Christian Guay-Poliquin - The Weight of Snow

Suddenly I hear the door creak. Someone has entered the house. It is a reflex: I tie a blanket around my waist and pick up the poker. The footsteps come down the hallway. I hide against the wall. Maybe it is the ghost of the old woman coming to reclaim her beets. A figure stops in the doorway. I stand motionless, both hands gripping the poker. The intruder must be on his guard too. I hold my breath. Then Matthias walks into the room. When he spots me in the corner, he looks surprised. It must be what I’m wearing. We size each other up a moment, then he begins coughing uncontrollably.

I lost control of the car, he explains, disoriented and still in a state of panic. In the curve before the big hill, a few kilometres past the village. I wasn’t going fast, but I skidded into the ditch. The snow… the snow took my car. I couldn’t do anything about it. I had to walk to get back here. It’s over now, everything is over.

I hand him the jar of beets. He eats a few, his eyes empty.

I left everything back there. His voice is trembling. My stuff, the supplies, the gas.

You’re exhausted, I tell him, throwing a few books on the fire. You need to sleep. We’ll see what we can do tomorrow.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid of being stuck here, he sobs, lying down on the sofa.

It is cold in the living room this morning. Matthias is still asleep. His white hair is stuck to his forehead. His beard is dirty and his closed eyes are sunk deep in their sockets.

As I stir the ashes to awaken the embers, I see there are bits of paper where a few words, a part of a sentence, are still legible. As if Matthias’s return had frozen the flames.

I go out for some fresh air. It is snowing. The snowflakes are tiny, like confetti. I consider Matthias’s stubbornness, his misfortune, as I watch the birds pecking away at the remains of the fish. Some of them hop from piece to piece, others concentrate on a single prize, but all of them are agitated and on the alert. When I go inside to get my slingshot, they fly off in a disorderly cloud. And when I go back onto the porch, a few minutes later, they return, one by one.

I wonder what it must be like to have lived as long as Matthias has. And shared your whole life with the same woman. Be afraid you might lose her. And die alone, by yourself. Like the old woman in the house by the lake.

The harsh cry of blue jays stirs me from my thoughts. Several of the birds are perched on an electric wire. One of them spreads its wings, flies past the house, and lands on the snow, a few steps from the porch. It evaluates its chances with its piercing, intelligent eyes, then moves toward the fish, its head cocked. Slowly, I raise my arm, pull back the elastic, and aim. I let fly with a shot. The projectile whips past it, over its head, and disappears into the snow without a sound. The bird lifts its head, but does not move. I wait a little, then try another shot. This time, the bird topples over backward. When I go to pick it up, its wings are still quivering with the final reflexes of its nervous system. I take up position again and wait for another bird of its size to land in front of me, guided by its stomach and the light of spring.

Matthias wakes up as I am making our meal. He seems to be in better shape. Sleep has restored his energy. He sips at a glass of warm water, then takes out the one book he had brought along with him in his coat pocket.

This book is precious, he tells me. I’ve read you a few passages from it.

A good thing he carried it with him. Otherwise I would have thrown it in the fire with the other ones to cook our food.

Listen, he begins, setting the book on his lap, and take heed. A man had two sons. One day, the youngest announced to his father that he was leaving. Fine, said the father, I will give you half of what I possess, for the other half will go to your brother. Not long after, having gathered together the fortune, the youngest son went off to a faraway country and dissipated everything in debauchery. When all was spent, he found himself empty-handed and was forced to feed the pigs that belonged to a rich land-owner. To quell his hunger, he was ready to dip into the animals’ feed, but that was forbidden. In desperation, he decided to run away. Though he no longer considered himself the worthy son of his father, he returned to his homeland. He approached the house, feeling ashamed and lost, and when his father saw him, he threw his arms around him. I am not worthy to be your son, the young man said. But the father ordered a fatted calf to be slaughtered and a great banquet to be held for his glorious return. Let us eat and make merry, he sang, for my son was dead and now he has returned to life, he was lost and now he is found. During the festivities the eldest son came back from the fields. He questioned the guests and learned that a fatted calf had been killed to celebrate his brother’s return. When he saw his father, the eldest flew into a rage. All these years I have worked for you without a word of complaint, he spoke, and you never as much as gave me a goat kid that I might feast with my friends. And now your youngest son returns after wasting half your fortune, and you kill a fatted calf. The father looked at his son. Then he answered in a soft voice. My son, you are always by my side and everything I have is yours. But we had to hold a feast and make merry because your brother was dead and now he has returned to life, he was lost and now he is found.

I motion to Matthias to sit down. The meal is ready. He sits near the fireplace, stares at his plate, then looks up.

What is this?

It’s the feast.

We begin to eat. The flesh is tough. We have to chew every mouthful at length.

Matthias picks up a piece and holds it up, examining it.

This meat’s like leather. What is it?

Blue jay.

Oh, he says, turning toward the books I have piled next to the fireplace.

We finish our plates without further conversation.

After we eat I tell Matthias to get dressed and come with me.

He doesn’t react.

I insist.

Come on, I need your help. Take everything you need, we won’t be coming back.

He finally gets a move on, and we start out for the house by the lake. When we reach the shed, I ask him to wait for me. He stands there, frozen to the spot, while I get two shovels.

We go to the edge of the forest and I start digging a hole in the snow at the foot of a tree. At first Matthias just watches me, then he picks up a shovel. When we hit the ground, we try to keep digging, but it is as hard as a rock.

That’s good enough, I say, and ask him to come with me.

We leave the shovels behind and go into the house. When we walk through the kitchen on our way to the stairs, Matthias notices how orderly everything is.

It’s so clean here, he murmurs, as if astonished. Everything in its place.

We go upstairs to the woman’s room.

When we come to the closet, Matthias jumps. It is his turn to look like a ghost.

You take her legs and I’ll take her arms.

He leans over the woman and looks at her, then caresses her forehead with the back of his hand.

All right, he says, finally, after closing her eyes, let’s go.

The cold has preserved the woman’s corpse. She is as stiff and hard as stone. We can’t loosen her limbs. To carry her we have to wrap her in a sheet. She is so rigid and so light she seems to weigh nothing. We take her to the edge of the forest without too much effort and place her gently in the hole.

She could be my wife, Matthias says, looking at her body in the grave.

Then we grab the shovels and cover her with a thick layer of snow.

Matthias goes back to the house and returns with the oil lamp that was on the kitchen table. He lights it and sets it like a votive candle at the foot of the tree.