represent the community at City Hall.
Just thinking about it made him unbearably anxious. Srully didn’t like any of those things, he just liked studying. Thinking and studying. He loved chanting. Whispering the scriptures until his throat was dry from repeating the same words, the same passages, sometimes until he was in a trance. At his age, he was among those who knew the greatest number of lines of the Torah by heart. He was one of the best at discussing the most obscure teachings of the Talmud.
But only in small groups.
He liked being in a small study group, even with a scholar from New York or elsewhere, two or three people at most, with the scriptures open in front of them. In less than a second, he could locate the right quotation to support an argument or fuel a discussion, and that’s what he liked. Finding a line of reasoning, an answer – that was his passion. He liked to argue, expound, find a satisfactory solution and sometimes reach a state of enlightenment, a point at which you are so happy that it takes your breath away. He would savour these rare moments of bliss knowing that the next day or even the next minute he would have to start all over again.
He liked all of that. He loved it with all his heart.
But to go as far as stepping up onto the bimah, speaking to the congregation about what he had learned with so much joy and so much effort, proclaiming in a loud and intelligible voice what he considered to be the truth, when the truth was actually so subtle and so variable, that terrorized him and scared him to death.