***
Claude did his best, in the short time available, to set up the room in his Toronto apartment where he would give massages. When he first arrived in the city, he had been unsure whether he wanted to take up the profession again, and so had merely stored his equipment in the room where, should he ever decide to do so, he could exercise his practice. As he shut the door to the room, he had sensed the gesture might be final. This was, by no means, the first period of freedom he had allowed himself. All his life, Claude had been careful not to go forward blindly, maintaining for himself and in himself a space where something new might arise, the sort of thing that comes as long as we reach out to it, that takes shape without ever being nameable or definite. Because in the continuum that extends between what is minutely indivisible and what is elusively omnipresent, something new is always taking shape.
It was this unknowable side of life that Claude was addressing when he prepared the room where he would receive the stranger from the bar, to whom he implicitly offered his services. Strange gesture, indeed. Claude does not really know why he offered the invitation. He realized this as he was doing it, as though someone else were acting through him. In any case, and even though he senses this first session will also be the last, Claude will put his whole heart into it. Having always done his work seriously, he could not bear to perform his final act in a half-finished place, in a room where idleness was already apparent. He has, therefore, done his best to make the room impeccable, as though it had always existed, would always exist. Because, in fact, as Claude well knows, it does exist forever in the mind of the customer who comes.
***
Because of the congenital nature of celiac disease, it is highly unlikely that the events which marked the end of 1953 and the beginning of 1954 had more than a minor effect on Baby M. The importance of the events that spanned her hospital stay in July 1954 is also difficult to measure. Aside from the agreement that put an end to the Trieste conflict, l’Évangéline had covered the talks aimed at reestablishing peace in Indochina and the continuing nuclear tests by the Americans in the Bikini and Eniwetok islands. The Acadian daily also reported the euphoria in Great Britain, following the end of meat rationing, which dated back to the start of the Second World War. The ghost of that war continued to haunt people’s minds, if only because the conflict had allowed the Communists to demonstrate their determination. In Great Britain, Winston Churchill continued to preach a hard line against the Reds, and he made certain that Great Britain joined the United States in opposing the admission of Red China to the United Nations. A few countries, including India and New Zealand, denounced this opposition, and a large number of North Americans agreed. These North Americans were beginning to feel that “anti-Communist paranoia and McCarthyist stupidity” had gone on long enough.
As far as the Moncton region was concerned, there was not much, in 1954, to get excited about. Were it not for the sales on hats at Creaghan’s (all prices had been cut, even those of white hats) and dresses, coats, and suits at Peake’s, things would have been at a complete standstill. One had to look to Shediac to find a more exciting event: the Lobster Festival. A little further, in Percé, a soon-to-be famous trial was beginning: a prospector named Coffin had been accused of killing three Americans on a bear hunt in the Gaspé. The discovery of the three bodies, in July 1953, had made the top ten list of the year’s events in Canada. The news that the celebrated Dionne quintuplets would once again be reunited also caused a stir. A bit bony but smiling, after her nine months with the Servantes du Très Saint-Sacrement of Québec, Marie Dionne explained that boredom and loss of appetite had forced her to leave the cloister. She was going home for the summer, to rest and reflect on her future. She would not rule out a return to the nuns, but her comment, “it was awfully boring,” left little doubt in anyone’s mind as to the outcome.
***
Still seated in her friend Brigitte’s office, Élizabeth senses that this silence has lasted long enough and something must now happen. She feels she has reached the end of this particular mental state. There is nothing more to be gained or learned from it, at least for the moment. This impossibility of going any further reminds her of the sea, when it withdraws to its furthest point from the coast, leaving large expanses of bare wet sand behind. Élizabeth can feel the sensation of the hard, damp sand beneath her feet. She can see the sea in the distance, having filled its lungs in one long deep breath, now preparing to return to the shore. With a kind of languor. And some hesitation. Advancing and retreating. But, slyly, each time advancing a little more than it retreats. As though it were trying to outwit something, something too predictable perhaps.
Suddenly Élizabeth feels fine. As though she were relaxing at the thought of herself there, on the damp sand, watching the sea come in. Suddenly it is as though her whole life had been a long preparation for some inevitable return. She breathes, replenishing herself by watching the sea and sensing, at her side, all those who, like her, wait by the edge for the indomitable to return and take its place in the contour of the shoreline. Because the entire coast seems always to be turned towards this eternal return, as though all of our lives were but a long preparation for an encounter. Evidence of something to come. As certainly as cliffs rise up at the water’s edge. A proof that the future, though it remains hidden from us, is predestined.
And so, Élizabeth’s road back to Moncton, and to the sea. To a kind of end of the earth, but where she feels reborn. And somehow more definite this time. More conscious. To the point that even her name seems less strange to her now. Élizabeth. The entanglement of being, in the image of that Acadian entanglement, rolling along free and easy, and which one can only admire as it passes. Like a vagabond on the road. Heading towards his next destination. Which may turn out to be a detour. A detour which, in the end, does not matter, since he carries his roots with him. Which one can always try to untangle from the rest. If one is so inclined. An often tedious enterprise. Attributable to the novel. If the novel could. Or an illness. Whether major or common. Or a mystery. The mystery of origins. Which every life must probe.
***
Neither distant events nor intensive care seemed to have any effect on Baby M.’s health in the days which followed her admission to the hospital. The child continued her day-to-day peristaltic routine, oblivious to all, and assailing the olfactory sensibilities of any who ventured near. In fact, aside from her intestinal battles which certainly tired her out, Baby M. seemed content to whimper from time to time, to sleep and eat, to be washed and cared for like a real baby. She manifested no inclination and seemed to make no effort to get better. Those who followed her progress closely could easily see there was nothing to do but wait. No one could guess what would cause a breakthrough, but there could be no doubt it would have to come with time.
Time, therefore, had become the main ally of the doctor, Nurse Vautour, the committed scriptor father, and the queen and martyr mother. Each recognized time as absolute master of the situation, taking precedence over all other considerations and intentions, good or bad. Each dedicated her or himself to this belief, as to a virtue, patiently and without expecting anything in return. If the reward came, so be it. Baby M.’s life, whatever its length, would be complete. It occupied its rightful place in the consciousness of minds and bodies. No other prayer was possible. Nothing more could be done. There was no system upon which to rely. Nothing but resignation. Total resignation to events as they would unfold. It was not even something one could experience as waiting. It had to be experienced in the present, because only the present can sustain and inscribe life for all time.
Which finally came to pass after thirteen days. But those thirteen days without any noticeable change, that endless wandering punctuated by counter-currents, each seemingly as determining as the other, in short this completely nebulous existence was cause for great concern for the future health of the child. For medical science had already noted that celiac childr
en tended to become hypochondriacs. As for Nurse Vautour, her suspicions were elsewhere. She was afraid the child would take a liking to this delirium; would begin to take some pleasure in allowing her spirit to float above her body, even allowing it to drift each time a little farther, just to see how far the soul could travel from the body. She could sense, all around Baby M., a kind of celiac zone, in which the soul could actually survive without the body. Something like the way movie characters can live without flesh and bones. Nurse Vautour feared that Baby M. would venture too far and, without realizing it, cross the threshold through which there is no coming back. The child seemed to her brave but somewhat reckless to take such risks. Such were her thoughts, more or less, as she swaddled the child and rocked her, before placing her back in her crib. She rocked Baby M. gently and silently, just in case simple human warmth might make a difference.
***
Claude opens the door to the man he believes will be his last client. And, for once, he is more conscious of his own embarrassment than the customer’s. But this shyness will not take root, thanks to the natural calm of the stranger from the bar. By the time he has begun to explain his method of work, Claude has already regained his confidence. Leading the way to the massage room, he explains that his treatments are in no way sexual, but that the massage often provokes an erection in male clients, who should not be surprised. As Claude is about to leave the room while his client undresses, the stranger from the bar suddenly extends a hand and introduces himself. Claude realizes that, until this moment, he had been avoiding introducing himself. In fact, he rarely introduces himself. Doing so always makes him feel as though he has lost his verticality, melted and been spread thin, become diffuse. He has always felt taller and straighter in anonymity. But, faced with the extended hand of the stranger from the bar, he introduces himself anyway, since there is always the possibility that this time things will be different.
Claude has no difficulty relating to this new body. Quickly, he re-establishes contact with that particular feeling, both essential and distant, that dwells in the elasticity, smoothness, and warmth of skin. Moving to and fro in the long tranquil memory that wants only to go on forever, he rediscovers the precision and understanding in his hands. He had forgotten that they have a life and intelligence of their own. He had forgotten, too, that this profession has a way of bringing out the best in him, his knowledge and sensitivity merging into a fundamental certainty, the certainty of the body. To the point that he loses all sense of time. Already, the moment has come to ask his client to turn over onto his back. As always, he is careful not to lose contact with the client’s body while the latter undertakes this movement.
At the outset of a treatment, Claude always makes sure to keep a hand on the client’s body in order not to break the thread of the contact. But as a session progresses, his sense of touch grows stronger and the contact zone extends beyond the body to the surrounding space. The slightest gesture becomes an expression of personality, the masseur’s as well as the client’s. In this sense, the client’s way of turning represents to Claude a crucial movement, at once an indication, a critical point, and a kind of sexual moment.
For Claude cannot help but read the soul’s features on the chest as it is exposed, more or less timidly, in a gesture of surrender and confidence. And, as the client turns over, his contact with Claude hangs by nothing more than a slight brushing of the hand, accompanying the movement with infinite subtlety, with a pivotal gaze, like a dancer encircling his ballerina.
Claude’s last client turns over rather gracefully on the narrow table, and now the masseur’s hands advance, in a series of successive surprises, over the multiple layers of the chest, each of them solid but without the slightest rigidity, without hardness. Claude’s hands could wander here forever. As in sand. They would even like to slide beneath the skin to feel this materiality from within. Warm. Enveloping. Then, lost in a reverie of sensations, Claude brushes, quite by accident, the man’s awakened sex. He is returned to reality; gradually abandons the client’s chest to continue the treatment elsewhere. As he watches his hands work, more and more feeling their breath as he moves forward, Claude regains his confidence before the miracle of the body and the spirit. At the end, to keep the client from catching cold, Claude lays a light silk sheet over him. Then, so as to preserve something of all this, to preserve something of the miracle, he lays his hand on the man’s sex, pressing down a little, for several moments, before leaving.
***
At first, Nurse Vautour thought it was a mirage: Baby M. playing in her bed. After thirteen days of what felt like crossing a desert, Nurse Vautour was not quite ready to trust her eyes. She did not want to mistake a mere gesture or accidental gurgle for a playful spirit. So she hung back for a few minutes and observed Baby M. She was not wrong. Baby M. was truly lively. Her eyes were wide open and she was happily moving her head and arms. She was even amusing herself by making sounds. Still not willing to believe too quickly in this transformation, Nurse Vautour withheld any expression of her joy. And she was glad of her prudent reserve when, two days later, Baby M. relapsed into full intestinal hyperactivity and even more-than-usual crying. However, already somehow conscious of the power and fragility of signs, Baby M. did not wait long before rekindling her nurse’s hopes. A few days later, she feigned interest in the bars of her bed. Excellent strategy, because two days later, Nurse Vautour offered up a special prayer for Baby M. during mass on Vocation Sunday.
Though she was convinced Baby M. was saved, Nurse Vautour was careful to conceal this in her presence since she was a writer’s daughter. It was as though the nurse also understood the power and fragility of signs. Sensing that Baby M. might misinterpret an excess of attention, she remained prudent. The following days seemed to prove her right, because Baby M. once again did her utmost to digest badly, with some success. Nevertheless, Nurse Vautour sensed a lack of conviction. Deep down, she was fairly certain that Baby M. had turned back, and was now on the road to recovery. Still, the nurse predicted it would be a long road. She had not forgotten that Baby M. would have to get used to the totally mundane nature of healthy life, a reality she would also have to learn to digest. Baby M. would also have to learn to accept not knowing where she had come from. She would have to learn to live content, like everyone else, with contemplating her origins from afar. The further along the road to recovery she travelled, the more Baby M. would forget what she was leaving behind. She would therefore also have to get used to the idea of forgetting. Nurse Vautour kept a watchful eye on these various operations of detachment. It took another week before all the elements of the process were coordinated and operational. Everyone — the doctor, the nurse, the committed scriptor father, and the queen and martyr mother — watched and waited for a clear point of change, an irrefutable sign of recovery. Now that there was hope, they were eager to leave the sanctuary of time and deal with the more commonplace things in life apart from this child under the spell of writing a brackish novel. They were almost fed up with being baffled by Baby M.’s global perspective, which gave her a head start of discouragement or delight over other human beings.
When the sign they were all waiting for finally came, naturally, no one missed it, least of all Nurse Vautour. Baby M., who until then had always lain on her back, rolled over onto her side. Nurse Vautour would never forget the sight of the child’s tiny curved back, a child who, until that moment, had shown neither the strength nor the desire to change position. Without any help, Baby M. turned over as though she had decided to cuddle up in the palm of life. Naturally, this quarter turn took on the proportions of a major event and sent a second shock wave through l’Hôtel-Dieu l’Assomption. In the kitchens, the employees broke open the cherry jars and garnished everyone’s dessert in celebration of the child’s recovery. No matter that, on that day, l’Évangéline reported a crazy woman had stabbed a priest at the altar, and that work would have to be rationed; nothing, nothing at all could block
the path of Baby M.’s life.
They kept Baby M. in the hospital for several more days, just to firm up her desire to live. Her entrails continued to churn her food all over the place, but the turmoil had lost its significance. From now on they would have to consider her distended abdomen and soft, greasy, nauseating excrement as relatively normal, in the hope that this rather strange behaviour would vanish gradually over time. Retrieving her child from the arms of Nurse Vautour, Baby M.’s mother may not have realized all she was in for, but she felt prepared. The doctor had explained that Baby M.’s particularity could last for many years before expressing itself in a cleaner manner. Baby M.’s mother savoured a first momentary respite after supper when, fed and washed, the child fell quietly asleep in her crib in the corner of the kitchen. Meanwhile, in a rocking chair nearby, her soul at peace, her mother perused l’Évangéline, stopping for a moment on the detail of a salad that Mrs. Hugh John Flemming had prepared for her husband, the premier of New Brunswick. The paper had published the article to mark Salad Week. Further along, she read that one day the sea would feed the entire earth, and that farmers’ children would eventually grow old, like everyone else. This set her thinking about her own children, who would revel, the next day, in their father’s presence — barring some unforeseen journalistic event, of course. The eldest of the five, who had recently learned to operate the radio, had just turned it on and the voice of Luis Mariano filled the room with an exotic mood resembling hope.
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