Behind the eyes we meet

by Mélissa Verreault

  “He was never the same after the pneumonia. The virus really took a toll. It was downhill from there, both physically and mentally. It was gradual, and then he died three weeks ago. He probably forgot that he wanted to give me the letters.”

  “But your grandmother remembered.”

  “You know, it’s strange. The way Sergio talks about it, I’m not sure she knew.”

  “She probably found the shoebox while she was looking through his stuff after he died. She read the letters and wanted to go along with your grandfather’s wishes.”

  “And all this time I thought she was totally disconnected from reality. She’s still much more with it than we give her credit for.”

  •

  Sergio writes: Remember this: you have to work hard to be happy. Laughter doesn’t fall from the sky. It takes hold only if you decide to make room for it.

  But how do we get there? I’ll have to figure that out myself. Our ancestors don’t have all the answers. That would be too easy. Most solutions lie ahead of us, part of a future we cannot know.

  “So are you going to translate all this for me?”

  Manue shakes a pile of loose leaf at me, darkened by Sergio’s memories.

  “How about tomorrow morning? I need to get some sleep or my brain is going to explode.”

  •

  I’m woken by the bells from the church on Ontario Street. Their metallic symphony must have lasted at least five minutes. I don’t know if they were celebrating a baptism, wedding, or funeral. I’ve never been able to tell the difference between peals of joy and peals of mourning.

  Manue isn’t in my arms. I fell asleep spooning her last night. Well this morning, really. I stroked her shoulder till she nodded off.

  She’s sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by dozens of pages of my grandfather’s manuscript. She points a finger at the coffee pot without looking up, completely engrossed in her reading.

  “I don’t really understand everything, especially since his handwriting isn’t the most legible, but his story is pretty incredible overall. Did you know he’d been taken prisoner by the Russians during the war?”

  “Vaguely. But I don’t know the details.”

  “It’s crazy. If I understood correctly, he had to walk for weeks just to get to the labour camp. And when he got there, the prisoners hardly had anything to eat. It was so bad they started eating each other. How nuts is that?”

  “Good thing you don’t speak Italian. You were able to get all that?”

  “Yeah. Well, I pieced it together. Thank you, Google Translate! I can’t believe all the horrible things he went through. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Can you hand me the first few pages? I’m going to start from the beginning.”

  “It would make a great movie, you’ll see.”

  •

  “What does cavarsela mean?”

  “What’s the sentence?”

  “Se passa attraverso la notte, dovrebbe cavarsela. Vi consiglio di mettere un po’ di legna nella stufa però, avrà bisogno di molto calore.”

  “‘If he makes it through the night, he should be fine. But put some wood in the stove. He’ll need to keep very warm.’ Where did you see that?”

  “Right here. He’s talking about his birth, I think.”

  My grandfather was very premature. He had to fight to survive right from the beginning. I had no idea. They didn’t think he’d live. If he did, they predicted he’d have a delicate constitution and a short life, given to bouts of illness. He was nearly ninety-three when he died, an incredible feat in its own right. But he didn’t stop there. No. He also survived the davaï marches, Russian internment, and tuberculosis. I definitely come from good stock.

  “You’re right, it would make a great movie.”

  “I think you’d be the best person to direct it.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t touched a camera in years. I always dreamed of directing, but I never said I was any good!”

  “Of course you are. I’m sure of it. You’ve just got to believe in yourself. Don’t you see? If your grandfather could make it through everything he did, there’s no reason we can’t sort out our problems and get past the little hang-ups!”

  “I guess.”

  “I almost feel bad about how I spent all that time whining that life was unfair, that my mom had ruined mine, that I’d got the bad end of the stick because I’d lost Gabrielle.”

  “But you shouldn’t. You had every right to be hurt and angry. No problem is more significant than another, no reason more valid to suffer. To each his own demons.”

  “But still, your grandfather’s story has put things into perspective.”

  “Tell me about it…”

  “So when are you going to start filming?”

  •

  Manue planted the seed, and now I can’t stop thinking about it. Could I really make a movie about Sergio’s life? I’d sure like to. It would need to be something big, something impressive, worthy of everything he’d been through. I stopped dreaming of Hollywood a long time ago. But for a project like this one, I’d have to think big.

  I spent the afternoon reading about the Second World War, Operation Barbarossa, and the Russian campaign. As I clicked from link to link, I somehow ended up reading an article on bees. Like Manue said, they’re on a suicide mission: they usually die after stinging the enemy. I also read about the critical part they play in pollination, and then about their colonies collapsing. Over the past few years, bees have been disappearing by the millions, and no one can really say why. Pollution, pesticides, global warming, fungi, viruses. They seem to get disoriented and don’t make it back to the hive. They die in the middle of nowhere, their worker instincts idle.

  Manue tells me I’m a bee, that coming here was a form of suicide. I lost the ability to defend myself, along with part of my dreams. My grandfather was also a bee, for other reasons. He was part of a dying breed.

  •

  Collapse disorder. One by one bees drop like the flies they are sometimes mistaken for. Yet not everything that takes to the air is free. Bees, men and their certainties, autumn leaves, spring raindrops, they all fall. Earth is a magnet, drawing life towards its centre. It liberally unfolds under the weight of bodies plummeting downwards. In a barely audible rustle, tumbling towards the fast-approaching ground. The shock will be brutal; we brace ourselves, closing our eyes against our fear. Collapse, falling even further than we thought possible. Straight to the depths, the mysterious magma of our origins. The race finishes where it began. Sensing the end, sinking, slumping, the length of your body on the ground. There, emptied and weary, with nothing left to lose, then a resurgent belief that it is worth trying. Lying against the pebbles, seeing the sky. The immensity of the universe, stars that appear to touch but in reality are light years apart. Getting up, slowly, gluing the still-usable pieces back together and refashioning the body in the shape of a quilt. The next time we fall won’t be as painful; we’re already at the bottom. We just need to find a way to get back up. Searching for purchase on the least slippery part of the wall. Visualizing how to get back to the surface, one movement at a time. Never looking down for any reason to see how far you’ve come, lest you get dizzy and fall again. Astonished, stunned by the force a human can exhibit, by the speed at which he manages to right himself after the great tremor that has rattled him.

  •

  “Did you write that, Fabio?”

  “No. I can’t remember who did—some Quebec blogger I came across while I was doing research. I thought it was pretty, so I printed it out.”

  “I didn’t know you liked poetry.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Scouting

  “Poetry makes me hungry. Want to go grab a bite?”

  “Good idea.”

  “How about Chinese?”

 
I’m always amazed how in Montreal you can get any kind of food at any hour of the day. Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese, Indian, Korean, Japanese, Lebanese, Syrian, Mexican, Peruvian, Portuguese, French. In Italy, we eat Italian food. Some of the bigger cities have a few Asian restaurants, but we don’t distinguish between Chinese or Vietnamese, Thai or Japanese. Asia always tastes like soy sauce to us.

  I’ve never tried Russian cuisine. I wonder what it’s like. If I go by my grandfather’s account, the Moscow region serves its guests nothing but greenish soup and dry bread.

  •

  “Manue, do you know anyone who works for the railroad?”

  “No, why?”

  “It’s for the movie. We’ll need to shoot some scenes inside a train.”

  “You want me to be part of the project?”

  “Of course! Right from the beginning. Unless you don’t want to.”

  “I want to, but I’ve never made a movie before.”

  “You can draw and you’ve got an eye for shapes and colours. How would you like to be my artistic director?”

  “How much are you paying?”

  “I’ll start by covering your shrimp stir-fry, how’s that?”

  •

  “Are you sure we’re allowed to be here?”

  “Nope. But bending the rules a little never hurt anyone.”

  “If we get caught, I’m going to say you made me do it.”

  “OK. And I’ll plead insanity. Come on, let’s go!”

  There’s a metal fence blocking access to the train tracks but it’s clear that no one pays it any attention. All you have to do is duck through a hole in the wire to get to the other side.

  “They’re always closing up the hole, but it’s pointless. People will just make a new one further down.”

  Human nature. When someone says no, it only makes you want to try harder.

  Manue dragged me here to scout locations for the movie. “You’re bound to get ideas if you walk along the tracks that cut across the city,” she said. We’ve got no screenplay, no camera, and no funding, but here we are trying to figure out where we can film. Mettere il carro davanti ai buoi.65 Just another way to dream.

  •

  Every time I have to cross railroad tracks, I can’t help worrying I’ll somehow get the hem of my jeans snagged on the metal just as I begin to make out the humming of an engine hurtling down the tracks. Panicked, I try to rip the fabric from its hold and pull on the jeans, hoping they’ll tear. To no avail: my sweaty hands are useless. All I’d have to do is unzip my pants and slip out of them, making a run for it in my underwear. But I can’t think straight and this simple solution doesn’t cross my mind. I call out for help but the adrenaline has made my throat dry and I choke on the screams. The train is coming, getting ready to devour me in one bite. I watch it plow into me like I’m at a 3D movie, watching the drama unfold without being able to change a thing.

  It happens every time. I replay the same scene in my mind each time I come near a railway. I can’t say why. Maybe it’s because I grew up next to a train station that used to send prisoners off to Auschwitz.

  •

  We’ve been walking for two hours and all we’ve seen are deserted trains, their drivers off who knows where. Abandoning a train to grab a cup of coffee, never to return. Leaving the cars to be eaten up by the weeds.

  We saw a group of teenagers attempting to make a fire beneath an overpass. Clearly none of them had ever taken a wilderness survival course; they had lighters but all they managed to light was their cigarettes.

  Further down, we came across a wounded pigeon. It looked like someone put it there: it was lying on an old navy fleece shirt with breadcrumbs scattered on the ground. It kept cooing. It had to be in pain. We couldn’t do much for it. “Poor little guy,” said Manue. “Think he’s going to make it?” “Yes,” I told her, though I knew perfectly well it wouldn’t. Sergio might have known how to save it. But he’s gone.

  •

  We start at Hochelaga-Maisonneuve and end up at the Parc rail station.

  “It’s pretty here. It would be a good place to film.”

  “Too pretty, actually. Russian stations were never this beautiful. The tracks ran right through open fields.”

  “In Russia, maybe. But what about in Italy, when your grandpa came back from the sanatorium? When he stepped off the train and your grandma came to meet him on the platform. Couldn’t that have happened in a place like this?”

  “I’m not so sure that’s how it was.”

  “So? You can make some things up.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Pretend you’re Sergio and I’m Luisa.”

  “I’m not a very good actor.”

  “Imagine how they must have felt when they were finally reunited.”

  •

  It must have been strange, seeing the woman you love after all that time. Knowing she loves you, too. And that your love was never consummated. Not even with a kiss. What did they do? Did they run into each other’s arms? Or did they just smile? Hold hands? Cry?

  In my head, Sergio and Luisa didn’t cry—no one at that time did. I must have gotten this idea from pictures we have of back then. Black and white photographs where nobody ever smiled. Eyes staring into the camera without a trace of enthusiasm or boredom. Is that how their reunion played out, too? Staring intently at each other without crying or getting emotional? Sergio’s palms on Luisa’s shoulders, shaking her ever so slightly to make sure she’s really there, that she does exist.

  “I bet they danced.”

  “You think so?”

  “That’s what lovers did back then, isn’t it? It was the only way to get close to each other before marriage.”

  “Well then, miss, may I have this dance?”

  “Certainly, kind sir.”

  •

  One, two, three, uno, due, tre.

  Passersby look on, amused.

  One, two, three, uno, due, tre.

  We should dance in public more often.

  One, two, three, uno, due, tre.

  On the platform, while commuters wait for trains to take them back to Rosemère or Saint-Jérôme, counting out steps to the sound of invisible violins.

  One, two, three, uno, due, tre.

  Manue’s warm hand in mine.

  One, two, three, uno, due, tre.

  Her hair smells of green apple and valerian.

  One, two, three, uno, due, tre.

  I want to kiss her neck, behind her ears, her eyes, the corners of her lips.

  One, two, three, uno, due, tre.

  I can’t. I’m Sergio and she’s Luisa. We have to play our parts seriously. Historical accuracy.

  One, two, three, uno, due, tre.

  We came here to scout locations. With my hands on Manue’s waist, I explore the body I am not yet allowed to caress.

  * * *

  65.Putting the cart before the horse

  The Zoo

  serena is sitting on the couch in front of a blank TV screen, waiting for Manue.

  “Why the hell are you here?”

  “I came to apologize.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “I still have the key you gave me.”

  “I’ll take it back now. But you can keep the apologies.”

  “Oh come on, Manue. I’m really sorry. Look, I brought a surprise to make up for it.”

  “A fish?”

  “Yeah, just like the one you lost!”

  “…”

  “You aren’t happy?”

  “I had a goldfish, Serena, not a betta.”

  “But I thought its long blue fins were so pretty.”

  “You keep it, then. I’m looking for Hector.”

  “It’s like you’re more interested in th
at fish than you are in our friendship.”

  “You’re not far off.”

  “So it’s over?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  “And you don’t care?”

  “What I care about is that you tried to rape the guy I have feelings for.”

  “Rape! Honestly, you’re being ridiculous. Look, I’d just gotten in from a big night out, I was high, I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “You’re old enough to know how to take responsibility for your actions, no matter how drunk or how high you are.”

  “So are you old enough to realize you’re falling for another guy who just wants to get some ass?”

  “Get out.”

  “Why are you getting involved, Italiano?”

  “Because it’s my business. I think Manue’s been pretty clear. She doesn’t want to see you anymore. Can you find the door or are you too high to remember where it is?”

  •

  “I could’ve handled Serena by myself.”

  “I know. I just couldn’t listen to her insulting you—and me, by extension—anymore.”

  “I can’t believe I had a best friend who can’t tell the difference between a goldfish and a betta.”

  “Or between a guy who’s only after one thing and a guy who really cares about you.”

  I could look at Manue like this for hours. I can’t decide if I should kiss her. I know she wants me to, which seems to make everything more terrifying. But it has to be at the right time, in the right way. You always remember the first kiss. Where it happened, what the weather was like, which clothes you were wearing. With Manue, I’ll have to remember all the times I wanted to kiss her and didn’t to realize how crazy about her I am.

  •

  “Didn’t you say your mother had an operation recently?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You didn’t tell me how it went.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  “Why not? Your mom’s really nice.”

  “She’s doing well. It was routine. She’s had to slack on the cleaning, though. She has to take things easy for another few weeks.”