The Tin Flute

by Gabrielle Roy

  "Get the kids' duds ready," he said.

  "Get them ready? What are you talking about?"

  "I tell you, get them ready. We're leaving tomorrow, old girl. We're goin' to visit your folks. We're taking a trip, we're having a holiday. The whole day. And tomorrow, off we go!"

  She held up her palm toward him, pale with excitement and surprise.

  "Don't play tricks on me, Azarius!"

  "It's no trick, my girl. I've got the truck. We'll leave tomorrow first thing at the crack of dawn. Off to the country. Oh," he said, pleased with himself for anticipating one of her secret wishes, "I know you've wanted to go there for a long time and see the Laplantes. Well, we're going. First thing in the morning. Your mother, your brothers, you'll see them all. And you know the sugaring-off is just beginning. Maple sugar, Rose-Anna!"

  How well she knew this voice which had never been able to sooth her pain or reassure her in her anxieties, but which, perhaps five or ten times in her life, had known how to lift her up to the highest peaks. Through him she had known cold and hunger, through him she had lived in miserable quarters and felt the fear of each new day gnawing at her being; but through him, as well, she had come to hear the birds at daybreak — "D'you hear that little robin on the roof, Mother?" he'd say to her as they awoke. And through him she had known that spring was coming. Through him she had kept something of her youth, a tremor, perhaps a hunger that withstood the years.

  Could he imagine the way she felt now, Azarius, this extraordinary man? Had he not discovered again the spot where her repressed desires hid as if afraid of their own existence? "Maple sugar! ..." The two words had barely reached her ears but she was off on the secret path of her dreams. And so it was joy that she had foreseen when Azarius came home. It was almost as upsetting as a misfortune, because so unaccustomed. It took her breath away. Come now, be reasonable, she told herself. Don't give way like this. But she could see herself there already, in the place where she had spent her childhood. She was walking through the maple woods toward the sugaring cabin, and — what a miracle! — she was taking long strides with the buoyancy of a slim girl. The snow was soft, and her feet crushed the twigs beneath it as she passed. She could have told you, that old tree gave sap for six years, that one's not as good, and that one over there just runs for a few days each spring. But the thing that moved her most she could not have spoken of: the big sunny clearings among the trees where the snow had already melted, exposing the reddish-brown earth and last autumn's rotting leaves; the tree trunks where drops of water glinted like dew; and the wide roadway slashed through the woodland, airy and spacious, open to the sky between the leafless treetops.

  The delights of her childhood followed each other in rapid succession in her mind's eye. Around the roots of the biggest trees snow and shadow still prevailed, but each day the sun rose nearer and penetrated farther among the maples, where busy forms were seen going rapidly about their work. Her uncle Alfred urged on the horses, bringing cordwood for the great fire in the cabin. The children in their red, green or yellow tuques sprang about like rabbits, and their dog Pato followed them through the clearing and into the underbrush, barking until the hillsides echoed.

  The scene was gay, brightly lit and joyous, and Rose-Anna's heart beat faster as she saw it come to life. There were tin buckets gleaming where they hung from the tree trunks, and a little metallic thud as those that were brimming with sap were carried off and dumped in a barrel on the sled; and all around there was a thin murmur, softer than the softest rain of springtime falling on new leaves, and this was the sound of a thousand drops of sap dripping one by one. Rose-Anna could still see the crackling of the great fire under the tubs, filled with pale sap that boiled thickly, sending bubbles to the top. She felt the taste of the syrup on her lips and its sweet odour in her nostrils, and all the noises of the forest sounded in her memory.

  Then her vision changed. She was in her parents' house with her sisters-in-law and brothers and all their children, half of whom she had never even seen. She was talking to her old mother who was in her rocking chair in a corner of the kitchen. Old Madame Laplante had never been very demonstrative or good-natured, but still had a warm welcome for the daughter she hadn't seen for many years. She said a few encouraging words and the two of them were together for a confidential moment in the warmth of the room. The house was filled with an echo of the sounds of the maple woods. A great tub of snow sat on the table, and they poured hot syrup on it, which turned into marvellous honey-coloured candy. Rose-Anna trembled. She saw the children regaling themselves on bread dunked in syrup, and maple toffee on sticks, treats that were totally new to them.

  She came back from her long, magnificent voyage and, her eyes falling on the piece of sewing in her hand, she sighed.

  "Seven years!" she murmured.

  "Yep," he said, "it's seven years since you saw your mother."

  But what she had been thinking was, It's seven years that I've been holding back this desire to see them all down there. . . . Seven years! Can a person go on forever struggling like that?

  She looked down, then said hesitantly:

  "Father, have you thought about how much it costs?"

  "Sure, Mother, that's all taken care of. The truck is free." "Lachance is letting you have it?"

  Azarius flushed.

  "I guess he's lettin' me have it! I do enough for him, it seems to me. But it ain't just that. I'm goin' to bring back thirty or forty gallons of syrup and pay for the trip. I've got orders for syrup to pay for it. I've got orders for more than that."

  "You've got orders?"

  She was afraid for a moment that Azarius was plotting one of his wild schemes. His enthusiasms could spring from the slightest of expectations. The greater the risk and the clumsier his approach, the happier he was. But she had been deprived of joy for too long not to give in at once. Perhaps she had given in already and only found small objections as self-punishment for such a surrender to temptation.

  "And what about the children, Father?" she said weakly.

  "We'll take 'em along, that's what. Let them see it all too."

  She could put up with their poverty courageously as long as her family were not there to see. But show up with her children in rags? Never! Her family had no idea of their poverty, and this had always been a consolation to Rose-Anna.

  "I don't suppose you've got time to patch a few things together by tomorrow, Mother?"

  Silent, she thought that poverty was like a sickness you put to sleep inside you, and it didn't hurt too much as long as you didn't move. You grew used to it, you ended up not paying much attention to it as long as you stayed tucked away with it in the dark; but when you took the notion of going out with it in daylight, it became frightening to the sight, so ugly you could not expose it to the sun.

  "I don't know," she said. "They hardly have a thing to put on their backs." "Tell you what," he said. "Ill help."

  He rubbed his hands together, filled with an irresponsible joy, for in their trip he saw nothing but escape, while she was left with her burden whether they went or stayed.

  Azarius went over to Florentine who was following their conversation, silent, astonished and hostile. He leaned over and tugged affectionately at her long, chestnut hair.

  "You too, little girl," he said, "tiffy yourself up! Just you wait, those country boys'll have a fit."

  Florentine had drawn back, frowning. Her mouth turned down in an irritated pout.

  "No, I won't be going," she said. "But you all go ahead. I'll look after the house."

  Azarius noticed the glint of determination in her eyes, though she had turned away from him. He wondered what was behind it. This pretty, slim creature was his pride and joy; and, so he thought, wouldn't easily lose her head. As he was driving home tonight he had thought how he would like to introduce her to his in-laws, the Laplantes. Beyond the road illuminated by the headlights of his truck, he had envisioned her with her new spring hat, her straight, tapered legs, running
ahead of him as he drove.

  Usually it was Rose-Anna's image that kept him company on the way home, when, his hands lax on the wheel, he would half doze, humming to himself to keep from dropping off completely. Twelve hours of driving on the dirty roads! But tonight it was Florentine who had accompanied his thoughts. Florentine, so small, so willowy, it broke his heart! Florentine, dressed up as if for a party, running breathless along the great, dark road! It was then that he had decided, in order to rid himself of a vague uneasiness, that he would be more generous with Florentine. This had allowed his daydream to take a more placid and agreeable path. He never failed to notice her trinkets, her saucy little hats or the fine silk stockings she bought. And although she bought them out of her waitress' pay after giving most of it to her mother, he had always felt, when she arrived with her purchases, that they were somehow due to his own generosity. He felt he was a good father because she managed to dress flashily. She was not an advertisement of their poverty. Like him, she knew that their streak of bad luck was not permanent. How grateful he was that she shared his faith in better times to come!

  In this mood, his conscience clear, he had arrived home proud of having a fine surprise for her as well as for Rose-Anna. At heart, what he wanted was to have his revenge on the cold mistrust of the Laplante family. Florentine would be their pride and joy when they showed her off at the farm. He had never thought she would lack enthusiasm for his splendid plan.

  "Hey, little girl," he said teasingly, "don't you want to try the sugar and toffee and pick yourself a handsome country boy?"

  "What's that to me?" she answered, lighting another cigarette.

  Strange that at this moment the picture of Florentine running wildly along the road pushed its way again into his mind! He scowled. Anita Latour, well-placed behind her counter to know all that went on in the neighbourhood, had hinted that Florentine might have a boyfriend.

  "What is it? Have you got a beau?" he asked.

  But he was always afraid to get to the bottom of things, and let his question drop. Florentine got out of the situation abruptly.

  "Let me be," she said. "I just don't want to go to your sugaring-off, that's all."

  Azarius stood helpless, his hands hanging. Then he i covered his disappointment by retreating.

  "Well, that's it then, Florentine will keep house. The rest of us can leave with an easy mind. What're you mulling over there, Mother? Don't you want to put on your best; bib and tucker? We can't miss a chance like this!"

  "A chance like this. . . " she repeated.

  She met his glance, young and shining, the traces ofi annoyance melting away already. Her own fears disappeared. She was reassured by Florentine's impassivity, and gave herself up to the promised pleasure.

  "No," she said, "sometimes you're right. If we always go putting things off we end up with nothing."

  She felt a need to explain herself further, and sat gently wringing her hands: "I think we just have to make up our minds all of a sudden."

  She didn't want to show too openly that Azarius had persuaded her with his crazy idea. For once she'd go along with his folly — she who had always had common sense on her side and had defended it alone.

  "Listen," she said, and the tremor in her voice revealed a resolution that was foreign to her, "the stores aren't shut yet, it's Saturday. If you hurry you've got time to buy me a few things. Now listen," she repeated, and her voice grew so grave that you could hear in it the call of all the trips they had postponed, of all their desires frustrated for so long, "listen, you have to buy. . . "

  There was a long pause after this frightening, spellbinding word. She heard herself say it as in a dream, unable to believe that it had come from her.

  "You're going to buy. . . "

  They were in suspense — even Florentine — wondering which of a thousand articles the poor woman was going to choose. They could see her ticking them off in her mind. And, sure enough, she quickly ran through a long list which she had put together in that instant.

  "You're to buy," she said, "two yards of blue serge, three pairs of cotton socks, a shirt for Philippe if you see one, no, four pairs of cotton socks and a pair of shoes for Daniel. Don't get the wrong size, he's a seven. . . "

  But something was bothering her. She added, upsetting her list:

  "You know, it's not Daniel needs the shoes the most, he likely won't be going out to school this year. Maybe we can save a little there. Shoes cost so much! And Albert's growing out of his."

  A confused concern for justice made her decision difficult. Like many mothers in the neighbourhood, she thought there was no hurry about sending a child to school. She had never had scruples about keeping the youngest ones at home if they had no warm clothes to wear; but she had put all her energy into ensuring that the older ones made their classes, even at the price of seeing the little ones cry at the preference given to their elders. Daniel had suffered most. It seemed to her that because of his sickness he had been deprived of his new shoes for far too long.

  "Size seven," she murmured, her hands at her throbbing temples. "What did I say, the serge, stockings, a shirt. . . "

  Albert, whom everyone had thought was fast asleep, begged:

  "And can I have a tie?"

  "And me!" yelped little Lucille. "You've been promising me a new dress for a long time now, Mamma!"

  Daniel, dragged out of his sleep by the small, begging voices, not knowing what was going on but convinced that it was the time for putting in your orders, stammered in his childish want:

  "Is it Christmas?"

  And everyone laughed just the same, with tears not far.

  But Rose-Anna felt cornered, overwhelmed by all the desires she had unleashed. She took fright, and scolded:

  "Go to sleep, the bunch of you, or we won't go tomorrow." "Where are we going tomorrow?"

  Excited, the children were leaning out of bed in clusters, and Albert was telling them:

  "Shhh! I think we're going to Grandmother's to eat maple sugar!"

  All of them, big and small, were so worked up; they had left far behind their own house with its dim lights and creeping shadows; they were in such a lovely landscape that it seemed natural for Azarius to ask:

  "And what about you, Mother? Seems to me you need a new dress!"

  She gave him a smile tinged with reproach, as if she measured her husband's improvidence from nearby, having taken flight along with him, and now being able to reply tenderly:

  "D'you see me in satin and velvet?" she tried to joke. "That would be a sight!"

  She laughed a little with him. It was still time to laugh and look at each other with new eyes and follow the same path to adventure. Then her eyes grew serious again.

  "Remember what I told you now, and don't let them put it over on you. And don't buy the dearest thing in the store."

  Azarius took out a little notebook and wet his pencil:

  "All right now, if I'm goin' to do it right I'd better make a list. You said a shirt, two yards of blue serge, shoes. . . "

  Rose-Anna, realizing these notions, born of dreams and excitement, meant the spending of real money, now hesitated, then beat a retreat:

  "No, leave out the serge — unless you see some real cheap. . . Do you think you know enough to do it?"

  Thus, at the last moment, she transferred her burden of fear to Azarius.

  Neither of them, concentrating on their task in the circle of light around the sewing machine, noticed that Florentine was swiftly getting ready to go out.

  Rose-Anna reread her list, putting a price after each item, then added them up. When she saw the total she froze, terrified, and yet unshakable in her determination not to shorten the list.

  The kitchen door opened from inside. A gust of cold air curled around her legs. She looked up, astonished.

  "Who's that going out? Florentine? Where on earth is she off to at this hour?"

  Her face clouded, but then, taken by the fever of their project, she held out the list
to Azarius with a trembling hand, not daring to look him in the face. And seeing the future clearly, measuring what pain each joy would cost, hearing from every fibre of her being that every joy exacerbates the pain, she said:

  "Go on, get out of here before I change my mind. It could be we're trying to eat our cake too soon, Azarius, but Lord in Heaven, we don't get cake every day, let's have a taste of it when it's going around!"

  And in the modest lodging the hum of the sewing machine started up again. The children, gone back to sleep, would not be roused from the big bed because that hum, the voice of work itself, would accompany Rose-Anna's task, tireless, buzzing in the silence like the promise of fulfilment, mingling with the breathing of those who lay asleep.

  Her shoulders sagging, her back hunched, her eyelids tired, Rose-Anna sewed for the feast, not daring even to sing for fear of frightening off her joy.

  FOURTEEN

  The windows of the Montreal Metal Works on St. James Street were brightly lit. In the clear, soft air of night you could hear continuous hammering, the squeaking of winches and a hundred mingled noises, strident and dull, which spread out over the sleepy neighbourhood.

  Florentine kept her distance from the foundry, though each of its windows caught her in its glow as she passed. She didn't dare go near the entrance leading to the forging shop because of the armed guard standing in the sentry box. Motionless on the other side of the street, she peered into the hall on the ground floor. Through the sooty, lurid windows she could see moving shadows and, from time to time, when strips of red-hot metal were drawn from a gaping furnace, bursts of reddish light in which the shapes became clear silhouettes, rushing urgently about their work. She took a few paces this way and that, keeping close to the wall, always wary of attracting the guard's attention. After a time she saw a worker emerge, his lunch box under his arm and his cap pulled well down. She went up to him and in an almost unintelligible voice, as if the whole atmosphere of nocturnal labours had terrorized her, asked: "Is this where Monsieur Lévesque works?"

  Saying Jean's name was even more intimidating.