Charles the Bold

by Yves Beauchemin

  In the kitchen there was much laughter. The steady clink of knives and forks on plates seemed louder than usual, as is often the case when people get together around a good table after having been separated for a long time. Without going into too much detail, Lucie told them how the doctors had operated on her intestines to cure her diverticulitis. The incredible pain that had kept her awake at night, and which had eventually caused Fernand to rush her into Emergency at the Maisonneuve-Rosemont Hospital, would not return, according to the doctor, as long as she was careful about what she ate. The word diverticulitis made a deep impression on Charles and Henri. It made Charles think of a kind of lobster crawling around in Lucie’s entrails, cutting out big chunks of her with their pincers. Henri envisioned a spiny snake slithering through his mother’s bowels, its tongue flickering in and out with satisfaction at the extraordinary pain it was causing her.

  “And what about you, Charles,” Lucie said. “I hear you had a few bad moments yourself. Tell us about them.”

  The child reddened, looked down at his plate, cut up a carrot and slowly brought a piece of it to his mouth. Then, looking up with a smile, he said: “It’s over now, and I’m really glad to be back here.”

  “Ha!” laughed Henri. “He doesn’t want to talk about it because he’s ashamed of what he did.” And he launched into a recitation of his friend’s adventures. Charles tried to look bored with it all, resigned to letting Henri be his spokesman, but he interrupted from time to time to clarify a point or make a correction. The affair with the cognac disturbed Lucie very much, although she tried hard not to let it show on her face.

  “With real cognac!” exclaimed Céline, horrified and impressed at the same time. “All over his bed and sofa! He must have been furious!”

  “He wasn’t too happy about it,” Charles said with a smile of satisfaction.

  Lucie tweaked the end of his nose: “It doesn’t do to cross swords with you, eh? Where did you ever get such an idea? Weren’t you afraid of being punished?”

  Charles’s face darkened and he half closed his eyes: “I hated that man, the chaplain,” he said.

  “Yes, he doesn’t seem to have shown good judgment,” Lucie agreed. “That was certainly no way to deal with youngsters … and over such a trifle!”

  “He’s a complete imbecile, is what he is!” piped in Fernand, through a mouthful of scallopini. “And I’m not ashamed to say so! His head is so stuffed with bits of old soutaine that he thinks religion is still the same thing it was in the days of my great-grandmother. One of these days he’s going to run into someone who’ll leave him sweeping his teeth into a dustpan. That someone was almost me this morning, let me tell you!”

  Charles laughed, but his heart wasn’t in it. Despite his contentment at being back with his family (which was how he thought of the Fafards), and even with Fernand’s energetic and comforting support, there was still a deep sadness in him, and it dampened any pleasure he might have derived from this sun-filled day, a day that ought to have felt like a deliverance.

  As soon as he got up from the table he phoned Blonblon. After two weeks he was looking forward to seeing his friend again, but Monsieur Blondin told him that his son was spending a couple of days with his aunt in Oka.

  Henri had already hurried into the living room to watch television, like a starving man rushing to a stack of warm doughnuts. Charles watched for a while, but was soon bored by the movie. Reading didn’t settle him down, either. Céline called him into her room to look at the new way she had arranged her doll collection, but there too he found his mind wandering. He left the house and walked down the street, with Boff at his heels. There were children playing with trucks on the sidewalk, making throaty noises in imitation of a truck’s engine. Monsieur Victoire’s new dog, which looked like a cross between a spaniel and a salami, bounded towards him, hoping to be petted. Boff growled jealously and showed his teeth. A fight ensued. Charles pulled Boff off by his collar, and the two continued down the street at a rapid pace. Charles looked happily from side to side, glad to be back in his own neighbourhood. Soon he was striding down rue Ontario, looking into the shop windows. One of them had a display of magazines, including one that showed a pretty young woman in a bathing suit, presenting a lot of thigh and a come-hither smile that to Charles seemed laden with mysterious promise. It stopped him short. He suddenly felt a delicious disturbance in the crotch of his pants.

  “When I grow up,” he murmured to the dog, which was standing on its hind legs with its forepaws on the windowsill, apparently deriving as much pleasure from the magazine cover as Charles was, “that’s the kind of wife I’m going to have.”

  The bulge in his pants was becoming more and more visible. Not wanting to attract attention to his condition, he resumed walking along the sidewalk.

  As he walked, his sadness returned. It was a vague, amorphous feeling he couldn’t quite get hold of, a sadness that seemed to have become a part of himself, as though he were the source of it. On the corner of rue Frontenac he saw the shabby brick building in which the lecherous hairdresser had his apartment. Surely Old Man Saint-Amour hadn’t picked Charles at random from all the other kids in the neighbourhood? Father Beaucage must be right: there was something evil inside him. His reaction just now in front of that store window proved it. He would never be able to tell anyone about it. If his father had really been trying to kill him (as he most certainly had), wasn’t it because he’d seen all too clearly that evil had taken over his life and that his death wouldn’t have been a great loss to anyone? But then, rather than simply shrug it off, as he would easily have done if he were truly a bad person, he was filled with this ineffable sadness, which he couldn’t shake off. Was this the way he was going to feel for the rest of his life?

  He turned up a small side street, crossed it diagonally, and continued walking with great strides, hands in his pockets, looking back from time to time to make sure Boff was following. Before he realized where he was he found himself in front of his old daycare on rue Lalonde. The blinds were drawn; it looked as though the building were empty, perhaps even unoccupied. Had Catherine closed up for the summer?

  He went up to the building and listened. When he was certain there was no one inside, he pushed open the gate to the play area, walked along the side of the building and into the yard. There had been a lot of changes since his day. Now a cedar hedge surrounded the yard, and a splendid red and blue slide had been set up where the old sandbox had been. The sandbox was now under the old cherry tree, right above the spot where the little yellow dog was resting. Charles went over and sat down in it, thrust his hands into the sand, and watched Boff, who had found a white cardboard box that must have contained either pastries or sandwiches. Excited by the lingering odour, Boff was assiduously tearing the box to shreds; a square of waxed paper flew out and was caught in the wind, and a few doughnut crumbs dropped from it, which the dog lapped up carefully.

  With his hands still buried in the sand, Charles thought of the little yellow dog. He’d only known it for a few hours, but during that time the evil inside him had not raised its ugly, black head, not even for a second. On the contrary, it was good that had directed his actions. He’d done everything he could to save the poor animal, almost to the point of getting into trouble for it. In fact, looking at it more closely and taking into account his age at the time, he had acted like a hero. He may not have saved the dog’s life, but the animal must surely have sensed, as all dogs seemed to, that it had been surrounded by love and compassion. Surely, as a result, its death had been less painful than if they had left it outside to freeze all alone in the snowstorm?

  A simple enough thought, but it brought Charles much comfort. He went on watching Boff and letting the sand trickle slowly through his fingers; the dog had torn the box into a thousand pieces, as though trying to conjure up more doughnut crumbs in the debris.

  If Charles could show so much sympathy for a small, stray dog he had just met for the first time, it must be because
he had simply wanted to be good that day; and there was nothing to stop him from wanting to be good again, as often as he pleased. Wouldn’t that show that bloody-minded priest that he wasn’t always a bad influence? But here was the question, a serious one: How could he want to be good all the time?

  The warm sand continued to run between his fingers. Boff had tired of his game and was lying on the shredded box, looking up at Charles, mouth open, tail thumping against the ground. No answer to his question came to him. The secret to wanting something remained a mystery. A person could be good and kind at certain moments, but how could he be sure he would always want to be that way? How could he tear the evil into tiny bits – as Boff had just done with the doughnut box – if the evil lived inside him, always on the look-out to push him into doing something wicked or dirty?

  He was still reflecting on the matter and had managed to become almost as sad and dejected as he’d been when he first came into the yard, when a strangely sweet feeling began to well up inside him, a warm, soothing sensation, one that he had the distinct impression was coming from below, from under the sandbox. The yellow dog had awakened and was speaking to him, just as if he were a little boy himself. “Forget it,” the voice was saying. “You’ll drive yourself crazy with all these bizarre thoughts. Get out there and enjoy yourself. Your summer vacation is almost over, there’ll be plenty of time to fret about good and evil later. I know you’re a good person. In my whole life, no one had ever been as good to me as you were. Get all that stuff out of your head. You’ll be much better off, believe me!”

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” Charles said to Boff, getting to his feet. “I’ve had enough of this place.”

  He leaned over and patted the sand above the little yellow dog, even blew it a kiss, and then left the yard. A few minutes later he was back on rue Ontario.

  “I can’t wait for Blonblon to get back from Oka,” he said to his dog. “I always feel good when I’m with him.”

  A Kik Cola sign above a window ringed with multicoloured lights told him the place was a convenience store. He went inside, leaving a disconsolate Boff on the sidewalk, and stood in front of a rack of potato chips. After much deliberation he chose a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips and resumed his walk, Boff dancing around him with his mouth wide open. Charles toyed with him by wafting a large chip under the dog’s nose, before giving it to him. His sadness lifted a bit. He was about to head back to rue Dufresne when the little yellow dog’s words came back to him; turning around, he decided to go to rue Bercy to see Monsieur Michaud.

  “Aha! A surprise visit!” said the notary, opening the door. “It’s good to see you, Charles. What can I do for you today?”

  Despite his unfeigned pleasure at seeing Charles again, there was a slight hesitation at being taken from his work, and Charles sensed it; a low murmur of voices coming from the office confirmed this. Charles demurred.

  “Is … is your wife at home?”

  “You want to see Amélie? I think she’s taking a nap. But hang on, I’ll go see if she’s ready to get up.”

  “No, no! Don’t wake her. I’ll come back some other time.”

  “Who is it?” a languid voice called from the end of the hall.

  “It’s Charles, Amélie. Back from his summer camp. He’s come to see you,” he added, despite Charles’s frantic signals.

  There was a long silence, then the voice again, sounding slightly stronger and even showing signs of renewed vigour: “Tell him to wait in the living room. I’ll join him in a few minutes.”

  Michaud leaned over and spoke into Charles’s ear: “Fernand has told me what happened at camp. Saints preserve us, you’re a holy terror, you are! You’re like a hero in some novel!”

  Charles smiled a little confusedly. Passing the open door of the notary’s office, he had time to see that there were two large men in it, both with brown hair and wearing brown tweed suits. They looked like two enormous bran muffins, and Charles wondered if they were twins. He felt uncomfortable in the dark, solemn furnishings of the living room. He sat on a sofa, sorry that he’d come. The notary had closed his office door, and from the room came sounds of a lively conversation.

  “Peanuts?” one of the large men was saying, angrily. “Peanuts?”

  Charles crossed his legs, uncrossed them, let out a sigh, then got up and went to the window. An old man was waiting at the bus stop. His long, thin body and sallow skin reminded Charles of a banana. His cheeks sagged, his chin stuck out, and his small, black, enigmatic eyes darted back and forth like a squirrel’s; his whole expression was haggard and austere: “He’s sad, too,” Charles said to himself. “The older you get, the sadder you become. But Fernand and Lucie aren’t sad, at least not very often. I wonder how they manage it?”

  He sat down again and occupied his mind by trying to count the record albums piled on a table between two large speakers at the far end of the room. Suddenly he felt his old facial tic coming back and, furious with it, he placed both hands on either side of his jaw and pressed as hard as he could.

  It was at this moment that Amélie came into the room. She was wearing a pale green dressing gown and, on her head, a turban of the same colour.

  “Do you have a toothache?” she asked.

  “No,” Charles replied, turning deep red. “I mean yes … a bit.”

  She smiled and ran her fingers through his hair.

  “You’re sweet,” she said. “Even when you’re lying.”

  Charles was taken aback but was not particularly upset at having been so easily unmasked. Amélie’s frankness even put him at ease. The notary’s wife sat across from him and stretched out a foot on which dangled a pretty slipper made of long, white fur. It looked a bit like a small cat.

  “I have a tic,” he finally confessed. “Sometimes when I get nervous my mouth opens and closes without my wanting it to. But it’s gone now.”

  “Lots of people have tics,” Amélie said. “They go away eventually, you know. But you have to find the right medicine. Have you had it long?”

  “Long enough, yes.”

  His lips tightened and he looked away, his face as closed as a door. He hadn’t the slightest intention of telling her the first time his fish-face had appeared, because it would mean talking about the night his father had tried to kill him.

  “Everyone has their problems,” she said, diplomatically changing he subject. “For the past few months it’s been my kidneys. Sometimes after eating I get such a pain … it’s like someone stuck a soldering iron in my back … I went to see someone about it, and now it’s not so bad.”

  She pressed her feet together and her slippers merged into a single ball of immaculate white fur.

  “Why did you want to see me, Charles?”

  He looked worried for a moment, then he smiled and looked at her. “I wanted you to take me into the Christmas room again. Last time you said if I ever wanted to come back, I could.”

  She nodded gravely, straightening a fold in her robe. “Are you sad?”

  Charles nodded.

  “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  “It’s new,” said Charles. “I’ve never felt anything like it before. I can’t explain it. It’s too complicated … Anyway, I thought if I came here and saw your Christmas tree and all the nice decorations you put up in your room, and there’s the music, too, and the lights … I thought it might make me feel a bit better.”

  Amélie stood up slowly. “Of course it will, Charles” – she went over to him and ruffled his hair again – “but it won’t cure you of your sadness, you know. It’ll only make it better for a while. But that’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”

  She motioned to him to follow her, and together they left the room. Joy surged through Amélie’s soul, chasing away the beginning of a headache that had been gnawing at her temples. After all these years, she had finally found a kindred spirit!

  They crossed the kitchen, walked down the narrow hall and stopped at the blue door. “Stay as long as
you like, dear,” she said softly. “The switch is on the right as you go in. Come and see me when you’re done. I’ll fix you a snack.”

  She gave him a smile of complicity and tiptoed furtively down the hall.

  Charles opened the door and switched on the light. The room filled with a soft, orange-pink glow. The tree was circled by strings of lights and garlands, and beautiful wooden figurines began winking softly. The music box started tinkling the chords of “Silent Night,” and they were soon accompanied by the strains of a children’s choir. The air was redolent of pine resin, cinnamon and chocolate. Beside the tree, a life-sized Santa Claus surrounded by wrapped and beribboned gifts smiled at him mischievously, his rosy-red cheeks powdered with snow.

  Charles looked in wonder about the room: icicles and garlands everywhere, Christmas scenes hanging from the walls, and strewn here and there were little hills of cotton batting on which reclined bears, dogs, cats, tiny reindeer, and even a raccoon! He sat down in a rocking chair that was covered in a bearskin. Near at hand was a candy dish on a small, gilded table.

  He contemplated the Christmas tree, which appeared to be shimmering under the glittering play of coloured light. A sigh of contentment escaped his lips. He lay back in the rocking chair, stunned by the strangeness of it all, his limbs turned to lead; he was astonished and overwhelmed by the many delicious sensations that had invaded him, and he began sucking on a candy with a beatific smile.

  Once again he remembered the marvellous Christmas when he was three years old. Alice had come into his room to waken him gently. The apartment was filled with the smell of tourtière. On the radio a choir was singing “O Come All Ye Faithful” and it seemed to him that the apartment was floating in the air among the twinkling stars. His father was waiting for him in the kitchen. He had a beer in front of him, but his eyes were clear and sparkling with good humour. He took Charles in his arms and lifted him high in the air, laughing, then carried him into the living room, where Charles ran to the pile of gifts with squeals of joy. His parents had given him four presents that Christmas, and he would remember each of them for the rest of his life: the firetruck with its revolving, flashing light; a huge, yellow, metal bulldozer, massive and indestructible; a colouring book and a box of wax crayons – and Simon the Bear, whose cheerful, adorable face looked up at him from the crumpled, golden wrapping paper.