Nancy Huston - Infrared

‘I knew one of them,’ Aziz says. ‘His mother’s one of my aunt’s b-b-best friends…Rena, you c-c-c-an’t stay away on holiday at a time like this…Shit, my work phone’s ringing…I’ll try and get back to you later on.’

Rena recoils as if she herself had just received the jolt of an electric shock. The hairs at the nape of her neck bristle and she feels inordinately, unpleasantly wide awake. Two young kids… dead? Oh God, Aziz must be grinding his teeth, smoke must be pouring out of his nostrils…She says nothing of the tragedy to Simon and Ingrid, so as not to weigh them down with it — but as they approach the hotel she can’t help hastening her step. Wishes them a good night the minute they reach reception. Starts dialling Aziz’s number as she goes up the stairs. Connects only with his recorded voice. Leaves him a message: ‘Darling, please try to understand. Everything about this trip is slow and heavy and confusing. I still haven’t had time to check the internet, or even buy a French newspaper…Believe me, I’m as upset as you are about the death of those two kids…Keep me posted, all right? I’ll be waiting for your call, my love.’

When she finally falls asleep at nearly three in the morning, Aziz still hasn’t called back.

Supplizio

A man has set up a camera facing a machine. He stands in front of the machine and declares, ‘No matter what you do to me, I’ll never reveal the truth about…’ (I forget about what). To prove it, he climbs into the machine, lies flat on his stomach between two metal plates, hooks his left foot to the one above him so it’s bent at the knee, and presses a button. The top plaque starts moving slowly downwards, crushing his leg against his back —N o, no, I protest inwardly, horrified —N o, stop! — but the plaque just keeps coming down and down —No , no! — down and down —NO! — eventually crushing him completely.

Rena may have forgotten most of what she learned in her Introduction to Psychology class at Concordia, but she still knows one thing: all the characters in a dream are the dreamer.

So. Myself, the guy who brags about his ability to remain silent… the absurd hero who tortures himself to death. I’d rather die than tell the truth about…what?

What would I rather die than tell the truth about?

Sregolatezza

Getting out of bed, she sees bright red bloodstains on her sheets and nightgown — a shock, coming in the wake of that nightmare.

Damn it all to hell. It’s not fair. I had my period only two weeks ago, in all its crimson glory. It has no right to pursue me all the way to Tuscany — I didn’t pack any tampons. How dare my ovaries misbehave like this?

Not only that, but she was so busy torturing herself that she didn’t hear the alarm clock go off — it’s nine-thirty already and her appointment with the car rental agency is at ten. How will she manage to wash up this mess, pack her suitcase, help Simon and Ingrid carry theirs downstairs, buy a box of Tampax (Super), put them in place (two — and maybe a Kotex thrown in for good measure) and rush to the agency, all in the space of half an hour?

My periods have got pretty chaotic these past few months.

Maybe an early symptom of menopause? Subra suggests.

Yes, I suppose I’m getting there. No hot flashes so far, but plenty of night sweats…Could be one of the causes of my insomnia, come to think of it. And when I asked Kerstin how long I’d have to endure these symptoms, she said, ‘Tell you the truth, I don’t remember… Seven, eight years, something like that.’ ‘Seven, eight years? Are you serious?’ ‘Sure, why?’ ‘Come off it. You mean I’m supposed to put up with this crap for the next one hundred months and keep my mouth shut?’ ‘Oh, I doubt that.’ ‘You doubt what?’ ‘That you’ll keep your mouth shut.’

At age twelve, I faked it…

Tell me, Subra says.

I was impatient to have my period. I figured that, by making a woman of me, it would bring me closer to my mother. So once a month I’d writhe theatrically in the throes of abominable abdominal pain (loved the way that sounded) — and it worked! Lisa would allow me to stay home from school, and she’d take care of me. Divine days of calm and clarity in my sun-filled room, snoozing in bed and gorging on Daphne Du Maurier novels (an author I worshipped because my mother’s brand of cigarettes was named after her). Every couple of hours, Lisa would knock at my door and I’d put a long-suffering look on my face. She’d sit down at my bedside, stroke my hair and give me my medicine. ‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ she’d say. ‘Some women’s periods are more painful than others, that’s all.’

‘You wouldn’t believe how I found out about menstruation,’ she added once. ‘My mother was a prude — it embarrassed her to talk about such things, so she told me nothing at all. Then, the summer I turned twelve, a cousin of mine in Sydney — a couple of years older than me, and far more worldly-wise — told me all about it during the Christmas holidays. I thought she must be pulling my leg. Are you nuts? Blood dripping out of us once a month — nah, come off it! Just as I was about to get on the train and head back to Melbourne, she stuck a medical pamphlet under my nose and said, “Don’t believe me if you don’t want to, I could care less, but if by any chance you’re interested, read this.” Well, I read “that” on the train and it left me speechless. When I got home, I realised I still had the pamphlet in my bag — how could I get rid of it? I couldn’t toss it into the wastebasket because all the wastebaskets were emptied by my mother. So I went up and hid it under a pile of old magazines in the attic, as if it was pornography or something.’

Mommy laughed and I laughed right along with her. I was grateful to her for assuming that at age twelve I knew about pornography…which I did. Thanks to the neighbourhood I walked through every week for my dance classes, a red-light district rife with strip joints, sex shops, peep shows and hostess bars, I was far more savvy about dildoes than I was about menstruation. Even as I went on playing the role of the obedient, submissive young daughter in my official life — the smooth, clean world of Westmount from which my brother had been banished — I was magnetised by the sordid scenes on Saint Catherine Street.

Lisa went on with her tale. An unusually thorough housekeeper, her mother had stumbled on the pamphlet one day as she was cleaning out the attic. ‘She figured it must have been left there by former tenants and decided it would enable her to teach me about puberty without pronouncing a word. “Here, Lisa. Time you knew.” And that was it.’ I giggled. Mommy hugged me to her, then pressed her lips to my forehead. ‘You’re fine, sweet Rena. You don’t have a fever. See you later!’—and she trotted off to receive her next client.

I loved it when she said ‘sweet Rena’. I loved hearing her call my name from her office or the kitchen, and rushing to her side. Sometimes I’d drag my feet on purpose, just for the pleasure of hearing her call me again—’Rena!’ It was marvellous. I existed. This woman was my mother, and she wanted to see me. No matter what the reason (whether to send me on an errand or to use me as a go-between in one of her quarrels with my father), when her lips formed the word ‘Rena’ it meant that instead of struggling for women in general, she wanted to see one woman in particular, a diminutive woman whom she held infinitely dear. Me. Her daughter.