By way of revenge, she shelved the encyclopedia over in the children’s books section between Puss in Boots and Alice in Wonderland, raising the prospect of a whole new generation of psychoses.
23. A FAIRLY OPTIMISTIC VIEW OF THE UNIVERSE
Every ten days, religious studies class fell right after phys. ed. The odour of incense and running shoes permeated the hushed classroom where Mr. Bérubé tried (in vain) to inculcate us with a few notions of religious culture. There was something profoundly incompatible between endorphins and theology.
Mr. Bérubé was a young teacher brimming with goodwill. He had taught algebra the year before and would be assigned to home economics the next year. That year, though, he struggled with the recurring peregrinations of a chosen people who, after surviving various enslavements, wandered in the desert and then found itself a disputed messiah, all in thirty-thousand-odd verses. Please follow the official course plan.
Standing in front of a map of Palestine, he announced that the whole class would be devoted to the book of Revelation, also known as the Apocalypse of John, which, as everyone knew, “was a book in the New Testament before becoming a source of inspiration for Iron Maiden!” The joke fell flat.
Mr. Bérubé plunged bravely into his subject. He told us about the Four Horsemen, the Number of the Beast and the Roman occupation in Palestine. Around the classroom, heads were tilted at various angles of repose. I spotted one or two yawns.
Hope, meanwhile, floated light years away from the foul-smelling classroom. She blackened the margins of her notebook with concentric circles and spirals, scribbled time and again the numbers 17 07 2001, like a ray of light glowing out of our dark era.
Mr. Bérubé eagerly shared with us a little-known fact: the Apocalypse was not merely a book in the New Testament but first and foremost a literary genre—somewhat like the detective novel or science fiction. Explanation for the academically challenged: several Apocalypses had been written and some of them could still be found scattered throughout the Bible.
“Apocalypses were written in times of crisis. It was the literature of the downtrodden, of those living in expectation of the Last Judgment, when they would be saved and the wicked punished. That is why, in the Bible, we repeatedly find announcements that the end of the world is at hand—it was a source of hope, a piece of good news. In fact, ‘apocaluptein’ in Greek means, simply, revelation. Basically, the apocalypse conveys a fairly optimistic view of the world.”
From the back of the class, a voice asked if Mad Max would belong to the category of apocalyptic works. Laughter. Mr. Bérubé ventured a cautious “if you like.” Hope rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. I yawned.
“Can someone identify another apocalyptic story found in the Bible?”
The class was overwhelmed with silence. Mr. Bérubé’s eyes swept over the troops.
“Hope, what about you?”
Hope sighed, snapped shut her ballpoint pen and folded her arms.
“The Flood.”
“Very good. Excellent! And what can you tell us about the Flood?”
“That it’s a suspicious story.”
A murmur rippled through the class.
“Suspicious?” asked Mr. Bérubé.
“Yahweh sets in motion the end of the world six pages after having created it. He must have really made a mess of things, wouldn’t you say?”
Mr. Bérubé stammered something unintelligible, like a wet “bbl,” as though he had just taken a left jab to the stomach. Everyone turned to look at Hope. She disregarded the volley of gazes and remorselessly followed through.
“But what’s even more suspicious is that, after drowning the human race like a sackful of kittens, Yahweh promises to never do that again. So can anyone explain why, even so, Saint John took the trouble to write the Apocalypse? Evidently the poor man had never read the Old Testament.”
The classroom buzzed with whispers. Thrown off balance, Mr. Bérubé got ready to fend off a new series of blows. The bell rang just in time, and we burst out of our seats before he had the chance to expand on the subject.
24. PA RUM PUM PUM PUM
Christmas came upon us with no warning. As usual, my parents invited the Bauermann clan to celebrate Christmas Eve at our house. Come early, bring your own wine.
The aromas of grilled chicken, pickles and doughnuts wafted through the house. The oven had been on since early morning and the main floor felt like a sauna. Thirty or so guests crowded the living room, and Nana Mouskouri’s voice floated several decibels above our heads—“Pa rum pum pum pum …”
Squeezed between the Christmas tree and the bar, I listened to my cousin drone on about George Michael. High degree of insipidness. Nodding my head mechanically, I killed time by thinking of anagrams of Mikhail Gorbachev. High degree of difficulty.
Amid the hubbub I heard the telephone ring. Jumping at the opportunity, I shot across the living room, just barely avoiding my mother, who was restocking the serving dishes with olives and marinated onions, and picked up the handset just in time. At the other end, Hope’s voice sounded strange.
“Are you busy?”
“Absolutely. You’re interrupting a crucial conversation on the subject of British pop music.”
There was a brief bewildered silence. Hope had not realized that I was joking and I was instantly overtaken by an unpleasant premonition.
“Could you come with me to the police station?”
Red alert. Stretching the telephone cord as far as it would go, I huddled in the staircase that led down to the Bunker, away from prying ears. Halfway down the steps, the air was already three or four degrees cooler.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing serious. I just have to go get my mother. Can you borrow the car?”
“I’ll be right over.”
I hung up, grabbed the keys to the Honda hanging on the wall near the phone and plunged into the coolness of the Bunker. In the time it took to slip on my boots and coat, I was stealing through the back door.
The wind outside was sharp and the ground crunched under my feet. I threaded my way over to the Honda. Fortunately, there were no cars parked behind it (nothing can spoil a covert getaway more than having to ask a sloshed uncle to move his 4×4). I started the car and rolled to the corner of the street before switching on the headlights. With a bit of luck I could make the round trip before anyone noticed my absence. I did not know what to expect, but I knew that I wouldn’t want to explain myself later on.
25. MAYHEM AT THE SAINT VINCENT DE PAUL
Hope was waiting for me in front of the Pet Shop, hopping from one foot to the other. She blew on her hands as she sat down beside me. I cranked up the heat and pulled away in the direction of the police station. A minute went by in silence before I dared to ask for details about Mrs. Randall’s criminal activities.
“Nothing too terrible. She went to the place where they distribute Christmas food baskets. Know where I’m talking about?”
I knew very well, yes. Every Christmas, the Saint Vincent de Paul Society organized the distribution of non-perishable goods. In fact, my mother had just donated a dozen cans of Campbell’s soup and a package of Premium Plus crackers. I hadn’t known that Hope and her mother had to rely on food banks …
“Of course not, dummy! We’ve got enough food to last us twenty years! The pantry is crammed and the kitchen cabinets are overflowing. There’s even stuff in the bathtub. My mother would rather buy ramen than pay her Hydro-Québec bills!”
“So what was she doing at the Saint Vincent de Paul?”
“The usual obsession: more and more food. And, hey, it’s free—just imagine! Like dangling a loaded syringe in front of a junkie.”
She gave the door a little punch and let out a growl.
“Anyway, I don’t know what happened. She attacked the Christmas tree, broke a couple of things. They called the police.”
I remarked that Hope was pretty calm, despite the turn of events.
“Bah, I’m
used to it. In Yarmouth, I had to manage things so that the social workers wouldn’t send me to a foster home. Someone should give me a degree in the art of negotiation.”
I parked the car in front of the police station, just under a sign that said, “Parking Prohibited. Towing At Your Expense.” The street was quiet, with a few snowflakes dancing in the orange light of the mercury arc lamp. All of Rivière-du-Loup was huddled indoors waiting for the Christmas Eve celebrations.
While Hope was having a discussion with the police officer on duty, I pretended to take an interest in the artificial Christmas tree standing in a corner of the waiting room, its branches sagging under layers of tired tinsel. It was easily the saddest evergreen in all of North America.
The officer was lecturing Hope, his fists on the counter. He was not supposed to let a minor take her mother out of jail, whether it was Christmas Eve, Easter morning or two days after Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day. Hope pleaded Mrs. Randall’s case: Anyone could see she was not in her normal frame of mind, and the best thing for her would be to go home to rest and to take a generous dose of clozapine and a sedative. A night in prison would do nothing to improve the situation.
The police officer grumbled a little and began to fill out a form. He would make an exception, but only because the detainee had not been violent and had not resisted arrest.
“Do you have a proof of residence?”
With a practised air, Hope produced a telephone bill.
“I’m going to send the file over to the public clinic. Your mother needs to see a health professional.”
Hope nodded: Yes, yes, she was familiar with the procedure.
The officer dumped onto the counter Mrs. Randall’s personal effects: a handful of change, a wristwatch, a Bic pen (no cap) with multiple teeth marks and a set of keys. While Hope pocketed the items, the police officer opened the cell and escorted Mrs. Randall to the hallway.
Her eyes had a faraway look. Hope’s movements were strangely protective as she helped her mother with her coat.
“Are you okay, Mom? How are you feeling?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Okay, then, let’s go home.”
As we drove back, the silence in the Honda weighed ten thousand tons. I steered the car over the icy streets, Hope stared up at the car roof, and her mother, leaning her head against the window and mumbling inarticulately, seemed more preoccupied than ever with the end of days. What new omens had she observed during the last few hours? Graffiti on the wall of her cell? The artificial Christmas tree in the waiting room? The policeman’s moustache? Or simply that a girl of seventeen had been obliged to get her mother out of jail on Christmas Eve?
26. CHIMPS IN THE CLOSET
I pulled up in front of the Randall Pet Shop and helped Hope extract her mother from the back seat. Propping her up on either side, we stumbled our way to the door. While Hope fumbled with the lock, Mrs. Randall rambled on, her arm dangling over my shoulder.
Once inside, Mrs. Randall said she was not hungry any more, that she would rather sleep until 1997, or even longer, if possible. That she would wake up only in the event of an unaccredited apocalypse, thank you very much. While Hope removed her boots and coat, I pulled opened the sofa bed. The springs creaked, indicating the need for a few drops of oil. Everything in that dump rusted from the dampness.
Hope helped her mother climb under the sheets, pulled the blankets up to her chin, kissed her on the forehead. Ten seconds later, Mrs. Randall was droning away in Aramaic.
Hope sat down at the foot of the bed and rubbed her eyes. The negotiations with the policeman had demanded an output of thousands of kilowatts in the space of a few minutes. I fidgeted with the car keys and looked around me. The Pet Shop was cold, dark and even messier than usual. An odour of rabbit piss hung in the air. The dining table buckled under piles of paper, notebooks, cash receipts and boxes of Kraft Dinner. I noticed a stack of bills, probably unpaid.
I was embarrassed to be a witness to all this and badly wanted to be somewhere else, and yet I didn’t want to turn my back on Hope.
She stopped massaging her eyes and scanned the room. She, too, would have preferred not to be there. I suddenly understood how there might be something reassuring about the end of the world.
Hope sighed.
“Do you know what I dreamt of last night?”
I sat down beside her without speaking. The sofa groaned. Behind us, bits of Hebrew and Akkadian could be heard.
“I dreamt that the animals were coming back to the Pet Shop—giraffes, elephants, zebras. A long line of exotic animals stretching back to Lafontaine Street. They came through the door two at a time and took over. Parrots in the curtains. Lizards in the drawers. Chimpanzees in the closet. They ate our food supplies, but my mother didn’t care. She was lying on the couch without any clothes on. I tried to cover her with a coat, but she refused. She laughed and drank wine straight from the bottle, saying that everything was over.”
Hope sighed again. She kissed me on the temple.
“Go home. It’ll be all right.”
Stepping outside, I drew a deep breath of icy air to cleanse my lungs of the smell of the Pet Shop. I brushed my finger over my temple, where Hope had kissed me. All at once, I liked that part of my body.
I got behind the wheel of the Honda and headed home, where my absence had most likely been noticed. Already, I anticipated the barrage of questions. What sort of story could I think up? The car’s interior weighed down on me and I switched on the radio. Nana Mouskouri was still pa rum pum pummelling the airwaves.
27. HUNTER-GATHERER
After Christmas, things quieted down. Mrs. Randall regained a modicum of stability thanks to the triple doses of clozapine that Hope meted out to her each morning. At that rate, however, the reserves would probably be depleted by the summer, and no pharmacist would accept a prescription that had been repeatedly crumpled and ironed out. These problems would have to be dealt with in due course.
Since the Christmas episode, I felt I’d been entrusted with new responsibilities. Every day, I made sure that Hope was all right and that her mother had not instigated some new psychodrama. Hope never needed anything but seemed happy to know I was close by.
The end of the winter holidays coincided with the outbreak of the biggest flu epidemic of the decade, a particularly virulent strain concocted in the megalopolises of Southeast Asia. My grandmother swore that this was the Great Return of the Spanish Flu. At school, the classrooms were riddled with unoccupied desks, and everything was running in slow motion. “Carnage” was number one on the word-of-the-week chart.
At the Bauermann residence, my mother’s immune system was the first to give way. She found herself bedridden with a temperature of 40, and the slightest movement was enough to make her moan with pain. My father dispatched me to the Steinberg supermarket with a list consisting essentially of large amounts of vitamin C and ground beef. Ultimately, Homo sapiens had remained a hunter-gatherer.
I took advantage of the errand to stop by the Pet Shop, since it had been forty-eight hours since I’d last heard from Hope. She hadn’t shown up at school or at the Bunker, and she wasn’t answering the phone. I had already begun to fear the worst.
As I parked the Honda, there was Hope, who, as it happened, was also on her way to buy groceries. Great minds, etc. She slipped into the front seat.
For someone who was supposed to be down with the flu, she seemed to be in excellent shape. Actually, she had not been sick at all. She had simply been commandeered by her mother, who, without prior notice, had barricaded herself into the pantry by fastening the door with a couple of screws. Quite an unexpected reversal.
“Before shutting herself in, she poured everything that might count as a cleaning product down the toilet: dish soap, detergent, shampoo. She nearly blocked the pipes by trying to flush down the garbage bags.”
“What made her do that?”
“Oh, who knows? I have trouble making out what she mumbles through the
pantry door. Stuff about germs and the regeneration of the planet. I’ve given up trying to make sense of it. The upshot is I’m going to take the opportunity to give the apartment a good scrub before I let her out of the dungeon.”
“But I thought she was getting better.”
“You can’t take anything for granted where the Randalls are concerned.”
The store was closing in thirty minutes. There were no customers to be seen, only deserted aisles and a long stretch of empty shelves in the Vicks VapoRub section. Clearly, this flu was taking a toll.
We split up to carry out our respective missions. We would rendezvous by the cleaning products in five minutes.
As I went by the refrigerators, I noted the latest Asian invasion: tofu. Out of curiosity, I examined one of the packages. For the time being, this was an exotic and unsavoury item. But in a few years it would be a perfectly ordinary part of our diet, as mundane as Nutella and the H-bomb. In the wake of the Great Tofu War, we would be slightly more Asian, but no one would notice. Another unwritten chapter in the history of the middle class.
My eyes swept over the area as I sought to identify the items that, on the historical level, denoted something new. Which products had appeared since my birth, since my parents’ birth? Kiwis, garlic, asparagus? In which year had the first lemons been shipped north of the 47th parallel and sold in our little hinterland town, hundreds of kilometres from the Port of Montreal?
What strange times, when a simple fruit could conjure an enigma.
I loaded up on 50 volts’ worth of various citrus fruits—just barely enough to run a quartz watch—and grabbed a package of ground beef without slowing down on my way to the cleaning products aisle. Hope was holding a bottle of detergent in each hand as if gauging which of the two flavours would inflict the most damage. She frowned and dropped both bottles into her cart, where they joined a box of steel wool, some scouring pads, dish soap and a jug of bleach.
Apocalypse for Beginners Page 6