Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

I close the door behind me. A point of light glimmers at the end of the hallway, but darkness is dominant and the walls stretch out in dimness on both sides.

Anyone home?

No answer. The house is empty. Lifeless. Only Matthias’s ghostly existence and my own haunt this place. My hands firmly on my crutches, I take a few steps forward. The humidity quickly penetrates my bones and stiffens my joints. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep this up.

The living room is on my right. Books are scattered across the floor beneath wide bookshelves. The books are like a heap of coal about to be shovelled into a furnace. A stone fireplace dominates the room from the back wall. Inside, there are charred tin cans and a few half-burned logs. A blanket partly covers the old sofa. A bottle of gin stands on the low table. Curtains are drawn over the windows. The cold has frozen everything in place. From the corner of the room, the television watches my every move and offers me the reflection of a middle-aged man moving forward painfully, leaning on two wooden sticks. The living room gives onto a dining room. Tinted blue from the snow blown against the windows, daylight filters in weakly. Further on, in the kitchen, cold air blows through the planks of a boarded-up window. Drafts carrying snow. Above the counter the cupboards are bare but for faded wax paper. In the sink, rags and oily cans. The floor tiles are covered with the broken necks of bottles and footprints from heavy, muddy boots.

I glance into the bathroom. It is dirty and unusable. I close the door before nausea gets the better of me. I go back to the main hallway and past the front door. Curious, I look out the peephole, but see nothing. Maybe it is defective. Or is the snow playing tricks on me? A reflex: I make sure the door is locked. I stop in front of the staircase leading to the second floor. The stairs are wide and heavily built. The wooden railing has been sculpted with a skill that belongs to another time. I hang onto it carefully, taking both crutches in my free hand, and climb the steps in my lurching manner. Upstairs, the three bedrooms are flooded with light. The round windows pour down brilliance on the unmade beds, the wardrobes thrown open, the chests of drawers emptied hurriedly, the clothing scattered on the floor. I move toward one of the windows.

The view is surprising. The line of the mountains seems to be drawn with unaccustomed confidence. The endless stretch of forest runs down to the clearing where the snow gauge stands. I feel as if I am the lookout on a ship and have finally grasped the dreadful magnitude of the horizon closing in on us.

Further down I can see the beginning of the village clearly. Really no more than a few buried roofs, four meagre plumes of smoke, and small trails leading from dwelling to dwelling like fragile gangways, threatened by the elements.

I could stay here forever, gazing at this desolate, magnificent landscape. But the cold is slowly taking hold of me. When I breathe out, a cloud of steam issues from my mouth as if I were smoking. I lean over with some difficulty, pick up a sweater from the floor, put it on, and rub my hands together.

Back in the hall I notice a door under the staircase. The access to the cellar, no doubt. A shiver runs down my back. I don’t want to catch cold, but I can’t resist: I open the cellar door. Just to see.

All I can make out are the first few steps that disappear into a black, gaping mouth. I bend over, leaning on my crutches, and slip my head into the entrance. My pupils dilate and slowly I see into the darkness. Something is lying on the floor and blocking the way. I kneel down to inspect. A large black suitcase. It is heavy, and I have to brace myself against the doorframe to drag it into the hall and daylight.

In one of the compartments, I find a sleeping bag, a pair of boots, a yellow raincoat, and clean clothes. In another provisions of all kinds are carefully stacked. Canned food, jars of jelly, crackers, chocolate bars, dried dates. And Joseph’s two bottles of wine and the slabs of pemmican.

I have discovered Matthias’s secret provisions. This is where he squirrels away everything he can, discreetly, at night, like a greedy, stubborn little rodent.

I search further and come across batteries of every size, two flashlights, a detailed road map, knives of different formats, rope, and a compass. Everything a man needs for an expedition. Everything he needs to leave without warning. I even find an alarm clock in working order. It has been a while since my days were ordered by the passage of the hours. Time has become a viscous substance between sleep and wakefulness. Ten minutes after two, the alarm clock says as I slip it into my pocket.

As I put everything back in its place, I notice a pouch attached to the side of the suitcase. I open it. There is a small cardboard box inside. Bullets for the revolver. Now I know what Matthias hid under his shirt this morning.

I put the suitcase back in the cellar, close the door carefully, and hurry back to the porch to warm myself by the stove.

Heavy grey clouds weigh upon the landscape. They pass over the forest at low altitude and stroke the treetops, leaving a few flakes behind.

Matthias returned some time ago, but he has not said a word. We ate white rice with a few sardines. After the meal he collapsed onto the sofa, his eyes staring, like a dead animal. He has not moved since. Outside, the light grows weaker. Night is crouching at the edge of the woods, about to creep toward us like a wolf.

It’s like the village is moving in slow motion, Matthias says, demoralized. Jude and the other guys haven’t come back, and most people are just laying low and waiting. Some people say they must have had trouble with the minibus.

You think they’ll come back?

Matthias sighs and takes the key ring out of his pocket, the one Joseph gave him.

I heard they left with the gas, weapons, and a good share of the supplies.

At the corner of his eyes and on his forehead, his wrinkles make him look like the sunset before a storm. I turn toward the window and see that the flakes are liquefying as soon as they hit the glass. The snow seems to want to change into rain.

Matthias toys with the keys and gazes at the little plastic moose.

They left, he says bitterly. They lied to Jonas, they won’t be back. I should have suspected as much.

Darkness settles over the porch, but neither of us seems ready to make the effort to light the oil lamp. I get the feeling Matthias is doing exactly what I am: counting the falling drops of water and trying to sleep.

For the time being we’ve got enough supplies, he says after a while, but we’ll have to figure out something else for food. There’s no other choice.

I act like the words mean nothing to me and picture the suitcase he has hidden on the other side. And the alarm clock in the pocket of my coat.

It is a morning without light. A dull sun wanders on the other side of the clouds. For the first time since winter began, it is above freezing. It is raining and the landscape sops up everything, thickens, and sags onto itself.

Today, by hanging onto the reinforcement posts, I tried to put a little weight on my left leg. Gently, not pushing too hard. I could not take a step, not yet, but I’ll manage one day soon.