His neck was stiff and sore and burned as though someone had poured scalding water on it. His clenched jaws ached all the way up to his ears. Despite every effort, Simon was unable to comfort him. His first sojourn in the closet hadn’t been that hard to bear, because he knew how to kill time. But the prospect of another one filled him with terror. Especially since he had no intention of returning the money. That money belonged to him. He was the one who had earned it, not that crooked-faced thief in his tacky Lincoln.
Charles turned on his back and stared at the ceiling for a long time, then let out a sigh: he had made up his mind. He would wait until the middle of the night, then get up, get dressed, and sneak out of the house like he did before, and go over to the Fafards’ house. To do that he had to be absolutely sure that his father was asleep. He could still hear him stomping around in the kitchen, muttering to himself; the radio was on low, and every now and then a pffsssst! told him that another bottle of beer had been opened.
To save time and because he couldn’t just lie there keeping still, he took off his pyjamas, folded them, and put them under his pillow, and got dressed. Knowing that he was ready to go made him feel better. He got back into bed and this time Simon found the right words to reassure him: “You won’t have to put up with him either, Simon,” the boy whispered into the bear’s ear, “because I’m going to take you with me. Would you like that?” “Are you kidding? You bet I would,” Simon replied. “I’ve never liked that man.” Gradually, Charles’s fear diminished and was replaced by an immense fatigue that settled into his limbs. The burning in his neck also subsided. Maybe he should sleep a bit in order to have a clear head when the time came to run away and leave this place behind forever, where he would never in his life be happy. Slowly his eyelids closed despite his efforts to stay awake …
A violent blow knocked him out of bed. He found himself on the floor, at his father’s feet, half blinded by the light from the ceiling.
“What are you up to this time, eh?” shouted Wilfrid, standing with his legs spread and his arms weaving dangerously as he tried to keep his balance. “Come on! Answer me!”
“I … I was cold,” blubbered Charles, hiding his face in his hands.
“Get up, you little liar! Get in the kitchen! I want to talk to you.”
There was no mistaking his heavy, slurred speech; he hadn’t stopped drinking since Guilbault’s visit. Charles turned and directed a silent appeal to Simon, who’d been thrown to the floor as well and was staring at his master with a hopeless, appalled expression.
Charles got up with a grimace and followed his father.
“ ’S a good thing I thought of waking you up,” muttered the carpenter, leaning one hand against the hallway wall. “ ’S plain as the nose on my face, for Christ’s sake.”
In the kitchen he slumped down on a chair, legs spread out before him, and gestured for his son to stand a few feet in front of him.
Charles obeyed, casting a furtive look at the door of the bedroom where Sylvie was sleeping. It was closed. The apartment was totally silent.
“You’re gonna stand there like that, ’thout moving,” Wilfrid said slowly, “until sush time as you tell me where you put the money. You got that? I’m in no hurry.”
And grabbing a bottle from the table, he took a long swig, then placed the bottle on the floor and crossed his arms, giving his son a smile that oozed hatred.
Charles looked at his father’s face. He’d never seen it looking so mean, with its thick lips hanging slightly down, its eyes swollen almost shut, nearly disappearing into the folds of skin around them and so full of anger that they looked almost blind. Something terrible was taking place behind them. He started to cry.
“No, no, no! No blubbering,” shouted Wilfrid, sitting up. “You’re not gonna get around me like that!”
Leaning forward he took a swipe at the boy but merely managed to clip his cheek; then he flopped back onto his chair.
“ ’S not blubbering I want from you,” he said again after taking another drink. “ ’S information! We’ll see who’s boss around here, goddamnit!”
He crossed his arms.
“Where’d you put the money?”
Charles worked hard at holding back his tears. He tried to wipe his cheek with the palm of his hand, but his father leapt to his feet.
“Don’t move, I tole you!” he shouted. “I tole you not to move! You move when I tell you to move, not before!”
Charles lowered his head and kept silent. The carpenter stared at him, swaying slightly on his feet, then placed his hand flat on the table and sat back down.
“Still don’ feel like talking?” he said after a moment. “Take your time, I’m in no hurry.”
Several minutes went by. Wilfrid stood up, went to the refrigerator, and returned with another bottle of beer. For a few long seconds he seemed to have forgotten his son’s presence in the room, lost in his own gloomy and confused thoughts. Then, shooting a sudden suspicious look in Charles’s direction, he assured himself that his instructions were being followed. Charles was breathing quickly and becoming more and more uncomfortable. His arms hung down, his hands felt swollen and covered in pinpricks. He was struggling against an almost irresistible urge to move about the room; sharp pains shot through his lower back and down his legs. Every so often he lifted his head slightly and looked around the kitchen; the walls had lost their solidity, they’d begun to undulate. He was getting dizzy.
He realized then that there was only one way out of the situation; he would have to explain himself to his father.
“He’s a crook, that Guilbault,” he murmured hoarsely.
The carpenter jumped.
“Whass that you say?”
“He’s a crook. The money he makes from chocolate bars doesn’t go to people in need. He keeps it all for himself. I heard him talking on the telephone yesterday at lunch. He was telling someone all about it, how he makes us children work for him for practically nothing and he fills his own pockets. He’s nothing but a crook. I’m going to tell the police.”
The boy’s words appeared to have penetrated to the bottom of the carpenter’s drunkenness. The lines on his face hardened and a look of attention and cunning replaced the animal stupor that had been there before.
“What’s this you’re telling me?”
The surprise and interest in his voice encouraged the boy. He repeated the details about the conversation he had overheard in the restaurant.
His body bent forward, one hand on his knee, Wilfrid nodded his head. “Okay, okay, okay,” he muttered thoughtfully. “I never woulda guessed … He looks like such a clean-cut guy … Did you take his money?”
Charles hesitated a second, then nodded, then instantly realized he had fallen into a trap.
“Where’d you put it?”
There was a threat in the question. Charles clenched his teeth, bowed his head, and didn’t answer. His heart was beating so hard that a small, dry cough tore at his chest. The carpenter rose slowly, his hands outstretched.
“What’d you do with the money, you stubborn little bastard?” he repeated more loudly. “Where’d you put it? You want me to force it out of you?”
He grabbed Charles and began shaking him violently.
“No! I’m not telling you!” cried the boy without knowing what he was doing. “You’ll take it from me! It’s mine! I earned it, not you!”
And he began to fight back, terrified; inadvertently he plunged his fist into his father’s stomach; the carpenter groaned and relaxed his grip slightly. With a sharp twist of his shoulders, Charles succeeded in breaking away, stumbling backwards a few steps until his back came up against a wall.
Wilfrid let out a roar and stood stock-still for several seconds, his face in convulsions. A horrifying expression appeared in his eyes; he turned to the counter. The black-handled paring knife was lying near the sink; it had a short blade that came to a sharp point. With a yell he grabbed the weapon and turned on his son, who watched hi
m petrified. Something strange took place in Charles at that moment. He suddenly saw the face of his father transformed into that of a green, warty toad, with grotesque mouth, and with enormous shiny eyes turning softly on themselves like gold-threaded marbles; the child was seized by a convulsive fit of laughter; he raised his hand, one finger extended, and tried to speak.
A loud shriek saved him. Sylvie was standing in the doorway, staring at Wilfrid, who had stopped a few paces from Charles. She screamed again, the piercing sound invading every room of the apartment like a cold wind that took the breath away; the paring knife fell to the floor with a clatter. The carpenter, looking haggard and contrite, gulped slowly, then babbled something inarticulate, collapsed on the chair, and stayed there, motionless.
“You were going to kill him!” the waitress shouted in amazement. “You were really going to kill him! You’ve gone crazy, I swear it! Crazy! Completely crazy!”
15
Charles flew down the stairs under the astonished eye of Monsieur Victoire, who had come out onto his balcony in his pyjamas. He ran down the sidewalk without knowing where he was going, turned a corner, and found himself in the tiny park off rue Coupal. As though this were where he had been headed all along, he threw himself straight under the bench, curled up as tightly as he could, trying to make himself as small as possible, in fact trying to disappear altogether in the dead leaves strewn about the ground. Jolts of energy shot through his body, he couldn’t stop his eyes and mouth from opening and closing, and such a clanging was going on in his head that he couldn’t formulate a single thought. If anyone had asked him where he was, he wouldn’t have been able to answer. There was an unpleasant coldness between his legs, which told him he had wet his pants. Shudders wracked his body, he gasped for breath, feeling bruised and exhausted. If only he could go to sleep, right there under the bench! But the chaos that had taken over his brain made sleep impossible. Minutes passed. Traffic picked up on rue Ontario. Somewhere a clock struck. Suddenly the angry growl of a garbage truck rolled over him. The ground under his thigh and shoulder became hard and cold. He would have crawled out, but the strength to do so had drained out of him.
Then he heard a familiar bark coming from far away, and he was visited by a miraculous clarity. It was Boff, in the Fafards’ backyard. The dog must have recognized his steps on the staircase and was calling him. In an instant Charles was on his feet and running back towards rue Dufresne.
At the corner he paused and looked carefully at the door to his apartment, trying to see if a human form lurked behind the glass, but he couldn’t see anything because of a reflection from the streetlight. He raced across the street and rushed into the Fafards’ yard. Boff saw him and instantly stopped barking, then began pulling on his chain and shaking his head, choking. Charles released him and signalled to him to follow. He’d changed his mind; he would not hide out with the Fafards. That would be the first place his father would look for him. Who could say he wouldn’t succeed in getting him back to the house? The idea filled Charles with horror.
He left the yard and soon found himself on rue Ontario. The store windows glowed palely in the orange light from the streetlamps. Boff pranced around him, ecstatic at being taken for an unexpected early-morning walk. Charles moved quickly, looking anxiously up and down the street, afraid that a police car would suddenly appear; they would surely stop and take him home despite all his protestations. In the distance he saw a tramp crossing the street, carrying a huge sack. Twice a car slowed down beside him; each time the driver gave him an appraising look, then picked up speed and moved off.
Suddenly he spotted a vaguely familiar figure a hundred metres ahead of him, a man pacing back and forth at the corner. Charles continued walking and recognized Monsieur Saint-Amour, wrapped in a heavy brown overcoat that reached all the way down to his ankles, his hands thrust deep into its pockets and a dented felt hat jammed on his head down to his ears. Who could he be waiting for at this hour?
The old man hadn’t seen him. Charles turned and doubled back, took a side street, and made a wide detour to avoid running into him. After a few minutes he was in front of his old daycare on rue Lalonde. No one would think of looking for him there, and he had to come there anyway to get his money, which now he would certainly need. The cherry tree stood in the bluish light of early dawn, its crown half bare of leaves, and a mysterious peace seeming to hover in the air around it. Charles sat at its feet and ran his hand over the dried grass, greeting the little yellow dog. As though sensing the solemnity of the occasion, Boff lay down at his side. Charles breathed a sigh of relief. He now had two dogs to keep him company. He began rubbing the spaniel’s back and the thick hair warmed his icy fingers. His pants were nearly dry. He had regained most of his spirits, and now if he was still shivering it was because of the chill in the morning air rather than out of fear. Nevertheless, he was still plunged in gloom, feeling hopeless. He did not know what to do or where to go.
He put his arms around Boff and closed his eyes. The dog’s warmth, which gave off a deep and familiar odour, was a profound comfort to him. His trembling slowed down, then disappeared altogether. Was he asleep? He couldn’t say. After a certain time had passed he felt a faint light penetrating his eyelids. He raised his head. The sky was brilliant. Boff moved one foot but continued to snore lightly. The shimmering leaves of the cherry tree, now bathed in light, rustled gently and the sound, blending with the other noises of the awakening city, was extremely pleasant. It must have been the little yellow dog who had taught the tree to make such pretty music. Charles stared at the spot on the ground where he had buried the dog and a smile rose to his lips; suddenly, with wonderful precision, he had thought of the perfect solution to his problem.
Parfait Michaud, the notary, sat by himself in his dining room, turning a spoon in his cup of coffee with a pensive air. Living with a hypochondriac was not easy. His wife was sick again, or at least believed herself to be. The previous afternoon she’d gone to the jeweller’s to pick up a bracelet she was having repaired, and, while handing it to her the jeweller had unfortunately coughed in her face. That was all it had taken. She’d returned to the house pale as a ghost, swallowed aspirin after aspirin and taken handfuls of Vitamin C, felt a death of a cold coming on, taken to her bed, and buried herself under two duvets with a hot-water bottle at her feet, already shaken by spasms and aching all over. He’d gone up to see her between clients. “Amélie, for the love of God, why start suffering before you get sick?” But as usual his little pleasantry had not had the slightest therapeutic effect.
And this morning, of course, she’d come down with a high fever. It would last two or three days, leaving him to make all the meals, bring her infusions of this and that, glasses of fruit juice, finely chopped salads, and all because somewhere in her brain there lurked a device that allowed her to fall sick at will. The only time it left her in peace was when she was busy with something, when she couldn’t afford to waste time in bed. Alas, such moments were rare; for years she had believed herself to be suffering from an energy deficiency that prevented her from doing anything that could even remotely be described as too much work.
The notary lifted his cup, took a sip of coffee and smacked his lips appreciatively: the espresso was particularly good this morning. The Italian on rue Jean-Talon had not been lying after all; the machine he’d sold him had been worth every penny.
A second warm thought followed the first and brought a small smile to his lips: it was Sunday, a day of rest, a respite from clients; he could listen to his favourite LPs in peace, then settle down to read L’homme rapaillé, a collection of poems about which he’d been hearing a lot of good things.
Was that his wife’s voice? No, she was asleep and probably wouldn’t wake up until ten. Her glass of orange juice was ready on the counter, along with two multivitamins and a jar of Scotch marmalade of which she was particularly fond and which he had been lucky enough to find yesterday. Everything was in place, at least for the time being.
Suddenly the doorbell gave out its strangled vibrato. He looked at his watch and made a face. Who would have the nerve to turn up on his doorstep at five after nine on a Sunday morning? That tramp he’d given money to on Thursday? Jehovah’s Witnesses? He would convert them to silence!
Tightening the cord of his dressing gown, he went into the vestibule, his slippers flip-flopping on the hardwood floor. Through the door’s window he saw a small boy standing on the porch beside a dog, gazing straight back at him with a determined look.
“What can I do for you, my little friend? Ah, it’s the boy with the dogs,” he said, recognizing him. “Heavens, but you’re up and about early this morning. Don’t you know it’s Sunday?”
“It’s just that I need to speak to you, sir,” replied the child. The dog, sitting on the porch, wagged his tail gently.
“What about?”
“A business matter,” said the boy. Then, seeing the astonished look on the notary’s face, he added, “It’s important.”
“Can’t you come back tomorrow?”
“It can’t wait that long, sir.”
The boy gave him a smile that was warm enough to melt a snowbank. Michaud caught the look of supplication in his shining eyes.
“All right, come in,” he sighed, stepping aside to let him pass. “But the dog stays here. My wife’s allergic.”
The boy told his dog to stay and followed the notary into the house. The latter opened a door that gave into a small waiting room, then turned to the boy with a stern look.
“I hope this isn’t about selling me some raffle tickets or anything of that sort, is it? I have no intention of buying anything like that today, I’ll tell you right off.”
Charles the Bold Page 21