Charles the Bold

by Yves Beauchemin

  “Yeah, it’s great! I think we’re going to have fun here. Of course,” Charles added quickly, “we’d have a much better time if your mother weren’t sick.”

  “Oh, she’ll be all right,” Henri replied confidently. “My father knows all the best doctors.”

  Charles gave a deep sigh, whether of sadness or contentment he didn’t know. The coals were glowing red and orange and he couldn’t take his eyes off them. A feeling of gentle laziness slowly spread through his body, as though his veins were lined with velvet and his body were floating imperceptibly above the ground. He felt calm again, at peace with himself, as happy as the day his father had allowed him to bring Boff into the house. “I hope Lucie gets better,” he said to himself, suddenly disquieted by Henri’s nonchalance. He remembered Alice lying in her bed in the hospital, saying her final goodbye.

  He looked to his left and saw Father Beaucage sitting ten feet away, watching him. The priest nodded; his flashing, domineering smile reminded Charles of a sword. He tried to respond politely, but his lips refused to move except to make a sort of twisted smile, and he returned his gaze to the fire.

  They began to sing: “Crocuses in the Meadows,” “The Abbot Lights the Fire,” and even an Iroquois lullaby, “A ni cou ni.” Sitting outdoors at night at the edge of a forest beside a huge fire was a wonderful antidote to Charles’s misgivings; it filled him with that delicious giddiness that always accompanies new experiences. He knew none of the songs, but they were all repeated two or three times and after a while he was singing parts of them with all his heart. Henri, too, came under their thrall, and soon was rocking gently back and forth, carried away by happiness. Suddenly the small, pimply-faced boy with the sharp nose, who’d been sitting next to Charles at dinner, slid down next to him.

  “You want to hear something funny, Thibodeau?” he said excitedly. He told Charles that an hour ago two boys had been caught jerking off behind the outhouses.

  “The priest is going to talk to them in a few minutes. Man, I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes!”

  After the fire there were snacks in the dining hall, followed by a short period of prayer and reflection in the chapel.

  During snack, the absence of Lalumière and Doré was duly noted. They were two of the “big kids,” much admired for their wispy beginnings of a moustache and their encyclopedic knowledge of the songs of Robert Charlebois. Wicked rumours began to circulate as to what had happened to them.

  On their way to chapel, some of the campers had seen two rigid silhouettes on the blind covering of one of the windows of a small building adjoining the chapel, which was the priest’s quarters. There were a few muffled laughs, but also a few sighs of commiseration.

  When prayer was over, Father Beaucage rose and, standing before the railing with a gravity no one had seen on his face before, launched into a detailed description of their day, emphasizing that the dominant theme throughout had been purity, “that one virtue God has placed above all others, and the key by which we may open the door to Heaven”; he warned his young listeners against falling into evil practices, succumbing to “the Devil’s smile, which works with all its evil force to draw us into sin and eternal damnation.”

  These stern and terrible words were curiously at odds with the priest’s age and bearing. Among certain campers, however, they went straight to the depths of their souls; these boys sat, faces rigid with dread, thinking of the numerous sins they had already committed and of the even more numerous sins they would certainly, alas, be committing in the future. But it was perhaps a sign of the times that most of the boys listening to the priest received his admonitions with marked indifference, their minds elsewhere, stifling yawns, secretly nibbling on cookies snatched from the dining hall, and looking forward to the warmth of their beds. Charles’s mother had instilled in him a somewhat frightened respect for the old man in the white beard whom everyone referred to as God, and a naive and sentimental affection for the Baby Jesus and his sainted mother, the Blessed Virgin; he listened to the priest with rapt and vaguely troubled attention, protected though he was by his youth from the pangs of remorse and the tightened chest of fear.

  During this time Frederic, who’d been shut up in Brother Marcel’s office and evidently felt he was missing out on his rightful nighttime romp in the forest, had succeeded in pushing a chair to a window and, having climbed up on it, was peering over the sill at the immense cloud of smoke rising from the campfire as Brother Martin was putting it out with a hose. From time to time, whenever the raccoon turned its head towards the nearby forest, shivers ran through its body and its claws moved across the windowpane with long, almost imperceptible squeaks.

  The next day Lalumière and Doré did not show up for breakfast. They had left camp at dawn so quietly than none of their bunkhouse mates had awakened. Brother Marcel’s sad, pensive expression suggested he was less than satisfied with the solution that had been brought to the problem. Some of the older campers felt that under Father Beaucage’s jovial, dynamic exterior there lurked the soul of a serpent, and they resolved not to trust him.

  Three days passed. The weather remained pleasant, windy but warm and sunny, as though summer had found new reserves in its battle against the onset of autumn. Charles adored camp life. His ease with others and his gift for being the life of any gathering quickly allowed him to make new friends, although it somewhat weakened his bond with Henri. And the way he used certain unusual words picked up from his voluminous reading (though he used them in moderation) gave him a reputation as an “egg head,” for which he was admired by many but also mocked by some others.

  After dinner, he liked to go back to his bunkhouse to read for a while before campfire. He was usually there alone, although sometimes he shared the room with one of the campers who had caught a cold, or was letting off steam after a quarrel.

  One night, as he lay on his bunk, chin supported by his hand, absorbed in one of Arsène Lupin’s adventures, his tongue sticking out between his teeth (a sign of intense concentration), a shadow fell over him and he looked up. It was Father Beaucage. He had slipped into the bunkhouse as silently as the night air and was looking down on Charles with a smile but also a question in his eyes.

  “Tired, my little altar boy?”

  “No,” replied Charles, surprised, “I was just reading.”

  “May I see?”

  Trying to hide his annoyance, the boy handed over his book.

  “Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Burglar … Hmm, hmm … Quite enjoyable little stories, as I recall. I seem to remember reading one when I was fifteen or sixteen … Nothing but trifles, of course … But you seem a bit young, nonetheless, to be dabbling in them. Are you sure you can understand them?”

  “Pretty sure,” said Charles, dryly.

  “Amazing, amazing …”

  The priest returned the book and nodded with a curt laugh, then looked about for a way to change the subject. His eye swept the bunkhouse, searching the shadowy corners as though in the hope of finding some more plausible explanation for Charles’s interest in reading. Although this particular night he was there by himself, apparently.

  “Do you like it here at camp, Charles?” he asked in a friendly tone.

  “Very much.” Although a voice in his head added: Except when I’m with you.

  “This is a very precious time in your life, my lad, a time you can share with others, that allows you to open up and make important discoveries. Are you aware of that?”

  “Yes.”

  The priest stood up and patted the child’s head.

  “So, why not put it to better use, eh? Reading is all very well, of course, but surely you could choose a better time for it, don’t you think? Here it merely cuts you off from your fellow campers, and you know as well as I do, Charles, that solitude is not always the best counsellor.”

  The remark was made amiably, but there was a warning in it.

  With a wave of his hand, Father Beaucage strode briskly out of the bunkhouse. Charles wen
t back to reading. But after a few minutes he realized that he wasn’t taking much in. With a sigh he replaced the book in his trunk and went outside to join his comrades.

  The previous night, as he’d passed the cabin in which the monitors slept, he’d seen Jean stretched out on a chair by the door, reading a novel. Why was it all right for others to read, but not him? And why was something that earned him congratulations in Montreal, even brought him a certain measure of prestige, seen as reprehensible by this priest, who pretended to be young with his jogging suit and his great, hearty laugh, but who was really nothing but an old lobster with a magnifying glass in his claws?

  The following morning, Charles was awakened by a heavy, silken sound coming from the roof of the bunkhouse. Rain had transformed the metal roof into a kind of gigantic harp and was playing a symphony of muffled notes that Charles found deliciously peaceful. He stretched languorously under the covers, peered sideways at his sleeping neighbour, then closed his eyes again hoping he had awakened early and it would be a while yet before Jean, the monitor in charge of waking them up each morning, would make his rounds.

  Since the forecast was for two days of bad weather, the directors of Camp Jeunenjoie took appropriate steps to keep their high-spirited charges occupied. Charles was assigned to a small group under Brother Martin, whose assignment was to organize the workshop where the monk exercised his manual dexterity in his own haphazard fashion.

  Charles had become fond of the little monk, who wasn’t much taller than he was and who laughed at everyone’s jokes, even those he didn’t understand, and who – perhaps because of his size – hung around with the campers as though he were one of them. Little Foot, with his rough-hewn face, his mouth hanging loosely open, his broken nose, and his eyes set deep in the shadow of his heavy eyebrows, possessed all the qualities of a perfect Sad Sack, but he was friendly with everyone and took all the gentle teasing that the campers threw at him with good humour. And ever since Charles had overheard him talking to a monitor about the hasty departure of Lalumière and Doré he had held the little monk in even higher esteem. “Father Beaucage?” Little Foot had said a little too loudly. “I don’t like him very much. Too headstrong! A lot of principles, but nothing in his heart. Not good, that.” From that moment, Charles always greeted Brother Martin with a big smile and laughed at all his antics, even the least amusing of them.

  That morning, Little Foot took Charles and the thin, pimply-faced boy with the pointy nose, whose name turned out to be Patrick Ricard, to the back of the workshop where there was a shelf with an immense jumble of screws and nails on it.

  “I want you to sort all these, okay my friends? I’ll go get some pots from the kitchen.”

  The job took two hours and lasted until lunchtime. It was still raining, a slow, grey, steady downpour that tore the still-green leaves from the trees and stuck them in the mud, where they lay soiled and sad-looking. After lunch, there was meditation and a return-to-self in the chapel, conducted by Brother Marcel in the absence of Father Beaucage, who had gone back to Joliette. Perhaps it was the rain, the dampness that had infiltrated all their clothing, making them feel clammy and out of sorts, but Brother Marcel seemed totally uninspired that day, and the reaction from his audience was of two kinds: from some came light snores, and from others muffled laughter in discreet bursts. The monk wisely cut short his homily and handed his young listeners over to the monitors, to whom fell the redoubtable task of keeping the campers busy and in good spirits until bedtime.

  He then went to the kitchen where, with Frederic on his lap, he drank a cup of coffee with Brother Albert, thinking apprehensively about the second day of rain that had been forecast. His colleague, who’d been humming to himself as he iced two enormous cakes, looked up at him.

  “You look worried,” he said.

  In response, Brother Marcel gestured towards the window, where they could see water cascading off a red pickup truck that seemed to be foundering in a vast, empty sea, then gave a deep, discouraged sigh.

  The cook finished icing the cakes, gave his spatula a loving lick and handed it to the raccoon, who soon had it looking as shiny as a new penny.

  “I just had an idea,” he said suddenly.

  The good monk had long ago given up the fight against calories and bore the evidence of his defeat philosophically – the pot belly, the stretched navel, the lower back pains, the varicose veins in the legs, the shortness of breath, but also the perpetual joviality and the head swimming with ideas, some of them harebrained but others divinely inspired.

  “Why not organize a drama festival? We could divide the campers into teams and the winners will get an entire meal of desserts. There could be consolation prizes, too, of course. I could be on the jury.”

  Brother Marcel stared at his colleague in astonishment, then drank his coffee in two large gulps, threw on his raincoat, and ran out to announce the festival to the world.

  23

  Half an hour later the campers had been divided into four teams, each under the supervision of a monitor, and each assigned to a location -the senior bunkhouse, the junior bunkhouse, the community hall, and the dining hall, the latter being a source of great pleasure to Brother Albert, who was a great listener at doors.

  Charles found himself in the community hall team, and was given the role of scriptwriter, because he was the one “with all the ideas.” His supervisor, Jean-Guy, a six-foot-one-inch sixteen-year-old who was still growing, considered sports the only human activity worthy of consideration, and was not shy about letting Brother Marcel know what he thought about a drama festival. He therefore gave carte blanche to his young scriptwriter and took himself off to a corner chair, where he sat with his arms crossed chewing a stick of gum that had long ago lost its flavour; every now and then he looked absently over at the members of his team, who were sitting cross-legged on the floor talking animatedly and breaking out into regular bursts of laughter.

  Charles had decided to be the spokesperson for the campers’ general annoyance at Father Beaucage’s moral strictness. After choosing a storyline and jotting down a few notes on a bit of paper, he began taking his team through their lines. Jean-Guy watched the goings-on for a few minutes, suppressed a series of yawns, reprimanded two or three campers when they appeared to be getting too excited, then announced that he was going out for a short break (to smoke a cigarette under a tree). Charles turned out to be a demanding director and had his team members rehearse their play without a break until dinner time; two of them had been delegated to be in charge of props, and had brought back all kinds of bizarre objects to the community hall, to the curiosity of the other campers.

  At seven-thirty, Brother Martin finished constructing a small stage in the dining hall, and by ten to eight a super-excited audience was waiting for the action to begin. The grapevine was humming with news; the sketch mounted by Charles Thibodeau was going to be a tour de force and sure to win first prize. At eight o’clock sharp the jury – Father Beaucage, Brothers Marcel and Albert, and two of the monitors, Jean and Marc-André – entered the room and took their places in the front row.

  In order to involve as many people as possible, each team was composed of an impressive array of theatre professionals: soundmen, props managers, dressers, prompters (even though there were no scripts), lighting engineers (whose sole job was to turn the hall lights on and off) as well as, of course, the actors, limited to five per sketch because of the size of the stage and its dubious ability to withstand jumping, chasing, and other forms of energetic theatricality.

  The order of presentation was determined by lots. Charles’s team would be third.

  The first sketch recounted an excursion into the countryside during which a camper suffered the horrifying torment of stepping into a cow pat. This was met by mild laughter and polite applause. The second sketch depicted a bank robbery, with Henri in the role of bank clerk. The ingenious way in which he foiled the robbery and escaped from his kidnappers – with extremely impressive facial
expressions as he ducked under their gunfire -was a great success.

  The applause died down and silence fell, the peculiar kind of silence that reigns in a room full of expectant people. There were low murmurs, slight coughs, muffled laughs, and shuffling feet. Then the two actors to whom Charles had given the principal parts, both dry of mouth and rubber of leg, appeared before the sheet that served as a backdrop, and the action started.

  FIRST CAMPER

  Ah! Camp life! So much fun, isn’t it!

  (Sounds of birds chirping, thanks to the soundman, who was an accomplished whistler.)

  SECOND CAMPER

  Oh, yeah. No end of fun!

  FIRST CAMPER

  We can do anything we want.

  SECOND CAMPER

  As long as the Brothers don’t see us!

  FIRST CAMPER

  Or the monitors …

  SECOND CAMPER

  The monitors never see anything.

  (General laughter.)

  FIRST CAMPER

  There’s only one thing that bothers me.

  SECOND CAMPER

  What’s that?

  FIRST CAMPER

  I get so hungry at night. I never seem to be able to stuff enough cookies in my pockets after snack.

  SECOND CAMPER

  I snuck ten out last night.

  FIRST CAMPER

  You pig! You could have given me a few. I’m still hungry tonight.

  SECOND CAMPER

  Me too. Why don’t we go see what’s in the kitchen?

  FIRST CAMPER

  Good idea. The cook has just gone to bed. We can make ourselves some sandwiches.

  (Scene change. Two stage hands drag a table to the middle of the stage while a third brings out a chair. The cook appears; he has a paper bag on his head for a toque, a ladle in his hand, and a cushion under his T-shirt giving him a huge belly. Much laughter from the audience and from Brother Albert.)

  COOK

  Boy, am I ever tired! Eighty-seven cod-liver-oil cakes today. A hundred gallons of radish soup. A hundred and ten roadkill steaks, slightly off! I’m going to have to change the menu … The campers will start complaining and I’ll have to eat all that stuff myself … (He moves towards the chair.) I’ll just sit down for a minute to rest my poor legs. (He sits, goes to sleep, and begins to snore like a furnace.)