MARIE-CLAIRE BLAIS

DEAF TO THE CITY

He stood watching the busy traffic in the street from the window of the Hôtel des Voyageurs, wearing the apron he wore at lunchtime when he helped his mother in the restaurant, his face pinched in the sallow light, his restlessness frozen for a moment in meditation, so that he looked at that instant like the very countenance of pain captured by Munch in The Scream; like that anonymous figure whose silent cry fills the painter’s canvas, Mike rested his heavy head on his frail hands and with his wide eyed questioning gaze, his pupils enlarged with concern, he challenged the world, or rather the various silhouettes that made up his world at that instant – the people passing by out on the street, his mother, the men she was waiting on at the bar, Tim the Irishman who was standing near him unfolding his newspaper, all the strangers going in and out of the hotel, each and every one of them – just when it seemed as though his quavering, half-open mouth was about to emit an endless scream to remind the indifferent human mass gathered there, crouching or musing over a glass, a sunbeam, or some other scant dose of morning pleasure, that even if it were not a shame to live as they were living, as tranquilly and inconsequentially as flies – although flies had been blessedly spared those human cravings that weigh down so many good and wicked men alike – even if this were not cause for shame, it was scandalous to live and die without ever managing to strip away the damning halo that branded their fore heads with the sentence: "You shall suffer on earth . . ." It was engraved on all things, Mike thought, even on old Tim’s flabby face as he muttered in English, his nose in the paper: "Do you believe everything you read in the paper, Gloria, do you? Hé, the kid wants to go the movies, hi, a blue movie, Mike, what’s the matter with him, Gloria, anyway? They all took their money out, they’re crazy . . ." Day after day the same sounds came stumbling from the wrinkled, bitter mouth: ‘What a bastard he is, hi, what a bastard, take care of your heart, my Gloria, take care of your heart and Gloria responded to the fetid murmur of the bar with a haughty, ferocious sensuality that would have struck them dead in a single glance if her body had been as hateful as her soul, but her body was bored and gave in, gave in with the softness of her handsome, languorous arms and the curve of the placid, voluptuous breasts she offered up to all, her body yielded despite herself to the torpor, to the somehow unclean fondling of so many fingers, "And that’s OK" thought Mike, "just so long as she doesn’t start pawing them all over and getting them excited . . . if it rains Tim will take me to a dirty movie . . . three orders of spaghetti in the oven, yes, just so long as Mom’s hand doesn’t slide any lower . . ." Lethargy, the first caress of the day, Gloria thought, "if you don’t like it you don’t have to look, Mickey, don’t forget your father wasn’t just anybody, he was the great Luigi, we’ll go to the hospital for your treatment and then we’ll take in all the movies you want, stop it, Tim, you could kiss my royal ass, OK? Why don’t you go fetch me the porno slicks at the corner, na, not for the kid, for me, he don’t read much, that one, his head hurts too much . . ." "How’d it all start?" asked Tim, his lips slobbering against Gloria’s face,"there’s always a beginning, hé, always a beginning . . ." "It’s nothing!" Gloria snapped back, "nothing at an, he’s OK, they got rid of his tumor, going to take him all the way to San Francisco on my bike this summer, shit won’t it be a pleasure not to see your holy mug, you damned Irishman!" ‘Well, what if his father turned out to be just an ordinary Italian," said Tim, "or just me, your old lover, just an ass like me, he?" "You holding that spaghetti up for Easter, Mike? Get a move on, and wash some cups for coffee while you’re at it, what’re you standing there like that for with your tongue hanging out?" Mike, with an anguished look, avoided his mother’s glance and hid his head in his arms. "It’s nothing, mom, nothing. I feel hot." "The doctor told you it’s normal to feel hot, that spaghetti’s going to be burned to a crisp . . ." It was a cool day, the street bright with sunshine, and before long the student who ran down from the mountain would break into the street, then the park with his long-limbed weightless flight, and in a moment Mike would be left only with a sense of the perfection of the runner’s muscular life, the spirited body dashing forward towards life itself, he would be no more than a long back stiffened by effort and the tight clothes binding it, a scarlet blob about to disappear around the corner, "Tell me now, Tim, what d’ya know about the role of sex in life? Nothing, cause it’s up to us women to know about those things . . ." As for me, I’m a mother, first and foremost a woman and a mother, and mistress all round, or love, if you prefer my old boy . . . " The Irishman’s big fist was resting on Gloria’s chest, the runner was coming down, still coming down, and he must get a bit winded, Mike thought, the whole city was running out of breath bit by bit, noise and light dilating it, the aroma of coffee was invading the dimly lit kitchen and Mike said to Lucia who was staring at the burned spaghetti, "Hurry up and take care of Jojo and we’ll go out, it’s a nice day, we can take a walk in the park . . ." "I don’t want to be late for school," Lucia replied, "I’m afraid I’ll miss my bus. Why don’t you feed her yourself?" "I don’t know how," Mike answered. "Just put the spoon in her mouth, see, like this – Mom feeds you stuff that’s nothing but juice when you can’t swallow! You know who her father is, Mike?" Lucia’s tiny shadow went bouncing through the yard and disappeared. "Eat up now," Mike said to Jojo, "then We’ll go out in the sun . . . " but Jojo refused the spoon Mike tried to slip into her mouth, she was laughing and crying at the same time and then all of a sudden a question seemed to fix itself in her black, uncannily knowing eyes. "Do you know why I was born," she seemed to ask Mike, "what I’m doing here?"