Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

The roof is leaking more. The drops run closer together and fall before the ones ahead of them finish their trajectory. Matthias has to empty the bucket on a regular basis to keep it from overflowing. Everything seems to be moving faster, but the comforting tick-tock of the alarm clock reminds me that the minutes are passing as slowly as ever.

I call over to Matthias and ask him what time it might be, according to him.

Why do you want to know? he replies, irritated, it makes no difference.

Just to know, I tell him, getting under his skin.

Then I pull the alarm clock out of my pocket.

That’s all I needed, he growls, now that you can move around on your crutches the way you want, you start pawing through my stuff.

Furious, he grabs the clock from me and sets it on the table. The time is exactly eleven twenty-four.

At eleven twenty-eight, Matthias picks up the bucket and heads outside to empty it. But when he gathers the momentum to throw the water out, he slips and falls backward. I grab my crutches and go to the door. He is rolling on his side and moaning in pain. Finally he pulls himself up on all fours, stopping to rest on his knees. He lays a hand on the small of his back and leans forward to pick up the pail again. Then, carefully, he retreats back into the house.

Outside, the rain is falling and everything is covered in a layer of ice. The front entrance is perilous, the snow glitters, and tree branches bend and sparkle.

Get out of the way, Matthias orders me, his face twisted in pain, let me get by.

I close the door and turn around. He hurls the bucket at the wall.

They left for the city! Do you get it? Where else would they have gone? They took everything they could and left me behind. That’s what happened – that and nothing else!

He is struggling like a bear caught in a trap. I try to make it back to my bed without riling him up. I stretch out and avoid moving, lying low.

They don’t give a shit about me! he bellows, kicking the pail that rolled back in his direction. And I didn’t see it coming. You understand? A man my age! A bunch of pissants, all of you! You can’t understand. You have no respect for anything. I want to see my wife again! Is that so hard to understand? My days are numbered. I prayed, but everything is behind me now. I want to be with her, I want to be at her side. That’s all that matters. I don’t care about the rest.

The clock says four fifty. Despite all of Matthias’s carrying on, I fell asleep. I move my legs and sit up in bed. The battered bucket is under the table, and the leak is falling directly onto the floor. A little river crosses the room, heading for the sea.

Matthias is sleeping on a chair, mouth open, head thrown back. It looks as though his heart has simply stopped. On the table before him, his key ring, a book, and a bottle of wine. Empty.

It is still raining, and everything lies beneath a thick layer of ice. A few trees have fallen to the ground. Others have lost big branches. The electric poles are scattered across the snowy fields, laid low by the weight of their wires. The ice storm has fossilized the landscape in crystal glass. Even the snow gauge has been petrified.

When I stretch out my arm to take my crutches, Matthias springs to life, as if someone had slapped him in the face.

Where do you think you’re going? he growls, his teeth stained with wine and his speech slurred. Look outside, go and take a look, he insists, pointing toward the window. Where do you think you’re going to go? There’s nowhere to go. We’ve been left behind. Look, go ahead! Look as much as you want! There’s nothing to see. We’re caught in a trap in a sea of ice. Twenty thousand leagues under the snow.

His glassy eyes glitter briefly, then flare out. He grabs the bottle by the neck and sucks out the last drops.

We’ll never get out of here, he declares, banging the bottle back onto the table. Winter won’t give us a second chance.

He belches and adjusts his position to look at the clock. Three minutes after five.

All that happened over two centuries ago, he tells me, point­-ing at the book in front of him, in a magnificent and God-fearing city, celebrated for its churches, basilicas, and cathedrals. It was a quiet morning, even the waves entered the port on tiptoe. The entire population had gathered to attend Mass. Suddenly, the water drew back from the shoreline. The birds rose into the sky. The dogs began to bark, seeking out their masters. And the earth shook. Crevasses opened up in stone walls, the mortar between the bricks split apart, and clouds of dust tumbled to the ground. The sculpted arches, the pinnacles of the belfries, the painted domes – nothing resisted. The vaulted ceilings collapsed on the praying people. Buried alive in the churches. And when they rushed into the street to gaze upon the damage, Matthias declares with a glance at the crucifix above the door, the survivors were swept away by a tidal wave.

Darkness is slowly swallowing the surroundings. A snake digesting its prey. Matthias picks up the oil lamp, his head nodding. Several matches break between his fingers before he manages to light a flame inside the narrow glass chimney. I listen to the seconds turning circles inside the clock as if they were trying to stall for time.

What the hell are we doing here? he shouts, waving his hands in the air. We’re caught in a trap. We’re stuck. We’re screwed. Look at the clock, watch how the hands move, listen to the sound it makes. It’s not cold or snow, it’s not darkness or hunger. It’s time – time will destroy us. It’s five seventeen, and no prayer will get us out of this place. Are you listening?

Matthias gets to his feet and points his finger at me. Then he staggers and sits down again.

We don’t have a prayer, he repeats, his voice hoarse.

It is five twenty. Matthias has calmed down. His eyelids droop as if he were hypnotized by the silence that separates each second.

Maybe you should lie down on the sofa, I suggest gently.

His eyes pop open like a glowing forge made red-hot by the bellows.

Are you telling me what to do? Are you my mother or something? You’re the one making decisions and issuing orders? You’re still limping, but your wounds have healed. You don’t need me anymore, is that it? My presence is an annoyance, I disturb you, and you’re trying to tell me so? Oh, you’re doing better, but what are you going to do next? Do you have somewhere to go? Or do you want to stay here? The snow is piling up, the food is running out, and people are deserting the village. I can’t believe I’m still stuck here, he spits between clenched teeth, it makes no sense.

His eyes narrow as he looks at me, a target in his crosshairs.

It’s your fault. This is all your fault!

He picks up the alarm clock and throws it at me as hard as he can. I barely have time to duck as it shatters into pieces against the window frame. I look up and see the wine bottle coming my way, end over end, smashing just above my head. He gets up, turning over his chair in the process, moves around the table, and comes lurching in my direction. I want to move and react, but I am paralyzed. Matthias stands over me like a thundercloud. I hear the air rush into his lungs, rattle around his chest, and exit through his nostrils. He grabs my chin and forces me to look him in the eye. I feel his fingers squeezing my jaw and crushing my cheeks. This old man with the black, hard, bulging eyes is a stranger. I don’t know what he wants or what he is going to do.

Joseph is gone, he can’t defend you now, he says, slurring his words. Nobody will help anybody anymore. You understand? You’re doing better. You’re talking and you can move around. But nothing has changed here. I’m the one who makes the decisions. You got that? Here, you do what I tell you to. Answer me – you got that?