He had completely lost his sense of time when he reached the corner of Courcelles and St. Ambroise. He noticed a dull rumbling under the pavement, and through the grill of the gutter realized that it came from rushing waters. A network of underground drains came together here at a main sewer, and the roar of its flood filled the street and rushed away like a torrent. This was the first and truest voice of the season's freedom in the neighbourhood, and the young man tasted a kind of relaxation and expansiveness. He felt liberated.
Instinctively he had chosen the way to his own dwelling. His footsteps awoke the echoes sleeping in the deserted street. On his right rose the massive rows of grain elevators. He looked at them as at old friends, but with new interest and insistence, as if these imperious walls, these concrete towers, owed him a final confirmation of his destiny.
Farther on, the heavy mass of the cotton factories darkened the sky, rising on both sides of the street and joined by an elevated gallery that bridged the roadway. Jean was making his way in their shadow when he noticed a couple strolling hand in hand like children. By the light of a watery window he recognized Marguerite L'Estienne whom he had seen at the Five and Ten, and Alphonse Poirier. As he left them behind he smiled, partly at their attitude, which he found ridiculous, and partly at Alphonse who had recently tried to borrow money from him. Suddenly he began to understand what had been nagging obscurely at his mind all evening. Now it took on the form of a decision, ready-made. That was it, yes, he'd leave St. Henri. I need a change of air, he thought. The whole place had become hateful to him. Not just the memory of a jilted girl, but worse: the thought that he had spent the whole evening justifying himself. What did he have to justify? Already, beyond his departure he could glimpse what the ambitious ones in a big city see in their onward flight: new lands to conquer! Something was waiting for him in this world turned topsy-turvy by the war. Exactly what, he didn't know, except that it would reward him for his patience, marking time here in St. Henri. For a moment he was dazzled at being borne off toward the unknown with such self-confidence, such unconcern, as if he had just cast off a load of ballast. It was only later that he understood what he had thrown overboard that night. His old and sterile pity was no more an unconscious burden to him.
Carefully he went up the creaking staircase. The peace of his little room settled over him without dampening his haste to be on his way. For a second, as he groped in the dark for the hanging bulb, he saw Florentine as he had left her, white-faced, her eyes fixed on his in a kind of mute and frightful supplication. It crossed his mind that he was taking the most commonplace way out of his difficulties — and perhaps the most unworthy. But it was too late to pass judgement on things of this sort. If he felt righteous indignation, it was rather directed at Florentine than at himself.
As soon as he had turned the light on, he began search- ing among the papers on his shelf. There it was — an application form for one of the biggest munitions factories in the country. His pen scratched swiftly over the blank spaces, and his mind occupied itself with consequences. With his experience as a mechanic he would get a better job. If necessary, he'd ask for a recommendation from his boss. He should have an answer in a week. And he mustn't weaken in the meantime, whatever happened.
But what was he afraid of? He quickly wrote an accompanying letter, slipped both papers in an envelope, addressed and sealed it.
Then, fully dressed, he lay down on his bed. And an unworthy, almost vulgar thought glided through his mind, telling him something new about himself: After all, if I wanted to, just once more before I leave. . .
He refused to listen to this voice, but his refusal was tainted with anger and humiliation, for he did not know how long his flesh would still cry out in the dark, in his solitude, for that child of poverty with the narrow hips. Florentine Lacasse! How often would he suffer for having let her escape so easily!
EIGHTEEN
For a good hour now Rose-Anna had been walking toward the mountain. Her steps were slow and stubborn and her face was bathed in sweat, and when she finally reached Cedar Avenue she couldn't tackle it at once. Carved out of the rock, the road climbed rapidly. The April sun was warm. Here and there, out of the damp cracks in the stone, tufts of grass were pushing up with their fresh green blades.
Rose-Anna, catching her breath, was able to look around her. On her left a high iron grill rose in front of a vacant lot. Between the bars she saw clearly the whole lower town. Ribbons of smoke flew from the tips of grey factory chimneys. Great hanging signs cut the horizon into sections of blue and black; and, fighting for space in that town of work and prayer, the roofs descended in steps, tighter and tighter together until their monotony came to a halt at the river's edge. Toward the middle of its iridescent waters a light mist obscured the distant view.
Rose-Anna rested as she took in the panorama of the city. It didn't even occur to her to try to place her own house in the distance. Instead, she took the measure of the slope still to be climbed before she would arrive at the children's hospital she had been told was at the very top of Cedar Avenue. Daniel had been taken there shortly after their excursion to St. Denis.
One night as she was undressing him Rose-Anna had found large violet patches on his arms and legs. Next day she put him in his sled and dragged him to a young doctor on the rue du Couvent for whom she had done some housework. Everything else happened so quickly. The doctor had whisked Daniel off to the hospital. Rose-Anna remembered only one precise detail: the child had not cried or protested. In his weakness he had confidence in this stranger who was taking him away. Daniel had merely waved with his bony little hand.
Rose-Anna started up the hill again.
Ail that she knew of Mount Royal, stretched out above St. Henri, was St. Joseph's Oratory and the great cemetery where the people from the lower town came to bury their dead, just like those who lived on the hill. And now it seemed that the children of the poor also came to live on this mountain when they were sick, protected by the crystal air from the smoke, the soot and the foul breath of the factories which hung around the low-lying houses like the breath of a monster straining at its work. That the hospital and cemetery were both in these parts appeared to her as an evil sign.
The size and luxury of the private houses, which she could see in the depths of their gardens, she found astonishing. From time to time, as she slowed her pace to rest and marvel, she murmured to herself, Good Lord, it's rich here, and so fine! What's Daniel doing up here?
It didn't occur to her to be delighted that the child had been brought to where the air was so clear and pure. On the contrary, the farther she walked the more she imagined him isolated and so small, perhaps missing, in all this silence, the rumble of the trains that shook their house in St. Henri each time they passed. She remembered his simple game, which he persisted in playing every day: putting the kitchen chairs in a row and taking his place gravely on the first one, the proud engineer of his own railroad. Sometimes he would try a weak imitation of the train whistle, or shield his eyes with one hand as if he could see through the trembling wall of the kitchen the curve of the shining rails that cut through their neighbourhood. The kitchen was small, and Rose-Anna admitted to herself that she had often upset his pleasure, pushing the chairs back in place and sending him to play elsewhere.
Again she was panting, too tired to go on. As she rested she thought of all the misfortunes they'd had in the last few weeks. As they whirled through her mind she wondered, opening her eyes to the clear sky above, whether she had just had a bad dream. But as the beating of her heart grew quieter she found strength to recognize and admit those misfortunes.
What a mad thing it had been, going to the sugar shack! It wasn't for them to run after such pleasures. Hadn't that always brought bad luck? And how absurd and incomprehensible it seemed now, that frenzy of happiness that had possessed them all!
It was a muddle in her mind: first the accident a few miles from St. Denis and the return in the dark to her mother's house. From A
zarius' hangdog face she had soon gathered the truth. He had taken the truck without permission, and now that he must be discovered, he was afraid of losing his job, which was exactly what happened next morning. And, thought Rose-Anna, perhaps that wasn't the worst of their troubles. A neighbour had told her that in their absence Florentine had been visited by a young man, and that the man had not left until late Sunday evening. Florentine had put on a defiant air when she was questioned.
Weary and broken, she turned her mind to her most pressing worry, Daniel's illness.
The doctor had talked about red corpuscles, about white corpuscles, and some were multiplying, she couldn't remember which. And vitamin deficiencies as well. She hadn't understood much of it, but she could still see Daniel's half-naked body mottled with violet, his belly swollen and his arms hanging helplessly. And she felt ashamed.
Her other children, it seemed, were in equal danger. She remembered that they'd talked at the clinic about the right kind of diet to make sure the bones and teeth were properly formed and to ensure good health. What a joke! And they'd said that kind of food was within the reach of every budget! They had shown her clearly what her duty was. She felt a twinge of anguish. Perhaps she hadn't tried hard enough. She finally convinced herself of her own laxity, and her eyes were dry and hard.
But then she wiped this idea from her mind, because she would have to attack her problems one by one if she wanted to solve them. She shook her head and continued up the hill, trying to be quicker. She had walked all the way because the streetcar often gave her nausea, but now she was afraid of missing visiting hours.
Daniel was half sitting, half lying there, supported by two or three pillows. Toys were clustered everywhere in the folds of the covers: a tin flute, like the one he had always wanted, a teddy bear, a rattle, a box of wax crayons and a drawing book. In a single day he'd had more toys than in all his life, probably too many for him to love; or perhaps he felt too grown-up for any of them. What really held his attention was not the bear, not the flute, but a large boxful of alphabet cards. He was lining them up, tired but engrossed, and when he made a mistake his face showed a twitch of pain.
At the doorway Rose-Anna met a young nurse whose clear eyes, magnificently blue, took her in with a look of surprise mingled with pity. It made her feel old, and she instinctively held her well-worn purse like a shield in front of her protuberant coat.
Then she approached the bed on tiptoe because of this very white hospital with its wide, bright windows, so cheerful despite all the suffering; and also because her rough soles squeaked on the polished floor.
Daniel smiled timidly, then went back to searching out his letters.
She tried to help him, but his stubborn little hand blocked hers.
"Let me do it alone," he said. "That's how the Brother showed us at school, don't you remember?"
He had been in his class for only a few weeks, but his memory of it was persistent and gave him no rest. He remembered two or three days at the very beginning, in September, when he had been especially happy, going off to school with his new bag hanging on his back, holding Lucille's and Albert's hands. What they had taught him hadn't been too hard, and when he came home his great joy had been to get out his spelling book and show Azarius what he had learned that day. He would walk around, sometimes following his mother step for step in the kitchen, reciting behind her his "ba, be, bi, bo, bu," and driving her out of her mind. She had told him kindly to be quiet, yet this was enough to drive him into solitude with the great restlessness that quivered within him.
At night he would try so hard to retain every scrap of new knowledge that he would murmur his lessons, half asleep.
One morning he woke with a headache and nosebleeds. Rose-Anna said, "He's too little to be going to school." And she kept him home, despite his tears.
Later, when there were heavy rainstorms, she kept him home again because he had no rubbers. When he returned to his desk he had trouble understanding, had forgotten things, and when the teacher spoke to him directly he would break out in a sweat. It wasn't his fault; he was trying to do everything right. After a few days, he slowly began to see the lovely light that had reached him once before.
Then a cold wave hit the neighbourhood. There was always some reason for not going to school. Rose-Anna set to work sewing: first a coat for Yvonne, who was far ahead in school, then a windbreaker for Albert. Last of all Rose-Anna had made a coat for Daniel out of old cloth. And Daniel, who hated to see her leave her sewing machine to do other tasks, followed her stubbornly, pulling at her apron strings and repeating, "Ma, finish my coat r '
It was so important to finish that coat! It lay on the table, still without sleeves, shapeless, dotted with white basting thread. Daniel kept trying it on, despite his mother's words: "Daniel! You'll rip out my stitches! Hey, busybody!' 3
She couldn't understand why he'd want so desperately to get back to school.
After a while the sleeves were added. And Daniel loved his coat.
One morning he tried it on in secret, fetched his school-bag and attempted to sneak out. But Rose-Anna caught him at the door. She wasn't angry, she was saddened, and told him plaintively: "I can't make it any faster. I have too many things to do."
But that day she neglected her housework. She even let the dishes pile up in the sink, and sewed for a long time. In the evening, when the dining room was tidy and the sofas pulled out flat and made up, she was still sewing. Daniel went to sleep to the humming of the sewing machine, and dreamed of his overcoat. A strange thing: in his fantasies he had seen it with a fur collar. And when he opened his shining eyes he saw his coat on a chair-back trimmed with old black wolf skin that had been one of his mother's wedding presents.
But he didn't go to school that day. Feeling his forehead, Rose-Anna was sure he had a fever. For long weeks he had lain on two chairs that formed his small bed in the midst of all the traffic, with his overcoat beside him as a consolation.
When he finally went back to school after the holidays he was lost. The Brother's words remained incomprehensible this time. All his efforts were useless. Between him and the modest tasks that he was set came a face that was severe and dissatisfied. And how you had to try to please that face! This time he could not. He sat in despair at the back of the classroom. He knew nothing, understood nothing. The chalk and the pencil slipped from his hand. He would pick it up and make some vague scribble, but he no longer knew what was expected of him.
Rose-Anna now saw a glimmer of anguish in her son's eyes. Old fears, ill-defined obsessions, came and went in his half-closed eyes.
"Why don't you forget your letters for a while," she said. "You're just tiring yourself for nothing."
But Daniel again pushed his mother's hand away and patiently, wide-eyed, went back to his work. That's my son, thought Rose-Anna. He'd never give up a search or a chore or a duty. In the dark of night, in his solitude, he'd follow his stubborn notions.
She tried to make his self-imposed task a little easier, but as she stood up to do so the box of letters slid to the floor. Daniel called frantically:
"Jenny!"
Rose-Anna turned around, surprised. The young nurse she had seen as she came in was running to answer Daniel's call. So, thought Rose-Anna, when he needs help he turns j to her now, not to his mother.
The nurse picked up the letters and put them back in the box within his reach. She pulled up the covers and, as if she were speaking to another grown-up, asked:
"All right now, Danny?"
And Daniel smiled in his slow, timid way. Jenny with her blonde hair in its sober headband, Jenny with her grey-blue eyes and her smile that made a dimple at the corners of her mouth, Jenny who came to him with a rustling of starched, white linen, Jenny, always patient, was helping him in his struggle against the disapproving face of his days in school. In his suffering and distress there would always be these two faces, and sometimes one would win, sometimes the other, but he never succeeded in dissociating them or in s
eeing only the face that brought him peace of mind.
Rose-Anna dimly understood these things for all their mystery, though they lay far outside her usual preoccupations. She was silent for a long moment.
When the nurse had left she leaned over toward the bed. She had a fear that her child couldn't make himself understood in this place. And another sentiment made itself felt, as cold as steel.
"Does she only speak English?" she asked, with a touch of unfriendliness. "When you need something, can you ask her for it?"
"Yes," said Daniel.
"But aren't there any other children here that speak French?"
"Sure, that baby."
Rose-Anna saw a tiny child, his hands gripping the bars as he stood up in his crib.
"That one there!"
"Yes, he's my friend." "He's too small to talk. You've got nobody to talk to?"
"Yes, Jenny."
"And what if she doesn't understand you?"
The Tin Flute Page 20