“Tell me he’s going to live! TELL ME HE’S GOING TO LIVE! SAY IT!” A wild howl born of utter powerlessness. My cry freezes the entire surroundings, even the rescuers’ gestures are suspended, slowed by the force of this defiance in the face of the inescapable.
They then transform into emergency specialists again—precise, efficient. After long minutes, they finally slide the stretcher into the ambulance and one of them says to the driver, “Quick, we’ve gotta hurry! Call the hospital now!”
A squat policewoman walks over. She speaks, but I can’t hear her. I’m on the outside of my body, an automaton floating free of gravity. I’m suffocating, gasping for air. A black beast has lodged itself in my chest, is crushing my lungs, its paws casting around for my heart to stop its beating. Death! Daniel! I’m fused to his being that I carry at this exact moment in my lungs. In this second, in the invisible, I witness the departure of my companion, my friend, my lover, my love. I see his fear, his struggle with death, his panic, his call for help. On my knees, held tight by the constable, I inhale, deep into my being and propel with all my strength that same air, open-mouthed, toward the blue of the sky, toward the infinity into which my love’s essence soars.
Escorted by Daniel’s gentle blue gaze, I re-enter my body and collapse against the policewoman’s shoulder. “It’s over, over….” Thoughts spoken aloud. Now the woman can guide me to her patrol car, its lights flashing. She buckles a seatbelt around my limp body, speaks to distract me. Do I have any family? Who should she call? Am I able to make the calls? She starts after the ambulance as it races straight ahead.
Within an hour, I’m surrounded by part of my family. Maikan, Édouard, and Margot. Silently, they form a circle around me as though to shelter me from sorrow, from harm. I give myself over to their loyal solicitude, they will look after everything, I won’t have to worry about a thing. So I let myself drift, my eyes on Daniel’s face, so calm. The emergency nurse on duty has granted me this time for farewells.
I emerge from my comatose state when I realize I’ll have to announce their father’s death to his children scattered throughout the province. I decide to tell their mother who will know better than I how to respond to their sorrow.… Maikan holds out my husband’s address book that a nurse gave him with his other personal belongings. I’m shaking again, so cold, so very cold. Worried, my sister Margot asks whether a doctor should examine me. I tell her it’s normal, the shock. Then my daughter’s voice, so childlike despite her thirty-some years, weeps into her uncle’s cellphone. I have to answer the officer’s questions regarding the circumstances surrounding the accident as well. Then the same officer advises me that he’s requested an autopsy to see whether Daniel was hit or not.
Amos. Scarcely ten days ago, we bought groceries here for our trip to James Bay. Full of joy, excited at the prospect of striking out on a new road. Today, gone. The void. Nothingness. Noumoushoum’s warning, “Your path will be difficult.…” Were those not the words he used?
Oh, but Grandfather, not to this extent! The price too steep for the secret revealed by the lynx.
22
THE MESSAGES
AUGUST 2004
I’M DRINKING BORDEAUX. I like its body and dash of meatiness. Younger, I preferred sharp, peppery wines, but no more. Red for my Red? I try to find a new footing. Insomnia. Headaches. When I close my eyes, I see again the mammoth truck bearing down on Daniel. I wish I could cry, but I’m dry, hard and dry. Like black granite. Did I bring on his death by calling out to him?
After three days spent with my family and waiting for the arrival of my children, their spouses, and my granddaughter, I now wait for the autopsy results before going ahead with the funeral. My brother Maikan finally agreed to drive me home, to the house Daniel and I had had such plans for. He wanted to plant fruit trees in one corner; I wanted an art garden inspired by different cultures.
I need to be alone to pull myself together. The animal inside me needs to lick its wounds alone in this setting where happiness still hovers over the furniture, the paintings on the walls, the books in the bookcases with their accumulated dust. Not quite drunk, I stand tall as I walk from one room to the next. I touch the clothes Daniel left lying on the floor when we left, breathe in their scent. I caress his tools on the ground by the front door. I speak to him as though he were here and walk into his office. The answering machine flashes on and off. I soak up what was his workspace. His computer. His dictionaries. His research books. I lick the lip of his pipes and breathe in his tobacco. I read the notes he took before leaving for James Bay. His writing, slanted to the left, and the tiny capital letters that always moved me. Would a handwriting expert interpret them as showing an attachment to the past and an unconscious spurning of protocol? Perhaps.
I go back to pour myself another glass of wine. The answering machine in the dining room is flashing, too. I perch on Daniel’s favourite armchair in the living room and my gaze is drawn to two prints by a French artist. We were impressed by their exceptional quality at a flea market in Quebec City. The titles and signatures etched in the ink of that period, yellowing and slightly blurred, show their age—1880. The scene is of Millet’s house in Barbizon and of Stevenson and Diaz’s homes.
The year after we bought the prints, I was invited to Paris for a conference and Daniel came with me. As we walked along the Rive Gauche one day, I saw a poster in a restaurant window. It announced an event in Barbizon. Without even consulting each other, we knew we’d visit Barbizon while we were there. We were staying with our Parisian friends, Évelyne and Pierre. Daniel asked them how we could get to Barbizon. Speaking to his spouse, Pierre suggested, “Honey, why don’t we picnic with the children on Sunday in the Fontainebleau forest? We’ll take both cars.…” Such generous friends!
The next Sunday, we’re in Barbizon in Millet’s house and studio, now a museum. I drink it all in. And more. A venerable old man with a singsong accent is speaking to Italian tourists about Millet. Slowly, I walk over to the old man and wait my turn to speak to him about Etchard, the man behind our prints.
“He was a friend of Millet’s, an engraver,” he said. “What was the first name?”
“Just the initial M.”
Visibly interested, he tells us he’d need to see our paintings since Marcel Etchard had a son, Maurice, who was also a printmaker, but a less talented one. I ask if the prints would be valuable if they were the father’s. He looks at me as though I’d just made a huge gaffe.
We walk out into the sun-drenched street. Our friends bump into neighbours out sightseeing as well and we look for a café to go for a drink together. As we pass a display rack full of postcards, I catch sight of some poorly made copies of our prints. I grab Daniel’s arm, “Look! If someone’s gone to the trouble of copying them, they must be the father’s work, don’t you think?”
“Sure looks that way. But what does it matter?”
He’d been right, it didn’t matter. Looking down, I notice the answering machine flashing again. “Two weeks’ worth of messages, what a nightmare!” I think to myself. I totter over to the machine and hit play.
“Hello, this message is for Daniel. It’s Maryse. I’ve found a book for you. Call me when you get back.” Click.
“Hello, Victoria and Daniel. It’s Jim here, just wanted to catch up on your news. We’re all well. Ciao!” Click.
“Hi, Mom, it’s Simon. Happy birthday!” Click.
“Hi, you two! It’s Nicole. I dropped Mouski off at Jeannot’s, I’ve gone back to work. Don’t worry. The dog’s doing just fine. Bye!” Click.
Oh, right, the dog …
“Hello, Victoria? It’s Carmelle here. I’m sorry, I can imagine the state you’re in, but I need to talk to you. The girls want to know what really happened to Daniel. My condolences.” Click.
The present has caught up with me … my step-daughters’ mother. Oh, no …
“Hello, Victoria
! It’s Louise here. I’m so sorry, so very sorry … if there’s anything at all that you need, I’m here and Huguette, too. I called everyone in the group. Bye!” Click.
“Hello, Dan and Vicky? It’s David Fraser. This message is for Victoria. I’ve got something to propose to you. Actually, I need your artist’s view. Too long to explain here. Basically, we’re doing an archeological dig along the Eastmain River before it’s flooded and would like to publish some texts on the river and its importance for the Cree. Would you have time to come onsite? You’re invited. I’ll wait for your call.” He gives me his number. “See you!” Click.
David? It’s been such a long time since I last heard from the archeologist working for the Cree. The Eastmain River? He’s invited me to the Eastmain River? The information takes a while to reach my Bordeaux-saturated brain. I hit play a second time. Once again, David’s anglophone accent. I heard right. If Uncle George had been relegated to a back burner because of my grief, tonight he’s back knocking at my door. My funny bone is tickled by the situation and I start to laugh. I laugh till I’m rolled into a ball in the foetal position on the living room rug. Then my laughter turns to tears. They take me by surprise, but I don’t resist. I open myself at last to my great sorrow, let myself be swept away like a twig in the furious whirlpools of its waters.
23
THE NADOSHTIN PROJECT
SEPTEMBER 2004
ON THIS MIST-SHROUDED September morning, I take to the road again. Keep moving to avoid wallowing in depression. Our lawyer will have to make do without me for the next few weeks; I’ve given him carte blanche. The trunk of the red Toyota carries what I’ll need for a long stay in the forest. I pull on the thick wool sweater my daughter Mylène gave me last year for Christmas. Each gesture reminds me of my couple. How do you live through a first Christmas without “him?” My heart fills with bitterness and, to leave it all behind, I make my mind up to travel outside the country for the Christmas holidays. Right, why not ask my girlfriend Micheline, who’s been single for so long, to come with me? It’s a perfect time to head for the American southwest—a draw for both of us. She wants to introduce me to a friend who wrote a book on the medicine circle, and some of my father’s cousins have wintered there for years.…
The dog’s barking brings me back to the present. Mouski knows he’s going for a car ride and can’t wait for me to open the passenger door. My mutt has helped me cope with my sorrow as though he can read my thoughts. He’s such a funny creature, who hunts like a wolf and behaves like a sentient being. Every time we pass a semi-trailer, he throws himself at the window and howls in rage. At first, I was taken by surprise, but now I launch a pre-emptive strike: whenever I see a flat-bed truck on the horizon, I sternly order him to stay put. So he whimpers instead. I refrain from drawing any conclusions. He can tell I hate them and that’s that!
At Val-d’Or for my scheduled meeting with David, I park in front of his house. I roll a window partway down for air and to make sure Mouski will be fine. Diana, David’s wife, opens the door and hugs me in silence. I appreciate her discretion. She can tell at a glance that I’ve had to answer all kinds of questions about the accident and what my frame of mind has been for the past month. She calls up to David from the bottom of the stairs leading to the bedrooms.
I hear something hit the ground. David comes down yawning, his hair sticking straight up. He smooths it down with one hand, only to have it spring right back again. The gesture makes me smile.
“Hello, Victoria, I fell asleep reading. Sorry to greet you this way … but I’ve just got back from up north and I’m tired!”
After giving his condolences, he offers to make me coffee during which time he tells me about the work he’s doing on the banks of the Eastmain River. A team of Québécois and American archeologists and anthropologists sponsored by the University of Southern Maine’s Department of Geography and Anthropology has been working on a dig of sites the Cree occupied for centuries along the Eastmain River. Elders from the communities affected by the hydroelectric dams guide specialists in their research, showing them where their nomadic ancestors used to stay. Even more importantly, they list the graves of family members who lived on the territory. Should I mention my great-uncle to David? He’ll think I’m some kind of crank! He is, after all, a scientist.…
I say nothing.
“Did the Elders decide what to do about the skeletal remains?”
David sets a cup down on the coffee table for me and settles into the armchair across from me. His answer is of great interest for my plan’s future given that negative results now seem highly probable. Actually, without Daniel here to support me and since my return to an urban environment, George’s story has increasingly seemed to be a waking delusion. I’ve kept on only to honour my promise, or what feels like one, to Stanley and Humbert.
“For them, it’s out of the question to disturb the dead. That’s the way they put it: disturb the dead. We attended ceremonies in each small cemetery in the territory. They planted white crosses decorated with ribbons, flowers, sweetgrass over the graves. A very moving ritual … even though within two months everything will be under water.”
I can imagine the suffering this new bereavement must have awakened for the families. All for the good of the white majority and Americans who will likely offer to purchase the province’s electricity surplus. Did the Cree chiefs, signatories to the Paix des Braves Agreement that allowed for the new developments, really believe they were helping their people? Or were they too ready to listen to advisors from various companies, each more ambitious than the next?
Tears well up again. Embarrassed, David asks if I’m all right or whether he should stop.
“No, it’s nothing, I was thinking about the families and the graveside ceremonies. Tell me about the project you have for me.”
“With the Elders’ consent, the Cultural Heritage program team wants to create a site to honour the ‘memory’ of the Eastmain and Rupert rivers. It would involve a work of art the Cree could gather around in future. We’ve already approached Brad Westchee, I think you know him, but some would like to publish texts, perhaps poetry, and I suggested you as well as Janet Gull of Chisasibi. If you like, you’re invited onsite to participate in the dig with us and absorb the spirit of the site. Is that the right way to put it? You can stay as long as you need to. We’ll be working till early November.”
I tell David about my encounter with Johnny Humbert Mistenapeo, who’s having me go to Mistissini to meet Malcolm Kanatawet. I also tell him about a “mission” of my own, not far from the Rupert River in fact, without adding any specifics.
“You keep company with men of power…” David says, surprised. “How about that! One day, I witnessed a shaking tent ceremony led by Mr. Kanatawet. I have to admit I was impressed.”
I add, “Malcolm Kanatawet is supposed to accompany me to the Colline Blanche. If you can wait, I’ll meet up with you after my visit with the shaman. I might bring one or two brothers and even a cousin with me.…”
An awkward pause.
David thinks I’m reluctant to compromise my reputation among the Cree who are uncomfortable seeing a lone woman in a group of men. He reassures me that in addition to the male archeologists at the camp, there will be a female cook and students.
“But we’re happy for any outside help. Welcome to your family members! Too bad I can’t go to the Colline Blanche with you. I suppose you know it’s a sacred site for your people? In fact, I have a document on the place and can give you a copy. I was part of developing an archeological research study led by Québec’s wildlife and parks society with the Cree Regional Authority to create a conservation park around the hill.”
He doesn’t insist on finding out why I’ll be visiting Mistissini and gives me the name and cell number for the Nadoshtin project coordinator in Nemaska, who will show me around when I arrive.
24
MOUSKI
/> SEPTEMBER 2004
MY SHETLAND SHEEPDOG cuts a fine figure with a red kerchief around his neck. Driving down country roads, as a matter of course, he sits in the passenger seat and points his muzzle at the windshield. He watches over me. My father used to offer to get us purebred dogs abandoned by officers when they were transferred to other military bases. We kept a Doberman that Maman rightly loathed, a Dalmatian she found bizarre, and a black-tongued Chow-Chow. Papa put a bullet through its head after it had a run-in with a porcupine. Stuck with quills all over, even down its throat, the dog wouldn’t let anyone get close. Our favourite, Lucky, a spaniel, lived with us for a long time. One day, he fell under the school bus that he hated and would chase in a rage to keep it from whisking us away. The driver. Mr. St-Arnauld, granted us a few minutes to bid farewell to our friend … who proceeded to get to his feet and make a dash for the house! Papa took stock of the severity of his injuries and shot him to put an end to his suffering. On Maman’s orders, he never brought another dog home.
We’re coming up to Makwa’s house across from my father’s. Mouski pricks up his ears and whines, “Don’t worry, you’ll get to see Antoine,” I say. My nephew and his boyfriend. On hearing Antoine’s name, Mouski barks. I’ve neglected Papa these last few years, busy as I was with married life. Daniel wasn’t much of a one for family, or at least not for my family. We never discussed it, and now it’s too late. At the funeral home, Papa clasped me to him, more shattered by my sorrow than his own, then, leaning on his cane, he made his halting way back to his seat.
He’s busy by the flowerbeds mowing the grass that still stubbornly grows as fall approaches. He doesn’t sow grass seeds, clover takes over from the stubble. Its sweet aroma wafts through the air. Papa doesn’t hear the car engine that’s drowned out by the lawnmower. Yapping and wagging his tail, Mouski races over and runs circles around him. My father lets go of the mower and turns with a laugh. “Now that’s a sight for sore eyes!”
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