by Roch Carrier
Molly stopped on the stairs for a moment, trying to understand what was going on. She held herself regally under the long transparent gown. The women closed their eyes and imagined that they too were beginning to look like this girl - before the children, the sleepless nights, their husbands’ rough words, before those winters, each one more interminable than the last. They would never look like that again; they despised her. The men were devoured by that flame so sweetly sculptured beneath the tulle. A fire was trembling in their bodies. That belly, rounded for caresses, wasn’t a swollen sack of guts; those breasts, firm as hot rolls, didn’t wobble down onto the belly. The young men put a hand in their pockets and drew their legs close together.
Molly had learned not to get mixed up in men’s quarrels. She crossed the kitchen, head held high as though nothing had happened, and went to the living room. There was no reaction, no movement from the soldiers at attention. Molly knelt down before Corriveau’s coffin and prayed to God not to condemn to his terrible hell the soul of Corriveau, whom she had never known, but who had such respectable parents. He had been born a French Canadian so he couldn’t have been very happy.
Corriveau must have looked like all those young soldiers who used to come to her bed to forget that no one loved them; Molly used to feel very pleased when, after they had got dressed again, they would give her a last kiss, with a certain happiness in their eyes. She liked these young soldiers very much. Their desires were never complicated like those of the old officers or the travelling salesmen who always asked her for all sorts of fancy stuff which she didn’t like but which she agreed to because they paid well. Only the young soldiers made her happy. Corriveau would have been like those young soldiers; when he had closed the bedroom door perhaps she would have been sorry to see him leave. Some returned to her bed, and she sometimes recognized them, but there were also some who didn’t come back.
Now the young soldiers, the old officers, the travelling salesmen and all the others would never come to her bed again to knead her flesh with avid hands, as though they wanted to model in that flesh another woman’s body: the body of the woman they were thinking about. Bérubé alone would love her now.
Molly became very sad at the thought of those young soldiers who would never come again to her bedroom with their affected coarseness, who would never again let an “I love you” escape into her ear at the moment when they were swollen with all their useless love. Molly wiped a tear. All her love would be destined for Bérubé. They would forget her quickly enough: Molly wasn’t the only one in the hotel, and there were other hotels. Some of them, of course, could not forget her — the little soldiers who had not come back from the war, who would never come back. If Molly were ever unhappy they would be the ones whose help she would ask. Those little soldiers who had given their lives in the war could not refuse to help Molly. She prayed that God would open the doors of his Heaven to all the young soldiers who looked like Corriveau. She recited several prayers, but is was very difficult. She did not manage to recite them all the way to the end because the desire to sleep was stronger than her desire to save the souls of young war-heroes, stronger than her distress at seeing young men like Corriveau know death before they had known life. It would be better to go to sleep right away. Molly would get up very early, at dawn, well rested. Then she would ask God for the salvation of Corriveau and all those like him.
“Here little girl, little lady, eat this bit of tourtière.” Mother Corriveau put a plate on Corriveau’s coffin in front of Molly, who took a mouthful to be polite.
“You,” said Mother Corriveau to the soldiers, “you’re not having much fun. Goodness but you look sad. You’re soldiers, you shouldn’t be sad. You’d think you were in mourning. What if you are Anglais? We don’t wish you any harm. We won’t send you back home to England. We like you alright. Would you each like a little plate with a piece of tourtière like I’ve given our little Molly?”
The soldiers didn’t move. Only the sergeant’s eyes turned in their sockets. His lips barely unfastened as he said, “Sorry, we’re on duty.”
And, to harden his men’s positions, he shouted, “Attention!”
Molly nibbled another mouthful and got up to go to bed. When she went into the kitchen Bérubé seized her arm and said to her, “Come here you, all naked, we need your help.”
Would Bérubé beat her? She noticed that she was, as her husband had said, really naked under the tulle dress.
Arsène, ludicrously, was standing in front of Bérubé, who kept hitting him with his open hand. Would Bérubé mistreat her like that too? The big man’s face was so red that the flesh seemed to want to burst.
“What do you want?” she asked submissively.
Arsène was wearing a buttoned coat; a wool scarf was tied around his neck. Seeing him bundled up like that Molly could not know that under his top coat he was wearing two others.
Arsène did not try to dodge the blows. He was pale, sweaty, suffering.
“Get on his shoulders, get on his back. I don’t know how to say it to you. Baptême, that language of yours wasn’t invented by Christians. Get on his shoulders. That baptême is going to learn what a soldier’s life is like.”
Bérubé seized Molly by the waist, lifted her, and installed her on Arsène’s shoulders.
“That’s enough,” said someone who had come up to them. He couldn’t go on: he was silenced by a fist. The man recoiled, surprised at the blood that was running down his chin.
The villagers laughed derisively.
“By Christ, you’re going to learn what war’s all about. Dance! It isn’t finished. Dance!”
Arsène’s eyes were burning with sweat. Under his coats his suit was soaked as if a bucket of water, boiling water, had been poured over him. During his lifetime he had carried few things as heavy as little Molly; he’d be crushed by her weight. But he danced so that he wouldn’t be hit any more. He would even have kissed Bérubé’s feet. He danced with all his strength; his feet were scarcely moving, they were so heavy that when he moved he felt as if he were buried in snow up to his thighs, snow that burned like fire and clung like mud. He would have liked to dance still more so that Bérubé would stop being angry.
“Dance!”
Arsène gathered up all his strength and thought he had speeded up his rhythm.
“Dance, by Christ! Dance!”
Bérubé struck. Molly told herself that she wasn’t dreaming.
“Dance faster!”
On Arséne’s shoulders Molly looked like a queen. The old men marvelled at the pink tips of her breasts under the tulle, two fascinating little stars. Basically they were no better off than Corriveau. They would never again have the privilege of gently kissing such little pink tips on such tender breasts. They would never again caress such beautiful breasts, all warm in their hands. They were sad. Their lives were over already. And they cursed from the bottoms of their hearts the young men who were devouring Molly with their eyes.
“Allez! Hop! Allez! Hop! Vivent the soldiers! Go on! Dance, hostie! Dance! Faster! Run! Vive the army! Vive la guerre! Left! Right! Left! Right! Left… Left… Left…”
Bérubé didn’t stop Arsène, who was completely under his command.
“Left… Left… Right! Dance, you stinking vermin! Dance! Vive la guerre et les soldats! Dance! Left! Right! Here’s a shell!”
Bérubé kicked him in the rear.
“Here’s a grenade!”
Bérubé slapped him.
“Here’s a bomb!”
Bérubé spat in his face.
“Run! You’re rottener than Corriveau will be after the spring thaw. Faster! Left, turn!” Arsène obeyed as well he could. He ran in place, more and more slowly; his face was drowned in sweat. He couldn’t breathe. There was a cold stone in place of his lungs. He was stifling. The air was not coming to either his mouth or his nose. He was as thirsty as if he had eaten sand.
“Go on, soldier! Left! Right! Left! Right! Left! Right! Soldier, left turn!�
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If Bérubé judged that he was not being obeyed promptly enough, he crushed Arsène’s head between his two hands, cracking them over Arsène’s ears. Bérubé was as sweaty as Arsène. Molly felt drunk.
“It’s lovely, a soldier’s life. You would have liked to be a soldier. Look out! It’s a mine!”
Bérubé gave him a few kicks on the shin. Hadn’t Arsène felt some pain? He showed no reaction, no contortions, no grimaces. He was shaking.
“Ah! the lovely war. Left! Right! Hostie of a mule, forward march. Look out! a torpedo!”
Bérubé sank his fist into Arsène’s stomach. He was doubled over by the blow. His face was purple. His coats and his wool scarf were strangling him. Would he be strong enough to get up? He was staggering.
No one came to interfere. No one was brave enough. In order not to feel like cowards they tried to be amused, and laughed as they had never laughed before.
“March!”
Arsène felt as if there was a bar of red hot iron in his skull, from one ear to the other. He could no longer see anything; he would have sworn that his eyes were running down his cheeks. What was that flowing, thick and hot, down his temples? Was it sweat or blood? Arsène sank into a deeper and deeper torpor.
“Left! Right!”
Arsène’s legs were melting like the pats of butter in Mother Corriveau’s saucepans. She was as quiet as she used to be when her son, the one lying there in his coffin, used to come in drunk and insult Anthyme.
Arsène’s legs had melted. He was resting now against his fat belly. He could no longer run or dance. He was an exhausted, legless cripple in his soaked coats. Arsène was thinking “I’m plastered, I’m asleep, I’ve had too much to drink. I’m letting myself fall on the ground.”
Bérubé was hitting him. “Left! Right! Left… Left! Here’s the beautiful life of a little soldier. Look out! Here’s a shell!”
Bérubé flattened his hand in Arsène’s face.
“When are those Christly Germans going to leave us in peace?” asked Bérubé.
Arsène no longer had any arms. He had become a sack of potatoes, but he still obeyed.
“You’re a good soldier. Left! Right!”
On Arsène’s shoulders Molly felt humiliated.
Suddenly, Arsène stumbled. Molly fell onto one of the men, who received her in his arms like a flaming log.
“Narcisse!” cried his wife. “Don’t touch that!”
Bérubé came up to Arsène, who had passed out on the floor. He stuck his foot in his face and shook his head. “That’s a real good little soldier; not as good as Corriveau, but better than me. Arsène is a Christ of a good soldier. He deserves medals, stacks of medals as high as churches. Arsène lets himself be pulled apart. He doesn’t try to save a single tiny bit of his skin. He’s no miser. A hostie of a good little soldier.”
With his left toe he turned over Arsène’s face.
“He’d let them make mincemeat out of him if they told him they needed his skin to plug up the walls of the shithouses. A real good little soldier. But he hasn’t got a uniform.”
Bérubé pulled off the coats that he had made Arsène pile into, one on top of the other. He took off his jacket, tore off his shirt, which he threw into the woodstove, and pulled off his trousers; the women no longer dared to look. The men were snorting with laughter. Arsène, motionless, submitted to all the outrages. He was nothing but a mass of obedient flesh.
“You’re a real good little soldier,” said Bérubé, who was no longer pale, whose eyes were no longer haggard. He looked more gentle. “You’re a real good little soldier and you’ve done a goddamn good job for your country, but you’ve got to have a uniform. It’s your duty to fight the war: it’s the most glorious job, to fight a war. It’s fun to fight a war; it’s nice. You’re a good soldier, but you haven’t got a uniform.”
Arsène, dazed, dressed in his long wool underwear that covered him from his ankles to his neck, listened to Bérubé. He repeated, “You need a uniform.” The women had an equivocal smile on their lips; the men, their mouths wide open, were amused. Bérubé grabbed hold of the neck of Arsène’s underwear, one hand on either side of the long row of buttons that started at the neck and went down to the crotch. Without loosening his grip he pulled, vigorously. Buttons flew, the underwear fell down, Arsène’s white chest appeared, then his fat shiny belly. When Arsène, unresisting, was completely naked, the women laughed as hard as their husbands.
Arsène himself burst out laughing.
“Soldier, never forget that your uniform represents your native land, your patrie our country, and Liberty.”
Bérubé kicked Arsène towards the door and pushed him out into the snow.
“Go on, soldier, go and stomp out three or four goddamn Germans for me.”
The villagers gurgled as they emptied themselves of their laughter, and all their insides seemed to escape with their laughter. They held their stomachs, they wept, they stamped their feet, they pranced about, they choked.
Bérubé seized the arm of the astonished Molly.
“Darling,” she asked, “why did you do that?”
“What?”
“It was a bad joke.”
“Let’s go to bed; let’s have a little nap.”
“Darling…”
“Sometimes I feel a little crazy.”
The candles on Corriveau’s coffin had burned out. Now the living room was lit only by the light coming from the kitchen. The light was yellow, greasy looking. The soldiers had been present, imperturbable, at Arsène’s massacre. They had looked impassively at the savage rites, drowned in heavy laughter, cider and greasy tourtières, but their lips were sealed by disgust.
What kind of animals were these French Canadians? They had the manners of pigs in a pigpen. Besides, if you looked at them carefully, objectively, French Canadians really looked like pigs too. The long thin Anglais looked at the French Canadians’ double chins, their swollen bellies, the big flaccid breasts of their women; they scrutinized the French Canadians’ eyes, floating inertly in the white fat of their faces — they were real pigs, these French Canadians, whose civilization consisted of drinking, eating, farting, belching. The soldiers had known for a long time that French Canadians were pigs. “Give them something to eat and a place to shit and we’ll have peace in the country,” they used to say. That night the soldiers had proof before their eyes that the French Canadians were pigs.
Corriveau, the French Canadian they had transported on their shoulders through snow so deep it made them want to stretch out and freeze they were so tired, Corriveau, this French Canadian sleeping under their flag, in a uniform like the one they were so proud of, this Corriveau was a pig too.
French Canadians were pigs. Where would it end? The sergeant decided that it was time to take the situation in hand. French Canadians were unmanageable, undisciplined, crazy pigs. The sergeant prepared a plan of attack in his head.
His subalterns remembered what they had learned in school: French Canadians were solitary, fearful, barely intelligent; they didn’t have a talent for government or business or agriculture, but they made lots of babies.
When the English arrived in the colony the French Canadians were less civilized than the Indians. The French Canadians lived grouped in little villages along the shores of the St. Lawrence, in wooden cabins filled with dirty, sick, starving children, and lousy, dying old men. Every year English ships used to go up the St. Lawrence because England had decided to get involved in New France, which had been neglected and abandoned by the Frenchmen. The English ships were anchored in front of the villages, and the Englishmen got off to offer their protection to the French Canadians, to become friends with them. But as soon as they had seen the British flag waving on the St. Lawrence the French Canadians had gone and hidden in the woods. Real animals. They hadn’t a vestige of politeness, these pigs. They didn’t even think of defending themselves. What they left behind — their cabins, animals, furniture, clothes — were so d
irty, so crawling with vermin, so smelly, that the English had had to burn it all in order to disinfect the area. If they hadn’t destroyed it the vermin would have invaded the whole country.
Then the boats went away, but the French Canadians stayed in the woods until autumn. Then they got busy building new cabins.
Why did they not accept the help offered by the English? Because France had abandoned them, why would they not accept the privilege of becoming English? England would have civilized them. They wouldn’t be French-Canadian pigs then. They would know how to understand a civilized language. They would speak a civilized language, not a patois.
Accustomed to obeying, the soldiers felt that they were being given an order. They turned their eyes towards the sergeant, who motioned with his head. The soldiers understood. They carried out the order fervently.
They went through the house picking up boots, coats, scarves and hats, and threw them outside. The villagers were invited to leave.
More preoccupied with finding their clothes than protesting the insult, they left, pushing each other as they went.
When they were outside, their feet buried in snow crusted from the same cold that froze the saliva on their lips, the villagers realized that they had been kicked out of Corriveau’s house by the Anglais. The Anglais had prevented them from praying for the repose of the soul of Corriveau, a boy from the village, dead in the war, the Anglais’ war. Their humiliation was as painful as a physical wound. The Anglais were preventing them from gathering together to mourn at the coffin of one of their people. Because life in the village was lived in common, each villager was Corriveau’s father to some extent, each woman his mother. The women wept bitterly; the men held in their anger. Gradually they all found their clothes. They were not cold now: their anger protected them from the wind.
Mother Corriveau had not liked the soldiers’ behaviour, but she couldn’t communicate with them in their language. She put some wood in the stove. “You have to hit these Anglais over the head to make them understand.”
Anthyme didn’t say whether he agreed or not. Mother Corriveau, without saying another word, indicated to the Anglais that they should sit down at the table, where she served them generous portions of tourtière swimming in fragrant sauce.