The commotion grows louder so that Pierre cannot ignore it. He raises his head and there, standing next to him, is the Bengali tiger, crouched back on its steel haunches, ready to spring. Its jaws are open, its teeth glow dully; Pierre, for a mad moment, thinks it is smiling at him.
‘Go on, piss off, you bastard! Go and have a good laugh at my expense with the others,’ he tells the beast.
The tiger, maybe having grown used to the human reaction of fear to its presence, seems puzzled by this short fat man speaking angrily to it. Its muscles relax a little; it turns its head to one side and regards the porter with glistening eyes in which the jungles of the subcontinent still live dimly.
‘Go on, piss off, I said! Go away!’ says Pierre.
The tiger does not move. Pierre opens his eyes and sees what he thinks is a throng of shoppers crouched low, hiding behind boxes and doors, whatever is at hand, looking at him with fear and relief. They look at him that way because once the porter is eaten they think the tiger will not eat them.
Pierre, seeing the attention of the throng focused on him, loses his temper, stands up straight and strikes the tiger with his cane. The animal is infuriated and the roar is terrifying, sobering Pierre, wrenching him back to reality. He looks at the big cat and finally realises it is the tiger he saw carried past before, and he understands that it has somehow escaped.
The tiger screams again, bunches its hard neck muscles, and the porter sees that it is about to spring, and he will be killed. Desperately he thinks, and an image of his wife and her cat rises in his brain. He sees Eugenie and the way she scratches her cat, Leon, under the chin and between its eyes, and the porter hears the purr of contentment. Pierre knows he has no choice; his life is miserable, but continuing to live a miserable life seems preferable to being eaten alive by a tiger in front of so many people. Such a mess, thinks Pierre. All that blood, and my poor white body would be revealed to all and sundry and they would laugh about it later.
Carefully he reaches forward, leaning on his cane, and carefully he reaches out. The tiger growls a warning, but Pierre manages to scratch between those cold and merciless eyes. He continues scratching a bit harder when the tiger doesn’t bite off his hand. Gradually the tiger’s eyes close, its body relaxes, its head lowers. Pierre has to bend forward more to reach between its eyes. The pain of stretching down is excruciating, but the porter thinks it could not be worse than being eaten raw.
Fleas from the tiger’s fur hop onto Pierre’s hand; they bite hard, drawing the man’s sugary blood into their bodies. Pierre grits his teeth, stopping the sound of irritation from escaping. He does not want to bring the tiger out of its torpor.
From the corner of his eye, Pierre sees the shoppers, some of them standing, some of them moving a bit closer to the porter and his tiger. Clearly they are impressed, Pierre understands. He bends even lower, slips his hand under the thick muff of the tiger’s chin, and begins to stroke and scratch. The beast begins to purr, and that purr sounds like a growl of anger, but the old porter keeps on. Besides, he is beginning to bask in the growing admiration of the shoppers and market vendors. With satisfaction, Pierre notices the look of awe and respect on the café owner’s face.
There is movement behind the crowd; someone, it seems, has been found to do something about the escaped animal, hopes Pierre. And he is right.
‘Keep on stroking him there, monsieur,’ says the man dressed all in white, holding a long black whip and wearing long black leather boots.
By luck a travelling circus has set up close to the market, and their lion tamer has been called upon by one of the market overseers to come and save all of his customers.
‘Now, when I tell you, monsieur, step away from the tiger. Keep on moving away so I can confront the cat. All will be well once you do that. He will not harm you once I am between him and you,’ the tamer says.
Pierre continues to scratch; the tiger’s eyes are almost closed. Its head almost rests on the cobblestones.
‘Now, monsieur, my brave lad, move away as quick as you can.’
Pierre doesn’t need to be told twice. He steps away; the tiger does not move. Pierre takes more steps. He is dizzy and he begins to fall backward, but the arms of the admiring crowd catch him, pull him to his feet, then raise him high above their heads. The last thing Pierre sees, before he looks up at the blue oblivion of the sky, is the tamer brandishing his whip, holding the mad animal in check, and the young porters advancing on the tiger with the wooden crate.
Pierre is pleased with the attention, flattered by the praise of the shoppers as they carry him on high towards the café. But the old man is reminded of his father’s death. His father was a coal miner in the Loire Valley and died in a mine collapse. Pierre remembers, as he is sat at a table and the café owner plies him with coffee and dozens of buttered rolls, his father brought home, his body held high by fellow miners, the corpse left on the kitchen table for Pierre’s mother to wash before burial.
But that sobering memory vanishes as he answers the breathless questions of the shoppers. He replies that he was not scared for a moment. He tells them he has been a porter in the markets for years, and there was no way he was going to let a mere tiger upset the daily routine of selling produce. His newfound admirers stuff many francs into the pocket of his smock, and Pierre pretends to be embarrassed, pretends not to want the money, but he makes sure he stuffs the coins and notes further down into the pocket to make way for more.
A market overseer hires a horse and carriage so Pierre goes home in style. The horse steps high and fast, but news of the porter’s heroic deed travels faster. When he gets to the Rue Lepic, the crowd is dense out the front of his apartment. Pierre alights, and immediately he is besieged by well-wishers and the curious, wanting him to tell them how he tamed the tiger. Pierre obliges his many devotees many times, and they ply him with drinks and food. They run up and down the steep street in straight lines, fetching delicacies for him to consume.
Pierre looks up into the black sky; the stars circle in bright wreaths of fire. He drinks the Green Fairy, many glasses, but he feels unaffected, as though the spirit of the old man is now more than a match for the deadly green spirit.
Finally they let him go, and Eugenie helps him to the couch in the small sitting room. He lies down; his heart is beating hard like the hammering of the steel foundry on the banks of the Seine just south of the city. The walls of the apartment seem to melt, and Pierre sees the man and woman when he turns his head to one side. His mother and father stand on the cusp of a room Pierre did not know was there. They smile at their son; their radiance falls upon his bloated body and sweaty brow. He smiles back.
But suddenly, Eugenie stands in front of him, blocking Pierre’s parents from his view. The light of their radiance dims, almost eclipsed by the naked and plentiful body of the woman. She wears black stockings and high-laced black leather boots, the same as the washerwomen and seamstresses of Montmartre wear.
‘Now, my darling Pierre, you have tamed a tiger, you have tamed the marketplace and you have tamed our creditors. I think it is time for you to tame me as you used to do,’ she says.
The woman thrusts forward her plump pubis. Pierre looks at her with horror. He wonders if he reaches out and scratches her under the chin and between her eyes whether she might go away.
Southerly
I Can Hear the Ice Singing
Sean Rabin
Unnar Eyjólfsdóttir, Paris, France, 1982
Jónas? Of course I knew him. We grew up in the same village. You’ve heard the story? Well, I was the person who first discovered him in the ice. My goodness that was a long time ago. Wherever did you come across his name? I haven’t thought of him in years. I was only a girl then, thirteen or fourteen. But already serious about skating. The harbour in front of my village froze solid every winter and I would go out there before school to practise. Even t
hen the only thing I wanted was to become a famous skater and travel the world. And now look at me! I can still remember that morning. As usual I’d walked down to the pebble beach in the dark then started to lace up my skates. I didn’t notice Jónas at first. But as the sun rose I saw something about two hundred yards from the shore. It was large and brown, so I thought it must be a seal. They sometimes crawled onto the ice if they were injured, and in the morning one of the fishermen would have to put the poor creature out of its misery. I skated out to investigate and quickly realised it was a man, not a seal. It happened every few years. Someone would drink too much, then go for a walk on the ice and freeze to death. I was scared it was going to be a relation, and considered going back to the village for help, when suddenly the body sat up. I must have screamed with fright, because Jónas turned around and waved for me to skate closer. I couldn’t understand what he was doing out there and thought perhaps he was too injured to walk. But when I skated in front of him I couldn’t see any blood or broken ankle. In fact, I couldn’t see any ankles at all because both his legs were below the ice. Not all of the leg, just his feet and shins, so he could still bend his knees and lie backwards. It was so confusing I kept skating around Jónas to make sure that what I was seeing was real. I’d always thought he was handsome. All the girls did. Jónas was never too loud or boastful, and never drank more than the rest of the men. Any girl would have been happy to marry him. Including myself. Probably that’s why I flirted and asked what he’d give me if I went for help. And you know what he replied? That a girl as pretty as me shouldn’t have to ask for anything. Well, after that I couldn’t even look him in the eye. I just kept skating around and around as Jónas offered to take me to the pictures. I’ll be wanting a Coke as well, I said. And chocolates. I thought I was so sassy. But when Jónas asked if I’d also like a kiss, it sent me to the shore as fast as my skates would carry me. Oh, I know it probably didn’t happen exactly that way, but it’s how I like to remember it. There is one thing I am certain of, though. Just before I left to get my brother I noticed there wasn’t a mark on the ice. Usually my skates made lines everywhere, but that morning, even though I had been tracing the same spot over and over, there was nothing. Not the slightest scratch.
Ulrik Andrésson, Kópavogur, Iceland, 1979
He threatened to kill me when I arrived on the ice. Shouted in front of everyone that if he lost his legs there’d be nowhere I could hide; he’d hunt me down and kill me. Hans as well. I was still hung over so it came as quite a shock. Jónas and I had been friends since kindergarten. We drank together, worked the same fishing boats; I couldn’t understand why he was so angry with me. Then finally I realised he thought Hans and I were responsible for him being stuck in the ice. Jónas couldn’t remember how he got there – never could – so he assumed we had plied him with drink and played a prank. But it wasn’t true. Sure, we’d been out the night before – it was Jónas’ twenty-third birthday – but he’d left early. Said he’d had enough. There were people on the ice that morning who even confirmed it. Baldur owned the tavern, and told Jónas that Tumi and I had stayed until closing time. All right, Hans left soon after Jónas, but it wasn’t to play a prank. I don’t know if I should tell you this. Hans is married now with kids. His wife might not like it. You see, Hans went home with Freyja that night. It was why he wasn’t on the ice that morning. They were still in bed. Maybe you shouldn’t write that part down, I don’t want Hans to get in trouble. Jónas could tell I was telling the truth. We’d been friends so long that he knew when I was lying. Jónas was always a steady man. Never lost his temper unless there was a good reason. So he calmed down. But the loss of certainty about who was responsible for him being stuck in the ice left him confused – I could see it on his face. I said we’d have him out in no time, but I was late to the ice. There was a whole circle of spectators standing around him by the time I arrived. And I didn’t realise they’d already tried most things. Hammers, chisels, but nothing made so much as a dent. Nobody had ever seen ice so hard. Even the hand drills we used for ice fishing couldn’t make a mark, and it takes two men to turn them. Everyone had an opinion about how best to get Jónas out. Gunnar fetched his hoe, and the crowd laughed themselves silly when its wooden handle snapped in two. The same when Kettil tried his pick and it ricocheted back over his head so fast that it pulled him down onto his bottom. Young boys wielded crowbars and screwdrivers, but nothing worked. You should have heard the old men muttering about how young people didn’t work hard enough, and that’s why they had no strength. It seemed ridiculous to them that ice could not be broken. Pétur arrived with his axe, and badly gashed open his own leg when its blade slid sideways. After that we all stood around scratching our heads. Ice that would not even chip made no sense. But we refused to give up. So the children were sent for firewood and any coal their mothers could spare. We thought a fire might weaken the surface of the ice and allow our tools to get a hold underneath. The coal was put down first, covered with straw and twigs before a layer of wood. Everyone stood behind Jónas to avoid the smoke. We tied a rope around his waist in case the ice suddenly cracked, but the blaze only burned the twigs and wood. The coal refused to catch. Someone suggested pouring vodka on the fire, and you should have heard the cheer go up. People were acting like it was a party.
Teitur Dagfinnsson, Elmey Island, Iceland, 1978
Jónas Arnmundsson ruined this village. That’s all I’ve got to say about him.
Magnús Arnmundsson, Reykjavík, Iceland, 1980
Our mother took great care of us when we were kids; loved her husband, and adored her grandchildren, but she was a habitual crier. No matter if she was reading a book, dancing at a wedding, or burning something on the stove; down would flow the tears. She wasn’t an especially sad person. Her emotions just lived near the surface where it was difficult for her to control them. All her friends were used to it, and so were her children, but it can’t have been easy for Jónas when she stood in front of him and sobbed like that. I thought her tears had been bad as we hurried across the ice, but when she saw how his legs were stuck, the floodgates just burst open. Our father sighed and said: Didn’t I warn you about drinking too much last night? Elín was sixteen at the time and thought everything was funny. She gave Jónas a kiss and told him how we’d all assumed he was still in bed sleeping it off. Jónas called me over and quietly asked if I could find a bottle for him to pee in. When I got back they were about to pour vodka on the fire. Father had taken charge. He didn’t want anyone accidentally setting his son alight. I handed Jónas the jar, then moved back with the rest of the crowd to avoid the smoke. Father joined us when the vodka was finished, and Jónas took advantage of the moment of privacy to relieve himself. When the fire burned out we saw that nothing had happened to the ice. Not even a black scar. People started to return to the village. Jónas might be stuck, but there was still work to do. Our mother fetched food, while Father tried all the tools that had been used before he arrived. Elín stood with her friends and started to feel embarrassed at how ridiculous her brother looked. I began my shift at the cannery, but came back in the afternoon with blankets for Jónas to sit on. Because it was the middle of winter there were fewer hours of daylight, so only Father remained on the ice. I was eighteen at the time and happy to take over keeping Jónas company. Elín brought us supper, and as we ate Jónas told me how when he woke that morning he thought he was still dreaming. But no matter how hard he slapped his own face, he remained stuck in the ice. So he started to hack at it with his pocketknife, and when that failed he unbuckled his belt to try and slide out of his trousers. It might have worked if the space around his ankles hadn’t been too narrow for his feet to pass through. He assumed they were swollen with cold, and poor Jónas, he kept asking over and over if I thought he was going to lose his legs. How could he be a fisherman without legs? He was exhausted … and so was I. My head kept nodding forward. I remember Jónas telling me to go home. He had wrapped himself in blankets and p
ulled a hunting hat over his ears. By the time I reached the shore he was lying down. It was too far away to see if his eyes were open, but I hoped they were because the winter lights had appeared and I thought they could keep him company.
Dr Ragnarsson, Hafnarfjörður, Iceland, 1981
According to my records there was nothing wrong with Jónas. When I examined him his blood pressure was normal, his pulse was steady, and his temperature was only point two of a degree higher than it should have been, which I attributed to stress. It was quite remarkable considering the situation he was in. Hypothermia was just one of the problems I expected to face when I walked onto the ice that day. It was the middle of winter for heaven’s sake. I had never performed an amputation before, but I anticipated the need to do both legs if they couldn’t get him free. I tried not to let such a grim prospect show on my face. And certainly everyone else was doing their best to keep up Jónas’ morale. People were standing around talking and eating, and sipping vodka to stave off the chill. I could see Jónas trying to remain calm, but when Unnar skated back onto the ice it signalled that school was over and still no progress had been made. Jónas’ face filled with fear, and I told everyone to stand back to give the man some privacy. I asked him to drop his trousers so I could examine the skin of his legs. I even managed to squeeze a finger down behind his calves, but everything appeared normal; they didn’t even feel cold. He said he could wiggle his toes inside his shoes, though I didn’t give it too much credence. His feet could have been frozen solid and he was just imagining them moving, like an itch on an arm that has long ago been amputated. After he dressed I asked about appetite, and passing water, and if he felt any pain. I won’t deny the results puzzled me. To a man of science it made no sense. By that stage Jónas had been stuck in the ice for more than twelve hours, and though his clothes were cut for cold weather, their protective qualities could explain his good health only to a point. The rest was beyond me. I kept visiting Jónas every day, but there was no change to his condition. And eventually our appointments stretched to once a week. Frostbite had become more of a distant possibility than a looming certainty, and Jónas no longer feared losing his legs. In fact, I believe he’d stopped even feeling the cold, though I haven’t any scientific evidence to prove it.
The Best Australian Stories 2012 Page 21