Washika

by Robert A. Poirier

  And then it was over. The Madeleine slipped backwards as easily as she had slid up onto the sand. The fellows cheered and the two men shut down the engines. Alphonse stuck his head out of the cabin.

  “Break!” he hollered.

  The young men laughed and staggered through the water to shore. Along the shore, the two drive boats bobbed up and down in the waves the tugboats had made. And then there was only the wind whistling through the evergreen branches and the soft murmuring of the students already on shore, sitting on the warm sand with their backs against the smooth grey chicots, their eyes closed against the bright noon sun.

  Chapter 49

  The Madeleine was anchored offshore and the sun warmed her dull grey paint, and the red-orange of the drive boats pulled up onto shore. It was midday and the students had settled into a normal after lunch routine: a short nap on the sand beneath jack pine branches, with the smell of the ever-present sweet fern, and the feeling of the sun and the wind on their faces. It had been paradise, almost.

  Gérard had run the Sophie ashore purposely: with her engine running at a slow speed, it created the backwater they needed for moving the wood out towards open water. There were plenty of chicots lying flat on the water with their roots lodged in the sandy bottom. The boys waded in among the chicots in the shallow water and hooked out the four-foot logs that had been trapped there. The water was not deep where they worked, two and a half feet at the most, and with the constant breeze and the sun on their backs, the fellows worked steadily and well.

  André Guy was the first to see it. At first, he said nothing. He stood crouched in the water with his hook raised, leaning one way and then the other with his arms outstretched. Suddenly, he slashed at the water with his hook. It came up, point first, behind him. He had missed.

  “Brochet!” André shouted. He ran through the water, lifting his knees high. “Brochet! Come on!”

  The boys left the bundles of pulpwood floating among the chicots and joined André near a rotting stump jutting out of the sand. On both sides of the stump were fallen chicots forming a grey matrix in the shallow water. André pointed to the base of the stump, where the sand dipped and the water changed to a brownish-black as it disappeared beneath the stump.

  “There!” he said. “See it?”

  They shaded their eyes with their hands and peered down into the water. At first, it did not move, but then they saw the gills waving, and the tail, and as they moved in closer the fish backed away. Suddenly, the fish made its move, and the boys attacked with pike poles and hooks and some tried to catch it with their bare hands.

  “Sacrament!” André swore.

  “What’s the matter?” someone yelled.

  “Look at that,” André said. He looked away from the others, from where the big northern pike lay still in the water, keeping a watchful eye on his assailants. “Some people, they have everything.”

  A snow-white skiff approached the Madeleine. Her wake caused waves to slap up on shore. The boys stood in the water, staring up at the craft with her white hull and tan canvas convertible cabin roof, and the swivel chairs and racks for the rods, and buckets of ice for the bait and cold beer. No one was thinking about the pike lying somewhere in the brackish water.

  “Hi ya,” the man at the wheel said.

  “Yes sir,” Alphonse replied.

  “Beautiful day ain’t it?” the man said. He was wearing a baseball cap and a white T-shirt with an angry bass jumping across his chest. The other man sat astern, fat and comfortable in the swivel chair. He wore wide-legged shorts and a white T-shirt and his legs were burned red, like his arms.

  “How long ya been out here?” the driver said to Alphonse. “We been fishing ‘round here all mornin’ and we ain’t seen nobody ‘till you fellas com ‘long. How’s the fishin’ in these parts anyhow?”

  Alphonse glanced sideways. Gérard smiled back. He did not speak English well but he understood enough.

  “Not too bad here,” Alphonse looked across to the driver. “Pike. About twenty, twenty-five pounds.”

  “Didn’t I tell ya Charlie?” the driver spoke to the fat man. “Northern pike fer chris’ sake! Twenty-five, thirty pounds!”

  “Ask ‘m, Al,” the fat man stood up in the skiff. “Ask ‘m ‘bout lures. An’ he must know the spots. Ask ‘m ‘bout the spots, Al.”

  The driver lit a cigarette. He held the pack out towards Alphonse.

  “Smoke?”

  Alphonse nodded, yes, and the man tossed the pack to him.

  “Keep ‘em,” the man said. “We got plenty.”

  Alphonse tapped out a cigarette as he had seen the driver do and then he stuffed the rectangular shaped pack into his other shirt pocket, his left pocket already filled with his tobacco and papers. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke filling his lungs and smelling that strange, pungent smell of blended tobacco.

  “So, ya got big ones up this ways, uh?” the driver said. “Mostly pike, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Alphonse replied.

  “Any special place?” the man winked at Alphonse. “Must be pretty good right ‘round here, uh?”

  “Yes,” Alphonse said. “That’s right.”

  “Ya must know where all a them big ones are hidin’, right? What ya doin’ here anyways?”

  “Working,” Alphonse said. “You, vacation?”

  “That’s right. Three weeks a nothin’ but fishin’ an havin’ us a good time. No job, no wife naggin’, know what ah mean? Left all ‘em troubles behind. This here’s the life, I tell ya. Yes sir! Fresh air an’ good fishin’.”

  The driver looked back at the fat man, and then at Alphonse.

  “So where d’ya say them fish were?”

  The students had never heard Alphonse speaking English before. They were seeing another side of the man, something unexpected, almost strange, like the first time seeing their fathers drunk and slobbering, or like when they heard Father Landry letting fly with a few good swear words that morning when he was putting up the double windows of the rectory.

  Alphonse pointed up and down the bay with his hand. “Anywhere along here,” he answered the man. “These fellows saw one just a few minutes ago. Chased him all along the shore here.”

  The driver looked down at the boys.

  “Rather chase ‘em than hook ‘em, huh?”

  The fat man laughed. “Look at their hooks, Al. Chris’, they’s big ‘nough fer barracuda.”

  “We got pike here just as big,” Alphonse said to the driver.

  “As barracuda?” the driver smiled. “Ya know ‘bout barracuda?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Hey Charlie, did ya hear that?” the driver turned to the fat man. “Fella here knows ‘bout barracudas.”

  “Well I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch,” the fat man stared at Alphonse. “What ‘bout the pike. Al?”

  “Hang on, will ya. Lemme talk to da man,” the driver snapped. He turned to Alphonse. “Yep, this here’s real God’s country, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Alphonse replied.

  ‘”What you guys doin’ here anyway? Why ya pickin’ up all a dis wood?”

  “Pulpwood, and some logs.”

  “Ain’t it kinda old?”

  “No, not too old.”

  “But, how’s it git anywhere?”

  “River,” Alphonse pointed away from the bay, towards the southeast. “Down the lake there to the dam and down the river to the Capital.”

  “Chris’, ya must lose lots on the way,” the driver chuckled.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “An’ then you guys pick ‘em up, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Com’ on, Al.” The fat man was sitting down again. “The bugs are eatin’ the shit outta me. Find out ‘bout the fishin’ an’ let’s git ta hell outta here.”

  “Hang on, will ya,” the driver said. He did not turn to look at the man. He looked down at the fellows stan
ding in the water. “Nice an’ cool, huh?”

  The boys returned the man’s smile. They did not know what he was saying but it sounded friendly enough.

  “They speak any English?” he said to Alphonse.

  “No,” Alphonse replied.

  “So, how ‘bout it m’friend. Ya know where them big ones are? Must a seen plenty, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  The fat man reached into a canvas pack and took out several small, rectangular boxes. He stood up and handed them to the driver. “Here Al,” he said. “See if they’d like some a these.”

  “Aw fer chris’ sakes, Charlie. They’s almost kids.”

  “Naw. Go on, hand ‘em out. We got plenty more. Find out ‘bout the fishin’, Al.”

  The fat man sat on the swivel chair. He bit the end off a long, green cigar and then he lit it pulling long drags as he held the flame of the lighter to one end.

  The driver opened the boxes and brought out the cigars, wrapped individually in cellophane with a red-yellow band near one end. He held the cigars up in both hands.

  “Here ya go boys,” he said. “Come git ‘em.”

  They understood well enough. And there were plenty enough to go around. Henri took two of the cigars and tossed one of them to Gérard. The boys stood in a circle in the shallow water, holding their Zippos up to the ends of the long, green cigars and puffing heartily.

  Alphonse looked at his watch.

  “Break!” he shouted.

  Gérard stepped into the cabin and shut down the Sophie’s engine. When he returned on deck, he held the cigar tightly in a corner of his mouth, showing his yellow teeth when he sucked in air.

  “Down over there,” Alphonse began, pointing towards the southwestern portion of the cove. “Where you see the chicots piled up, lots of minnows. The pike, they like the minnows.”

  “Maybe we’ll jest try trollin’ along shore there. Any special plug? Should be good fishin’ right along there, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Alphonse replied. It was difficult not to smile.

  “We thank ya, m’friend,” the driver said. He started up the engine. He waved to the students as he backed away from the Madeleine and out towards open water. Astern, the fat man puffed on his cigar. His face was red from sitting in the sun and all the more from leaning over and jostling the trolls in his tackle box.

  Chapter 50

  Most of the students were sick heading back to Washika later that day. It was the worst kind of “sick” they had ever experienced. Their heads ached and they felt a continual need to vomit but nothing ever happened. Several times, Lavigne leaned over the side with the waves slapping cool spray on his face but nothing had happened. He had even tickled the back of his throat with an index finger but only green-yellow bile was forced out and that had made him feel worse.

  They were quiet going back to Washika. None of the students slept in the drive boats because of the waves and most of them lay on deck, astern. They watched the sun slowly descending upon the treetops at Pàgwàshka Bay and they stared at the wake the Madeleine made as it petered out behind them.

  In the cabin, Henri sat on the low wooden box. He had not smoked a single cigarette since they left Pàgwàshka nor had he said a word to Alphonse.

  “Feeling better, Henri?” Alphonse asked.

  “Not too bad.”

  “Those were big cigars,” Alphonse smiled.

  “And cheap. I heard once that you get very sick on cheap wine. It must be the same with cigars.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Alphonse said. “I got sick one time on very expensive wine. My brother and me, we were altar boys at St-Exupéry’s. That was a long time ago, before your time. Anyway, one morning after the mass was over, our parish priest, the curé, left the sacristy early and me and my brother, Oscar, we got into a big bottle of holy wine. We had to drink fast, you know. The curé could return at any time. Anyway, it wasn’t long, we finished the bottle and, just as we were about to leave, we hear the curé coming. It was always easy to tell. The floor boards in the sacristy always made a noise and the curé always walked fast so that you could hear his cassock.”

  “So, what did he say?”

  “I don’t know. When I heard him coming, I ran for the altar. I jumped over the communion rail and ran out through the side door. It was then the wine started to hit.”

  “And your brother?”

  “Oscar wasn’t so lucky. The curé found him in the closet where we hung up our cassocks after mass. Poor Oscar, he was very drunk. When the curé found him, he was sitting in the corner of the closet trying to hide under a bundle of cassocks. He still had the bottle in his hand.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Not much. He was fired, kicked out of the altar boys forever. The curé made him get on his knees, right there in the closet, and poor Oscar made his confession and told everything.”

  “And so, were you really sick?”

  “Sick? Et misère! I don’t think I have ever been so sick in my life. My mother said it was punishment from God. The curé had called to tell her what we’d done, and that we were no longer altar boys in his church. My father never went to church but even he said that it was punishment from God, us being sick like that. It could not be the wine, he said, since it was the best to be had anywhere in the province.”

  “Was it good? The wine, I mean.”

  “Oh yes, very good,” Alphonse replied with a weak smile. “But you know, I’ve never put my lips to a bottle of wine since.”

  “Nor me, cigars,” Henri said. “Not green ones anyway.”

  Henri was feeling better. The breeze rushing through the open doorway brought in plenty of fresh air, almost completely removing the odour of diesel fuel from inside the cabin. He opened his lunch pail and shook the thermos bottle. It was empty.

  “I’ve got lots,” Alphonse nodded towards the thermos bottle by his feet.

  Henri poured black tea from Alphonse’s thermos. He watched the steam rise as he filled his cup.

  “It’s still pretty hot, Alphonse. Want some?”

  Alphonse shook his head, no. He sat back on the stool and began to roll a cigarette. He stopped, suddenly. He slid the tobacco off the paper and back into the pack. He folded the paper carefully and placed it back inside its little cardboard folder.

  “Une dure?” Alphonse said. He held out the slim paper package containing the strange-smelling cigarettes that the tourists had given him.

  Henri made a face: a disgusted, about-to-vomit face.

  Alphonse laughed. “Better not, I suppose. Sick once during the day is enough, eh?”

  Henri held the plastic cup in both hands and he blew across the rising steam. He thought about the Café D’or and the red and white checkered curtains in the windows, tied back with bright red bows, like Christmas decorations, and the small square tables with table cloths made of the same material as the curtains. There was an ashtray, salt and pepper shakers, a sugar bowl and an upright, rectangular chromed metal box containing paper napkins, all of these in the centre of the table. And he could see Sylvie standing at the counter and smiling at the customers in her teasing way.

  “What time is it, Alphonse?”

  Alphonse reached for his watch and held it out from his waist.

  “A quarter to four,” he said.

  A quarter to four. He must remember that. Maybe better to write it down once they reached Washika. He would ask her what she was doing at that exact time when they met again, in three weeks, maybe. She would never remember that far back. He would write to her. That was it. He would write to her tonight, and in the letter he would ask her what she was doing today, at exactly a quarter to four, while he was sitting in the cabin of the Madeleine and thinking about her. She would like that. He could see her so clearly, standing at the counter, with her hair tied back, and the folds of her blouse as she rubbed circles on the counter with a damp cloth. Or, if she was working the night shift, she would still be sleepin
g perhaps. Henri had never seen her sleeping. Did all girls sleep alike? Did they always curl up in fetal positions with their hair seeming to float on the pillow and breathing softly and looking more like little girls? Henri had lain beside Lise Archambault as she slept, seeing her and listening to her breathing and waiting for her to open her eyes so that he could make love to her again. He could not bring himself to touch her or caress her while she was sleeping. He could stroke her hair and keep her back warm with his chest; and when she awoke, warm and rested, she would be close to him and already in his arms and they would love each other and afterwards they would rest until the next time.

  “Hey!” a voice snapped.

  Henri looked up from his cup. Alphonse was looking down at him, a wide grin on his face.

  “In the moon, Henri?” he said. “Could it be some pretty young girl in Ste-Émilie, eh?”

  Henri laughed. He drank tea from the cup but it was only lukewarm now. He must tell Sylvie about that in the letter as well. Not the part about Lise, of course. He would tell her everything: how he felt now, and the first time he saw her, and that time on the Ferris wheel. But wait. There he was doing it all over again. It would be like before, like with Shannon. He had been open with her. She knew everything about him. He told her everything. And what happened? No, with Sylvie, it would be different. Of course, he would be honest with her. Honest? What did that mean? Certainly, he would respect her and he would always be truthful with her. And how would he respect Sylvie? Could he dream of her and want every part of her, and still claim between gasping breaths that he respected her? And what if she felt exactly the same way as he did? Was there lack of respect as they slid over each other, bathed in each other’s warmth and convulsing wildly from sheer physical joy?

  He looked up at Alphonse. The man stared across the water, only half-seeing for he had crossed here many times in his life. It was always a time of rest, a time to think.

  “Alphonse?”

  “Yes, Henri,” Alphonse replied without turning.