Against God (7 page)

- Is it a murder then?

challenging him, but the officer repeats wearily that he can’t say, and you
keep on staring at him, as though your eyes could convey a message, but he
ignores you, casts a bored look round, you nod then, you turn on your heel then,
you take off then, seventy minutes, back to your new neighbourhood, you head
straight for Le Losange, you’re the only customer, you settle in at a table,
drink one beer, then another, a few other customers dribble in over the course
of the afternoon, you don’t even look at them, you don’t look at anything,
nothing at all, at six o’clock the server’s shift is over and she’s replaced by
another waitress, from the other night you recognize Guylaine, who seemed to
know Mélanie, you eye her up and down for a minute, lost in thought, she glances
your way as she prepares her cash float, gives you a vague smile, not that she
has recognized you necessarily, you take a sip of your third beer, indifferent
to the four or five other customers looking as lonely as you, and suddenly in
comes Mélanie, she isn’t wearing her work pants anymore, she sees you,
she’s happy, she comes over to sit at your table, you let her
sit down without saying a word, she’d been to your place, saw you weren’t in,
thought you might be here, you still say nothing, then she invites you out for
dinner but to a restaurant this time, nearby, oh, nothing fancy, she doesn’t
have much money, she’s been on welfare for months now, but the food is good, the
atmosphere friendly, and you shoot her a puzzled look, you toy with the idea,
you shake your head, and yet you accept, making a show of indifference but you
still accept, Guylaine comes up and Mélanie explains that you’re just leaving,
the waitress’ pout of surprise, then Mélanie heads for the exit and invites you
to follow, outside night has fallen, just a few minutes later you enter a
restaurant, a modest little place, gawdy decorations, soppy music, a room
half-full, you take a table at the back, she orders the skewers, you order a
bunch of stuff, way too much, Mélanie looks at you uncomfortably but says
nothing, then she talks about Father Léo’s project, the Youth Centre renovations
are coming along nicely, within a week’s time everything should be ready, she’s
excited, passionate, elated, you listen wordlessly, the meals arrive, you eat,
she keeps talking about her group of volunteers, then asks you why you didn’t
stay today, you chew your souvlaki dripping with sauce, you say it doesn’t
interest you, she isn’t offended, she’s disappointed but not offended, claims
that certain people can be resistant at first, just like she was during her
initial visits a few weeks ago, she only truly started to get involved a few
days ago, but you sigh, you say
it’s not the same thing, from
the start she was looking for help, whereas you aren’t looking, you’re not
looking for any help, you’re not looking for anyone, and your voice is curt,
your voice is harsh, your voice carries on propelled by its own lack of
resonance, Mélanie responds that you just think you’re not looking for anything,
you take a sip of the cheap wine you ordered, mutter as you ask why she wants to
help you so badly, then she says again that she’s doing it for herself too, like
all the people you saw this morning at the Youth Centre, they too are doing it
as much for themselves as for the underprivileged youth, that’s what you have to
understand, but you’ve already finished eating, you swipe at your mouth with the
back of your hand, staining the sleeve of your increasingly worse-for-wear
shirt, state with a certain tone of aggression that you don’t want any help, but
she’s not discouraged, and her smile returns, gentle and sad, as

- All the same, you move into my building, go to bars with me and come to dinner
with me, even though I won’t sleep with you . . .

always, she must notice your irritation because she takes your hand, you give a
start, Mélanie says it doesn’t matter, Mélanie is patient, Mélanie will wait for
your anger to cool, you pull your hand away then, you mutter that if she knew
what you’d done last night, she would be a lot less conciliatory, but she
doesn’t look away, she murmurs that everyone does awful things, you pull a
sardonic

- But I don’t give a shit what I do.

grimace, she shakes her head slowly, her exasperating smile, and she murmurs
one word, one only, “liar,” in a breath that brushes your cheek like a metallic
feather, you stand up then, she asks where you’re going, you say you’ve finished
your meal, there’s no reason to stay, she asks if you’d like to go for a drink
somewhere, you turn her down curtly, bid her goodbye without thanking her for
the meal, start walking toward the door, she says nothing, doesn’t try to detain
you, you find yourself outside, the temperature surprisingly mild, you walk over
tamped-down snow, a furious gait, your jaw clenched, and you stop, and you think
for a moment, and you hail a cab, the driver asks where you’re going, you give
him the name of that dangerous district that’s so often in the news, the car
starts moving, fifteen minutes, stop at an intersection, you pay the driver, get
out, you start walking, you look around you, closed dingy-looking shops, housing
bordering on slum dwellings, dim light through windows, the streets quiet even
on a Saturday, a few pedestrians here and there who don’t even spare a glance
for you, ten minutes, then four people, men and women, a small group in front of
a bar, you draw near, a brazen expression on your face, they see you coming,
walk off, slip into an apartment building, disappointment flits across your
face, for a second you contemplate the entrance to the seedy bar then keep on
walking, five minutes, two guys farther up exchange something,
shoot furtive glances left and right, you draw closer, but they move away
as you approach, your exasperation grows, you carry on, pass more indifferent
pedestrians whom you stare at insistently in vain, then you stop in the middle
of the deserted street, your hands on your hips, your head cocked, the same pose
as this morning on Andréane’s balcony, and you wait, and you wait, then noise,
sounds, an altercation nearby, by that clothing store, you start in that
direction, voices coming from out back, you walk around the store, the only
light back there comes from a naked bulb on a third-floor balcony, but you can
make out silhouettes, five of them, and they’re yelling at each other between
two buildings’ walls, you’re a few metres away by now and you study them
intently, you manage to deduce that three Latinos are arguing with two white
guys, they’re discussing drugs, rates, they’re young, twenty at the most, and
there’s a girl with the white guys standing off to the side, silent, subdued,
then one of the Latinos finally spots you and asks what the fuck you’re doing,
the guys stop talking, the guys stare at you, but the guys look a bit frightened
too, you keep your answer short, you say you’re defying logic, the Latino who
spoke approaches then and the others follow suit, they’ve forgotten their fight,
the girl takes a few steps too, you examine her attentively, the girl who’s
still just a teen, fifteen or sixteen, pretty but looking so indifferent, and
without meaning to your eyes fill with despair, and without meaning to you
murmur words that

- Would Béatrice have turned out like you some day?

you seem to regret almost instantly because you rub your face furiously, you
turn your eyes back to the gang, especially the Latino, up close by now, studs
in his nose and eyebrows, his worn leather jacket, gel spiking his short hair,
his expression striving for menace but still oozing childhood, he asks if you’re
looking for trouble, and you shrug, you say it doesn’t matter what you’re
looking for, you might not find it, what’s supposed to happen doesn’t
necessarily happen, and more of

- Like last night . . . Like tonight . . . How can you know?

the same, the other guys shoot each other a puzzled look, and then the Latino
closest to you pulls a revolver out of the pocket of his jacket, the Latino
points the weapon some fifty centimetres from your face, the Latino says you’d
better bugger off, and quick, but he’s nervous, but he’s trembling slightly, and
you stare at the weapon for a second, expressionless, you state that logically
you should run away, of course, but since logic is useless, the question is what
will end up happening, they don’t get it, nerves, tension, the armed Latino
cocks the hammer, moistens his lips, tells you again to clear off, you grab the
wrist of his raised hand, you pull him toward you then, until the barrel of the
gun rests against your forehead, and the Latino’s eyes grow wide, horrified, and
he stammers that he’ll shoot if you don’t let go, yes, he’ll shoot, hear that,
he’ll gun you down, but his
voice lacks conviction, fear has
taken up all the space, you squeeze his wrist even tighter then, the Latino
squeals in pain, drops the weapon that bounces off the ground, and they scatter,
every man for himself, including the girl, including the Latino who threatened
you, they bolt, they disappear into the night, once or twice you hear a “fucking
psycho” in the distance, then silence, the firearm on the ground glowing in the
light of the naked bulb, your eyes curious, your hands scoop up the revolver,
close inspection of the weapon, the cylinder that you eventually open, two out
of six chambers loaded, and that fact brings a glint to your eye, a sudden
illumination, you spin the cylinder then, close it again, cock the hammer and
place the barrel against your temple, and you hold your breath, and you don’t
hesitate, and you squeeze the trigger, a click, that’s all, no gunfire, you
observe the revolver with satisfaction then, slide it awkwardly into your pants,
under your coat, start walking again, back to the street, fifteen minutes,
you’ve left the neighbourhood, seventy-five minutes, you walk by the fast food
joint where you abandoned your car the other night, you notice the car’s still
there, you continue, twenty-five minutes, you recognize your new neighbourhood,
you find an open convenience store, you buy a bottle of cheap wine, the sales
clerk at the counter tells you the price, you stare at him for a long minute,
you reach toward your pants, for the gun, but you end up pulling out some bills
and you pay, you notice you have about fifty dollars left, outside, bank, cash
machine, you insert your bank card
but a message pops up
telling you you cannot withdraw any funds from this account, you try another
account, same message, you stare at the screen for a long while, you insert your
credit card, hoping for a cash advance, but a message tells you that the card is
no longer valid, you sigh, leave, look for another bank, try another machine,
same scenario, same refusal, you grit your teeth, punch and crack the screen,
you hurt your hand, just a bit, you leave, outside, five minutes, your building,
the stairs, the door to your apartment, you swing it open, but on your way
inside you glance toward the stairs, toward the steps up to the next floor, you
chew on your lip, I’m sure that part of you wants to climb the stairs, but in
the end you enter your own apartment, you lay the revolver down on the kitchen
table, then nothing, hesitation, thinking, then you frown as though at your own
idiocy, and you leave your apartment, the bottle in hand, you climb the stairs,
it’s eleven o’clock but there’s still light coming from under the door, you
knock, Mélanie opens the door almost immediately, not in her pyjamas, Mélanie’s
still dressed, Mélanie is happy, reassured, Mélanie invites you inside and you
comply like a slightly shamefaced mutt, you find yourself in the living room,
the bottle of wine open, you each drink a glass, the TV’s on but you both ignore
it, then Mélanie asks if you’d like to go back to the Youth Centre with her
tomorrow, a second chance, and you don’t answer, you notice once more the modest
decor, the pastel colours, the framed paintings still on the floor in the corner
of the room,
and Mélanie repeats her question, all of a sudden
you ask her to lend you some money, she seems surprised, you explain that your
bank accounts have been frozen, your credit card too, because you haven’t been
in touch with anyone for three days now, because you owe the funeral home, your
family must have asked the police to freeze your accounts to force you to
resurface, they must know you’re in Montréal since you paid for some DVDs with
your credit card and they must imagine you’re wandering around aimlessly in a
state of shock, they’re convinced the lack of funds will force you to return in
short order, Mélanie listens, her legs tucked beneath her, glass in hand, then
she says they could be right, you get annoyed then, it’s not at all like that,
she hasn’t understood a thing, you’re not in a state of shock, you’re not
wandering aimlessly, you’re waging a war, and Mélanie asks against whom, but you
don’t answer, you drain your glass, you pour yourself another, Mélanie suggests
you go to pay the money owed, reassure everyone, then explain that you don’t
want to hear from a single soul, and that would be it, you could come back here,
but your patience is wearing thin, and as you speak you

- I don’t wanna go back, not even for a few hours! I don’t wanna see anyone
again! No one!

thump your thigh, and you finish your glass, then you calm down, ask if she
plans to call the cops, she says no, with her sad and gentle smile, says again
with compassion that she is here to help you, you hold her gaze, then your
lips move, stretch out and up, take the shape of something
resembling a smile, I’m not even sure you’re aware it’s happened, and Mélanie’s
face lights up as though she’d just received a Christmas present, but serious
now, she explains she can’t really lend you any money, she’s been living on
welfare since she lost her cashier’s job six months ago, she lowers her eyes
then, confesses she used to lead a dissipated life, lots of partying, a lot of
irresponsibility, collecting lovers, and suddenly you’re listening very closely,
but she stops short, her head down, embarrassed, you stare then at the glass
you’re rolling between your palms, your expression solemn, something hangs there
suspended, hovers, quivers, and when you speak your voice is a