Yasmeen

by Carolyn Marie Souaid

  Joanasi licked away a tear. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of money, large bills, mainly fifties. He said, “Take my money, take all of it, buy a new windshield, buy a new car, I won’t be needing it anymore.” He flung it like confetti into the air.

  Neither made a move.

  He dangled the key in front of her eyes before tossing it like a sword into her lap. Shaking, she started the car. He reached for his bottle and took his duffel bag from the back seat. She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him. The sound of her finger pressing the unlock button in the handle startled them both. There was a scuffle at the door as he prepared to leave. She felt the weight of him lift up off the seat as he stepped out into the cooling air, the door slapping firmly behind him.

  She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the light was strange. She gasped when she remembered that she might be pregnant.

  Through the flaked windshield, she watched their grand finale play out, this wreck of a night like a bad movie, Joanasi disoriented, stumbling along the sidewalk swilling down the last of the vodka. At the intersection he crossed against the red light toward Ste-Catherine Street. Yasmeen watched his faltering silhouette until it merged with the night air and disappeared.

  In her flustered state, staring into the blizzard of broken glass, she thought of the polar ice and the young hunter, Adamie, his rifle aimed squarely at the horizon. Squinting, she saw his grandfather and great-grandfather trudging along behind him, all their ancestors going back to the first tribes who followed the antlered herds of the North. In a blink she saw them all. And then they were gone.

  TWENTY-SIX

  August 24, 1984

  My Aippaq,

  Yesterday it was too upsetting for me to stay here so I went camping with Tommy and Adamie. I didn’t do any fishing ’cause I went up just to get away and get stoned. The feeling I have is very bad. And today it got worse ’cause the teachers are coming back. This is the day I’ve been waiting for all summer but it seems it’s not the day that I’ve been waiting for. Knowing that you’re not coming.

  My hands are useless when you’re not around. They only do what I don’t enjoy, like work all day. I wish they could do what they like to do and that’s touching you and doing things for you.

  I’m in bed now with your picture right here beside me, I wish that you were here like this, the way you are in this picture. Reminds me of the things we used to doooo ……

  Aippaq, I’M SORRY. Please come back, please my love please. If you’re worried about the past please don’t worry about it.

  Your Joanasi

  September 3, 1984

  Aippaq,

  Tutigumallipaa. I really miss touching you. When I think about the things we always did it makes tears run down my face. I wish that you were here. Remember after the long walk we took one day, we had a bath and decided to make love on the floor of the bathroom with that song by The Cars playing in the background? We had such a good time and I have never in my whole life had a good time like we had together.

  One day on the air I said I need some hash and people called in and said they want some too. Nobody called to say don’t talk about this stuff on the radio. People only called to say go for it. Anyway, I don’t talk much like I used to on the air. I’ve been too down to talk. All I do is play music. Sometimes I say nothing all morning or afternoon. At night I just watch TV and play video games. I really never get you out of my head.

  Oh god, what can I do? I’m feeling very alone and helpless. Why don’t you come back? Please, I want you to try before I make a move.

  Your Aippaq,

  with lots of love and kisses

  October 4, 1984

  Dear Aippaq,

  It’s the weekend again, just another lonely and boring weekend. Sitting around and doing nothing but thinking a lot about you. You never write to me, why?

  Every day when I wake up and go to bed at night, I see you. I look at you for a long time but you never seem to move because I only see you in a picture. And I always wish that I was looking at the real you.

  Come over here so I can touch you again. Qaigit. My arms are open and waiting for you. Yasmeenaapik, I wish we could make a fresh start. Please TRY to find a way to come back here, please my love please. I know you can make it.

  Hi again. I didn’t finish this letter two days ago. I fell asleep. I ran a bingo game on the FM last night and my uncle came over so I had some drink with him after the bingo, just a little bit, 10 oz. I had the rest with Tommy, he had some hash so I went to his place and we smoked and it was fun feeling high for a change, but not too high in other ways, thinking of you, missing you. Paingupagit.

  Your Aippaq

  October 15, 1984

  Dear Aippaq,

  I have your picture right here as I write this letter, wondering if you have changed. You know I never really forgot you after all this time. I’ll never forget the very first time you asked to kiss me on the cheek, it was fun that time, but now I wish that I could be the one to ask to kiss you on the cheek.

  It’s been a busy month for me trying to decide what I should do or what I want to do but I think I made up my mind. I decided to take a TV journalism course. I’m going to give it a shot and see how it turns out. I could end up with a job at CBC or maybe even IBC.

  For a few days I thought that I was going to be a cop since the money sounded so good, but I changed my mind. My friend Aloupa who is a cop in Salluit was saying that it is a good job but it’s not so fun when there’s too much trouble going on. I don’t think I would want to interfere with family problems all the time (well, not all the time) and I don’t think I want to be stuck in town seven days a week since I like to hunt once in a while.

  With my new job we could really make a new start. PLEASE SAY YES! Aippaq, I know you can.

  With a big heart full of love for you …

  oxox

  October 20, 1984

  Joanasi,

  Everything is grey and wet. The leaves are gone. The rain is back. Winter will be here before we know it. It will be nice to see the snow again.

  The other day, I remembered reading an old article. Something about how everything up north—mammal, bird, fish—flourishes quickly against all odds and then dies as suddenly.

  Eight months. Do you know that’s all the time we had together? I gave myself to you, but it wasn’t enough. You always wanted more. I don’t know what more I could have given, but I’m glad I didn’t. Luckily, I never got pregnant. It would have been terrible. I know it will hurt you to hear it, but you have to. Probably deep down anyway, you know. You were always so afraid to lose me that you lost me. You destroyed what we had. I can’t forgive you.

  I’m pretty sure that eventually you’ll find another woman who will mean a lot to you. As for me, I don’t know anymore. You spoiled me. One day I woke up completely happy, happier than I have ever been in my life. You were there. I was there. It lasted a moment. The light was infinite.

  Today I hiked to the top of Mount Royal and looked down at all the cars and buildings. It’s strange how you can fit the city in the palm of your hand from up there. The North never fit into my hand like that. That was what I loved about it. But then I didn’t love it anymore, partly because of you.

  Maybe we only get one chance at pure happiness. Once it’s gone, we have to figure out how to make everything that comes afterward mean enough to carry us through the rest of our lives. We have to let go of the ideal thing, that beautiful moment which is impossible to sustain. The best we can do is put the memory away somewhere safe knowing that at least we had that. You and I, we had it. That was our time, Joanasi. But it’s over now.

  You always said I was too much in my head. Maybe you’re right. Anyway, it might surprise you (or not) to hear that I’m not teaching this year. I decided that it’s really not for me. A teacher should be m
ore certain about things than I am. Sometimes it feels like I was the student in Saqijuvik, and you and everyone else were my teachers. I don’t know what I’ll do now, but one thing is sure. I won’t be back, so please stop asking. Don’t expect any more letters from me. This is it. Atsunai. Goodbye.

  Yasmeen

  THE MAN ON THE PARK BENCH PRODUCES A PINK LIGHTER AND LIGHTS HIMSELF A CIGARETTE. He breathes in deeply and exhales a dense jet of smoke through his nostrils. “We used to be nomads,” he says.

  “Yeah,” says Yasmeen. “I know.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  She is too, but not for food. That’s been her problem all along, she thinks.

  “I have money,” he tells her.

  “I know that.”

  A convoy of fire trucks tears down the street, lights flashing, sirens blaring.

  “Must be a big one,” he says.

  She nods.

  “People get hurt in fires.”

  She nods again. For the first time, she notices the T-shirt he has on underneath his open jacket. It seems a little snug across the chest, like it doesn’t belong to him. Like it maybe comes from the Army Surplus Store or a church basement rummage sale. The writing on it says, My Next Husband Will Be Normal. It makes her smile.

  “What?” he says.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing important.”

  A woman dragging a gigantic trash bag stops at their bench and yammers at him like they’re friends but not good friends. She has ratty hair and her bag is bursting at the seams with old clothes and shoes. He reaches into his pocket for a cigarette and snaps her a flame with the pink lighter. She leans into it, almost catching her hair on fire, then jumps backward, snarling at him, something Yasmeen can only guess at, “Shithead” or “Thanks for nothing,” and goes back to hauling her bag.

  The snow has stopped. He leans down and stares pensively at the ground. Yasmeen looks over to where he is looking but doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “Do you want to get something to eat?” he says.

  She untangles herself from the strap of her shoulder bag and lays it down on the bench between them. “Not really. But you go ahead. I’m not quite ready to leave yet.”

  “You should,” he says. “Nice girl like you.” He squashes his cigarette out on the bottom of his boot and flicks it at the base of an old tree. “This isn’t a place to be. Especially at night.” Like something her mother would say before she stopped with her nagging. Her father, on the other hand, he would have just said, “Be cautious but don’t let it spoil everything.”

  “Yeah, okay.” She takes back her purse.

  “You never know what can happen. There are a lot of people here you wouldn’t want to meet.”

  “You’re right.” She stands and goes to shake hands goodbye. His palm is cold. He holds her hand in his for a long time, longer than he should. That’s how she knows it’s so cold. She almost doesn’t want him to let go. But he does and so does she. They both let go at the same time.

  “See you around,” he calls over his shoulder, shuffling toward the street with his brown paper bag.

  “Maybe,” she says. “Probably not.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to my publisher, Robin Philpot, for his generosity and commitment to this book. And to Elise Moser, editor extraordinaire, for her insights, attention to detail, and encouragement.

  Thank you to Peter Burpee, who first introduced me to the North.

  I am grateful for financial support from the Conseil des arts et des lettres du Québec and the Banff Centre, which allowed me to get a first draft on paper.

  Janine Cheeseman and Endre Farkas read earlier, underdeveloped versions and offered editorial suggestions that strengthened the manuscript. I owe them a lot.

  Without knowing the details of the story, a helpful team of Nunavimmiut assisted me with the Hudson dialect of Inuktitut and answered a multitude of questions: Dorina Anowak, Jeannie Calvin, Sarah Idlout, and Lizzie Tukai. Vicky Simigak and Nancianne Grey provided the names of the fictional Inuit communities. Nakurmiimarialuk.

  Thanks to my parents and family for their boundless love and support; and to my son, Alex, for the homemade Mother’s Day card of long ago that insisted I was “one hip Mama” who should keep on doing what I love “no matter what anyone says.” It’s faded but it’s still on my fridge. Thank you to Endre for being a constant in my life—for stilling the turbulent waters and always reminding me to breathe. There’s no one else I’d rather stay up late with, talking about sentences.

  This novel grew out of an earlier short story I wrote called “Men of Stone,” which appeared in The New Quarterly in 1991. I wish to thank Tomson Highway who read that piece in the course of his tenure as Writer-in-Residence at Concordia University and provided valuable feedback, which I incorporated into this novel. More recently he proposed the book’s title, for which I am deeply grateful.

  Finally, I would like to acknowledge the many authors whose works I consulted in the writing of this novel: Hugh Brody, Ingo Hessel, Lisa Qiluqqi Koperqualuk, Dorothy Mesher, Ulli Steltzer, Stephen Guion Williams, and editors Neil Christopher, Noel McDermott and Louise Flaherty.

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  The People’s Land: Whites and the Eastern Arctic by Hugh Brody, New York: Penguin, 1977.

  Unikkaaqtuat: An Introduction to Traditional Inuit Myths and Legends, eds. Neil Christopher, Noel McDermott and Louise Flaherty, Toronto: Inhabit Media Inc., 2011.

  Arctic Spirit: Inuit Art from the Albrecht Collection at the Heard Museum by Ingo Hessel, Vancouver: Douglas & McIntyre Ltd., 2006.

  Puvirniturmiut Religious and Political Dynamics by Lisa Qiluqqi Koperqualuk, M.A. Thesis: Université Laval, 2011.

  Traditions Relating to Customary Law in Nunavik by Lisa Qiluqqi Koperqualuk, Westmount: Nunavik Publications, 2015.

  Kuujjuaq—Memories and Musings by Dorothy Mesher (with Ray Woollam), Duncan: Unica Publishing Co. Ltd., 1995.

  Inuit: The North in Transition by Ulli Steltzer, Vancouver: Douglas & McIntyre Ltd., 1982.

  In the Middle: The Inuit Today by Stephen Guion Williams, Toronto: Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 1983.

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