Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

With dizzying energy, Matthias shovels the entryway, brings in the wood, and kneads the dough to make black bread.

A beautiful day out there, he tells me, his words coming quickly.

Just as I decide to stand up and put my crutches to work, a snowmobile pulls up in front of the porch. Matthias hurries to open the door, and Jean walks into the room.

Today’s the day, he announces. You’re ready?

Matthias looks at me, two thumbs up. He tells me supper will be ready when I return.

You see, everything will work out, Jean adds.

Matthias helps me get out of my splints, then I put on his coat, snow pants, and boots. His hands are shaking more than usual.

You’ll be all right, he says, wrapping a scarf around my neck, you can go now. But your crutches, you’ll need your crutches.

He won’t have to use them, Jean says, lifting me by the armpits.

Matthias watches us go out the door, blinking his eyes and wiping his forehead. As I go, I realize there is a vial of pills on the edge of the counter. The analgesics I used to take when the pain was unbearable. The container is empty, like a gourd whose last drop has been drunk.

The warehouse door opens with a crash. We go inside and darkness envelopes us. Jean whistles twice. The place is cavernous and sound bounces off the sheet-metal walls. Then I hear the growl of a generator, and fluorescent tubes light up one after the other above our heads.

In front of me, five guys are staring as if they had seen a ghost. I recognize some of their faces, but time has worked on them. I have been away for a long time and we have become strangers again. One of them brings me a swivel chair and tells me he was there when they found me after the accident.

I’m glad to see you’re getting better.

Yeah, I say, but it’s taking time.

At least you don’t have to do night watchman duties, he teases me.

And you’re lucky. You’ve got the prettiest woman in the village looking after you, another guy points out as his friends laugh.

All right, that’s enough, Jean orders them, pushing my chair among the tool boxes. Let’s get to work.

The minibus is sitting on wood blocks. In the front, long metal skis have been fastened to the suspension. In the back, they have taken the wheels off and an impressive pair of tracks are waiting to be fitted on. I understand why Joseph said it would never work.

This is where we’re at. Not bad, huh?

I glance at Jean, scratch my head, then lower myself out of my chair carefully. I slide under the minibus by hanging onto the tailpipe. I ask them to bring me light. I check how solid the axles are, what shape the suspension is in, and the brakes. While I’m underneath, one of the guys leans over me.

I thought you left here so you wouldn’t have to be a mechanic like your father.

I turn and take a good look at him, then ask him to pass me a monkey wrench.

He does my bidding, but hands me more questions along with the tool.

Where were you all that time? Ten years is a while. What were you doing?

I tell him I was doing what I could to change my life.

Why did you come back? Because of the power being out?

No. To visit my father.

Jean kneels down to see what is happening. He motions to his pal to let me work in peace. In the yellow beam of light, his face looks harsher than usual. I wonder how this man was with young children, back before the power went off, when he was a teacher.

As I check one last detail, the smell of gas, the texture of grease, and the inky black of metal carry me far back in time. I don’t know if my father would have agreed to come here. I don’t think so, but I’m sure he would have used the situation to make a deal to his advantage.

When I finish they help me crawl out of there and sit back on the chair. Jean and his friends await my verdict. They stand with their arms hanging at their sides. I turn and look at the vehicle. The project is insane. It is like a ship. A ship of fools. A Noah’s Ark. As if the clouds in the sky were about to open and drown everything.

I don’t know why you need a machine like that.

Jean tells me it’s for expeditions to replenish our supplies.

Snowmobiles are good, he goes on, but we need cargo space to transport material and people. We need a vehicle that can handle the snow.

I get it. But I bet you don’t have adapters for the tracks.

Jean and his men give each other empty looks.

We’ll have to drill through the hubs.

They all agree, but nothing happens. I repeat myself.

We’ll have to drill through the hubs.

Jean issues orders to the men. One of them takes out a drill, another groups together the toolboxes next to us, and a third unrolls an extension cord to our worksite. I point to the guy I was talking to and tell him to come over.

Listen up. I want you to drill the holes exactly where I tell you. And delicately, without forcing the motor or busting the bit.

He nods, settles in, and begins drilling through the metal. As I keep an eye on him, I explain to Jean how we are going to go about it. He asks me for the details of every step to make sure he has understood.

Do you think we’ll finish today?

Maybe. We’ll see.

Glowing, Jean puts his hand on my shoulder and proudly declares I am the right man for the job.

Jean drives me home under the dark sky. We speed along as the headlights split the night. Beneath the snow, I sense the old mining site and the giant plateau created by the slag. Unlike Joseph, Jean drives the snowmobile in a jerky fashion, and I am afraid we will bog down every time we take a turn. Finally, we reach the porch. Matthias is standing in the open door. Without stopping the motor, Jean waves him to come over and get me. He moves toward us, his footing unsure in the snow.

The wind’s come up, he calls, his voice barely audible over the motor. A storm’s coming.

Jean nods, evasive. As soon as I slip down from the snowmobile and Matthias has steadied me with one arm, Jean hits the gas and heads down to the village.

So? Matthias asks me once we are inside.

We didn’t stop once all day, I say, looking at my hands blackened with oil and dust. I’m hungry.

Is it going to work?

It should.

What’s it look like?

Like a minibus, only with skis and tracks. A Snow Ark.

Matthias thinks about that for a time.

As I rub my legs, I watch the leak. We are going to have to plug it or find some way to lessen the sound of dripping water.

How are your legs?

Hard as rocks, but the pain isn’t too bad. And your back?

As good as new, he tells me, but I can see the glaze of analgesics in his eyes.

Matthias serves me a plate of noodles.

Did they say when the expedition is leaving?

No. The minibus is still in the warehouse. They have to run a few tests, inside.

Will they need you for that?

I suppose so.

So they won’t be leaving right away. Was Jude with you?

No.

But Jean told you he’d save a spot for me, right?

We worked all day, I don’t remember everything that was said. You’ll work it out with them.

I mop up the sauce with a piece of bread. Matthias has nothing more to say. He contemplates the drops of water falling from the ceiling.

The storm has been blowing for a week. The wind twists the trees and whips the falling snow. You can’t tell whether it is coming from the sky or rising up from the earth.

The last few days, I have scarcely gotten out of bed. In the morning I massage my legs, do a few exercises, then lie down again. There is nothing else to do.