A Very Bold Leap

by Yves Beauchemin

  “Charles,” Lucie said, in a tragic voice he had never heard her use before, “your dog is dying. He’s dying because he misses you, Charles. We’ve tried everything — it’s impossible to console him. If you don’t come home by tomorrow, it’ll be the end.”

  At first, Boff had seemed indifferent to his master’s absences. Then, bit by bit, a deep dejection had set in. Finally, a week before, this had expressed itself in anger: going back to his earlier ways, he had resorted to using his teeth. His first victim had been the beautiful china cabinet in the dining room, the cabinet that had belonged to Fernand’s mother. He had attacked its front legs and at two o’clock in the morning had knocked the whole thing over! Fernand had nearly had a heart attack. Luckily, the dining table had blocked its fall and only two or three pieces of china had been broken. But the bill from the cabinetmaker had been two hundred dollars. Fernand, white with rage, had taken the dog into the basement and tied him up with a leash. Boff had stayed down there for the rest of that day and the next. It was probably then that he had given in to his despair. He had stretched himself out on the floor, closed his eyes, and stopped moving.

  “I went downstairs at the end of the second day, and when I saw him in such a state of course I brought him upstairs. I petted him, I told him he was forgiven — on condition that he didn’t do it again! — and I tried to get him to eat something. But he refused to open his mouth. Henri tried even harder, and Boff bit him! It’s been three days now since anything has gone into his stomach, solid or liquid. He can’t hold out much longer like this.”

  “I’ll call you back,” Charles said, and hung up.

  With his back against the wood panelling, he stared into the hotel’s lobby. An old, thin woman was sitting in an enormous, black leather chair that seemed to be swallowing her whole, staring at him with an astonished look.

  A slight dizziness came over him.

  Boff in agony. Boff dead. His old companion, faithful to him since he had been a small boy, stricken with despair by being abandoned by his master. Now he was leaving Charles forever, victim of ingratitude, heartlessness, frivolity.

  He had to do something about it.

  He went upstairs to Father Raphaël’s room and knocked on the door. No one responded. Returning to the lobby, he asked at the reception desk and was told that Father Raphaël had gone out an hour ago with a stranger, without leaving a message.

  He made his decision on the spot.

  Leaving the hotel, he nearly bumped into Maxime.

  “Hey, wild man,” said the latter, “you could have given me a lift! Didn’t you hear me call you? Where are you going now?”

  “To Montreal.”

  “Does Father Raphaël know?”

  “He’s not here. I left him a note.”

  “So, what is it this time? Another separatist bit the dust?”

  “No,” said Charles, forcing himself to remain calm, “this time it’s my dog. He’s sick.”

  “Your dog is sick?” repeated Maxime in amazement.

  And he broke out into a mocking laugh, pitiless, the kind of laugh that came only from the profoundest of idiots.

  Charles had difficulty holding himself back from leaping on the bastard, but decided he wasn’t worth the trouble. Besides, it would only take up vital time. Pushing him away with his shoulder, he hastened towards the car.

  “Hey!” Maxime protested. “We need that car. It doesn’t belong to you, you know!”

  In a rage, Charles flung the keys at him and jumped into a taxi that had just pulled up to discharge a fare.

  Boff, lying on his master’s old bed, pretended not to notice when Charles entered the room. It was as though he were saying, “You’ve ignored me all this time, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t ignore you in return.”

  Eyes closed, muzzle between his paws, he gave no reaction when Charles petted him, and the slow sound of his breathing stimulated deep sleep.

  “I think,” said Lucie, standing in the doorway between Céline and Henri, “I think he missed you very much … I think he missed you to death.”

  Her words brought tears to Charles’s eyes.

  “But what can I do?” he exclaimed, raising his hands in a gesture of impotence. “I’m not going to beat him to make him look at me!”

  Céline went up to him and whispered in his ear.

  “Do you think?” he said, astonished.

  “Why not try? We’ll see if it works.”

  Charles asked the others to leave him alone, then undressed down to his underwear and climbed into bed beside his dog. He stroked and petted Boff for the rest of the evening, spoke gently to him, told him how sorry he was, and promised with all his heart not to leave him alone again. No more. From then on, nothing and no one would come between them.

  “You’ve got to believe me, Boff, do you hear? You’ve absolutely got to believe me, because I’m telling you the truth, cross my heart and hope to die!”

  Every now and then Céline would open the door a crack to see how the reconciliation was going, then would withdraw, uncertain and disappointed. When would this sulking fit come to an end? Could a dog sulk himself to death?

  At around seven in the evening, Charles asked if someone could bring him something to eat, not wanting to leave the room. After that, he slept, exhausted by his long day.

  Early the next morning, when he woke up, Boff was looking at him with the wide-open eyes of an old man who had just come out of a coma. Charles looked back at him, filled with a childlike joy.

  “Boff,” he murmured, “so you’re deigning to look at me now, eh? Are you beginning to forgive me?”

  The dog wagged his tail weakly and then closed his eyes again and seemed to go back to sleep. It wasn’t easy to let go of an anger that had been building up for so long. However, at ten o’clock he allowed himself a bit of water and swallowed two pieces of chicken, warmed up in advance especially for him.

  Henri, who loved Boff, couldn’t help but be touched by Charles’s remorse.

  “He’s going to die, you know that, don’t you?” he said to Charles during dinner.

  “I know that.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to take him with me, wherever I go. Right up until the end.”

  “That won’t be easy.”

  “I don’t see what else I can do.”

  “Yeah, well, if I were in your shoes, my boy,” said Fernand, with the assurance of someone who thought he’d been right from the start, “I’d come back and work in Montreal. That way you’d be able to see your dog, he’d always be in a good mood, and the problem will take care of itself. No?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Charles said, politely.

  Céline watched him, trying to gauge his sincerity.

  Charles pushed his plate away and without even looking at her went back to his room. It was the same old story: you never appreciate the value of something until you lose it. For now, the thing he valued most was Boff.

  One day, however, it might be someone else.

  Towards the middle of the afternoon, Boff, who had eaten a second meal, somewhat larger than the first, suddenly jumped off the bed and asked to be let outside. Charles was ecstatic. He took his dog for a short walk. When he got back, there was a telephone call for him.

  “So,” said Marcel-Édouard in a mocking tone, “how’s your dog?”

  “Better,” Charles replied. “And you?”

  “Me? Oh, you know. Filling in.” “Is Father Raphaël in good spirits?” “More or less …”

  “Can I speak to him?” Charles asked, his voice trembling slightly. “No. He asked me to find out how you were doing.” “I don’t think I’ll be able to get back until Wednesday.” “Still the dog?” “Yes.”

  Charles heard a small snigger at the end of the line. “In that case, Father Raphaël might call you tonight. But I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.” And with another snigger he hung up.

  While he’d been lying in bed wi
th Boff, Charles had had ample time to think, and an idea had come to him that he thought both brilliant and ingenious. It was a way for him to get back into Boff’s good books. They would spend the next three days together in the country, going for walks in the woods and rambling across the fields, then warming themselves afterwards in front of a fireplace stuffed with big logs. They’d be far from the madding crowd, strengthening those bonds between them that had all but snapped. Bonds that could not last much longer in any case — since Boff was getting close to the end of his years — but that were nonetheless precious to him. He was sure that Céline would also find the idea brilliant and ingenious, and hoped she might even agree to skip a few classes and come with them. That would be the ne plus ultra of absolute paradise! He sought her out, found her alone in the living room, and told her of his plan.

  “I can’t, Charles. I have an exam to study for.”

  “You can study in the country, my little squirrel. I’ll leave you totally alone. For a few hours, anyway…”

  “No, Charles. I know myself: I won’t study. And even if I tried, you’d stop me somehow.”

  He threw himself to his knees (they were alone in the main room) and grabbed her legs.

  “I beg of you, Céline, come with us! If I have to, I won’t touch you at all, not even with the tip of my little finger! I’ll do all the cleaning, I’ll make all the meals, I’ll do all the shopping, I’ll do everything! I won’t turn on the radio, I’ll take out the garbage, I’ll shovel the snow. Come with us, Céline. Have mercy upon us, I beg you. It’ll be fabulous! Fabulous, I promise you! And if I go back on a single promise, I’ll spend the whole night naked, outside in the snow!”

  And he hugged her knees and stroked her thighs.

  Céline smiled but remained adamant. Gently, she disengaged herself from his arms and, seeing his disappointment, made a heroic effort to show her goodwill (heroic because she really didn’t want him to go). “Papa might be persuaded to lend you his car.”

  When he came home from work, Fernand agreed enthusiastically. Any idea that would keep Charles away from that infamous jim-jammer of mystical mumbo-jumbo was an excellent idea by definition. He even went so far as to say Charles could keep the car for a whole week.

  “Maybe Céline could come up and join you after her exam,” he suggested with a sly wink.

  “Thanks, but three days will be fine,” Charles said, knowing what Fernand was up to.

  Two hours later everything was in place, and Charles was in the car on his way to Saint-Zénon. He’d answered an ad in the paper and rented a cabin that was outrageously priced even for one described as being luxurious, with a fireplace, a view of the lake, and guaranteed solitude. Boff was asleep on the passenger seat, unaware of what was happening but confident that it couldn’t be anything but good. He was already looking better. From time to time he rested his nose on Charles’s leg. A snowstorm was predicted for the next day, which would cut short their vacation in paradise.

  Upon arriving at the cabin, Charles quickly discovered that the only luxurious thing about it was its price. The fridge gave off truly archeological odours, the chimney smoked, the beds seemed to have been last slept in by a herd of buffaloes, and it seemed that any effort to give the place an air of cleanliness had been carried out by someone in an advanced state of paralysis. But the surroundings, insofar as he could make them out in the darkness that had fallen some time ago, were of a wild magnificence. The stuffed chairs in the living room were comfortable, and someone had left two bottles of wine in one of the cupboards. After jiggling the damper in the chimney a few times, he succeeded in bringing down a mass of soot and twigs, after which the fire burned with a fierceness it kept up for the rest of the evening.

  But the best thing — the best thing! — was that Boff was happy. Feverish and curious as a young pup, he padded about the cabin smelling everything with loud sniffs, returning to Charles every few minutes and expressing his joy with every trick in the book. Charles watched him with an indulgent smile, stupefied and amazed by his spectacular resurrection, which also served to remind him of the cruel negligence he had inflicted on his beloved pet.

  They shared a roasted chicken for dinner, which Charles had picked up on the way, and spent the rest of the evening in front of the fireplace. Then they slept, pressed against each other in a sagging bed that somehow actually managed to be comfortable.

  They spent the following morning exploring the environs; Boff unexpectedly startled a grouse and nearly scared himself out of his wits. Then Charles settled in the living room and read a hundred pages of The Charterhouse of Parma, which Parfait Michaud had been urging him to read for years. Boff, meanwhile, snored at his feet, stirring himself from time to time to lift his head and give Charles a look that said all was forgiven, and perhaps even forgotten.

  Charles’s happiness, however, was not altogether so uncomplicated. He knew that this little vacation he was enjoying with Boff was probably going to cost him his job, and the look Céline had given him as he’d left Montreal was that of a woman who was once again being left behind. Was it always necessary to hurt one person when doing what was right for another? Bah! Everything would turn out for the best, he told himself. His taking this holiday was a good thing for everyone, since he was already beginning to wince at the thought of going back to work for a charlatan, even if the job did pay well. By returning to work in Montreal, he would get back the Céline he had always known and loved.

  He telephoned her that night, and their lovers’; chat, punctuated by heavy, copulative breathing, reassured him. The bond that held them together was strong enough to be stretched for a little while longer. Wasn’t that what life was all about?

  Charles decided that, the next day, he and Boff would go exploring in the bush. The weather was supposed to be warmer, according to the reports, and a few hours of fresh air would be good for the dog, whom old age and the sedentary life of the city was beginning to soften.

  To celebrate the wisdom of this decision, he opened one of the bottles of wine that someone had left in the cupboard as an unintentional gift, and drank the entire bottle before going to bed.

  Which was not without its consequences.

  He spent a disturbed and agitated night, buffeted by gusts of torrid wind and clouds of dust, and woke up late in the morning with a head feeling like wet cardboard and in a mood to match. He realized, to his surprise, that he was feeling irritation towards Céline. She’d been complaining for months about being left alone, and now she had turned down a chance to spend three days with him in a lovers’; paradise. And why? So that she could study for an exam. With their exaggerated sense of duty, women often missed out on their own happiness and sometimes even wasted their whole lives.

  After eating a bland mixture of breakfast and lunch, he spent a long time in the bath trying to organize his thoughts, and in the end didn’t leave the cottage for his walk with Boff until after two o’clock.

  The cottage had been built on a lake that was entirely surrounded by bush. The only other building he could see was on the opposite shore, and seemed to be uninhabited. After inspecting their surroundings, Charles found a wide footpath behind a wooded hill. The path had almost been reclaimed by the bush; it was probably an old forestry road used for hauling out logs. He’d packed some food in his backpack for the dog, along with a few matches, the compass that Steve had given him, and a large bottle of water, since his indiscretion of the night before had left his throat as dry as a soda biscuit.

  There hadn’t been any great snowfalls so far that winter, and so they made good time walking along the path as it meandered through the woods. The icy air felt good in their lungs — it was a bit sweet, a complex mélange of scents from the forest — and it gave them as city-dwellers the sense of being able to breathe freely for the first time in their lives, filling them with a childlike exuberance. Boff walked courageously on ahead, exhilarated by the thousand smells and the mysterious tracks that dotted the snow everywhere. He d
arted from side to side, doubled back on himself, every now and then giving off a short bark as though letting off a head of steam caused by his own excitement. But after half an hour he grew tired, and took to following sensibly in his master’s tracks.

  After a long rise, the path gave onto a large, open area strewn with slash from trees that had been cut down and removed, and criss-crossed with deep tracks from what appeared to be the tires of a giant truck. It was a clear-cut.

  Despite the snow that mercifully tried to mask the degradation, the area left such an impression of desolation that Charles stopped, stupefied, his pleasure completely wiped out by the extent of the massacre.

  A bitter wind blew across the forlorn battlefield on which nature had been so thoroughly routed, as though marking humankind’s stranglehold on the environment. Rewinding his scarf around his neck, he tried to see where the path led, but could find no trace of it. He decided to walk on into the forest to get out of the wind and away from the sad sight of so much destruction as quickly as possible. When he wanted to go back to the cottage, all he would have to do was retrace his own footprints in the snow.

  Boff, sitting a few feet away, seemed to be awaiting his decision.

  “Let’s go, boy,” Charles said, veering off to the right, where the forest edge seemed more penetrable. “We’re going to play coureurs-de-bois.”

  After ten minutes, the shock of the “global forest management site,” as it was called in the civil service, had finally left him, and his good mood returned.

  The going, however, was much slower. He had to cut back and forth between trees and around huge rocks that rose up suddenly before him, and bend low to slip under branches weighted nearly to the ground with snow, sometimes even break them off to make a path for himself. Boff had stopped barking and sniffing at every tree and was following at his heels, nose to the ground, stopping from time to time as if to ask, “Well, Mr. Coureur-de-bois, where the heck are you taking us?”