The First Garden (13 page)

F
LORA FONTANGES IS HURLED INTO
the sound and the fury of life. It vibrates all through her body. She is like a drum that reverberates as it is struck. A little more and her ribs will shatter, her heart spring loose and fall to her feet, under the violence of the repeated shocks. Flora Fontanges presses her hands to her ears. Feels barbarous spasms in her chest. She looks on, as in a dream, under the green rays of light, as the boys and girls break loose, appear and disappear in the convulsive movements of the shimmering light. Their solitude particularly surprises her, she who has been accustomed to couples dancing in each other's arms. What are they doing on the dance floor, all of them separate, showing off as they undulate and sway their hips?

Maud stands utterly still, as if plunged in meditation. Her whole body picks up energy and rhythm. The beat is swallowed up by all the pores of her skin, like a storm, it makes her bones ring and her blood throb.

Presently she steps onto the minuscule dance floor, grazing the other dancers without looking at them, avoiding them, threading her way through them, clearing a path, following her own thoughts, alone in the world, in a magma of streaming bodies, of flashes of light and heat, of raw desire on display.

Now he appears in the doorway, lets his tall stature and his handsome face be seen, makes his way unguarded. His clear precise features. His archangel's name which she cannot stop herself from uttering now as he moves towards her from the back of the room. Glides through the dancers until he is facing her. A moment of utter stillness, a wall of ice between them. She is the first to start to move again in rhythm, and he follows each of her moves, silently begging for her forgiveness and her dancer's complicity. A very small space for their steps which already fit together without their knowing, moved by the same obsessive rhythm. A very small space between their foreheads, their mouths, their chests, bellies, hands, which move in rhythm, never joining, a furious attention to the rock music which possesses them equally, their separation and estrangement utterly gone and restored now in the unity of the dance as they face one another, never touching even with a fingertip, pierced by the same arrows, existing powerfully, in a single breath of life, while desire gradually rises and overcomes them.

They drink cool beer, mop their brows, calm down slowly, as if nothing has occurred between them, in this room, nothing at least that they want to talk about, while their hearts seek each other in silence.

Maud and Raphaël accompany Flora Fontanges through the streets of the city to her hotel. They take her arm, they touch her shoulder, with infinite acts of kindness and care, as if she were made of glass and they fear seeing her shatter in their hands at any moment. They disappear very quickly into the night.

When Maud came back to the hotel the next morning, Flora Fontanges was still in bed, half dreaming, foundering in unshed tears, like dry sand, burning her eyes with them.

She props herself on her pillow and asks for breakfast. Maud pours coffee and butters toast. Says Raphaël and she are reconciled and are ready to start life together again.

The coffee in the steaming cups smells good. Outside, the city is peacefully beginning another summer day of heat and light.

Flora Fontanges has started to leaf through the worn and dog-eared pages of
Happy Days.

Hail, holy light!

Bitterness and scorn, she thinks. The deepest solitude comes towards her, barely emerging from the magnificent day.

This is going to be a happy day!

And it is Winnie who speaks through the mouth of Flora Fontanges. This woman already,knows the four seasons of life when an extra season is given to her, transfiguring everyday joys and sorrows to make of them a violent form of speech that bursts on the stage, in full light.

O
N OPENING NIGHT THE THEATRE
is filled with spectators, somewhat uncomfortable and vaguely anxious. Embarrassed smiles cannot tilt into laughter. Irritating little coughs. Above it all, the tireless voice of Flora Fontanges tells a story these people would prefer not to hear. Probably they have heard before about the treacherous body and soul, but always accompanied by the proper ritual, sentimental and dramatic, and the long sob of violins to lull their hearts. Tonight, what gloomy ceremony is this, with these meagre props, these pitiable creatures? The spell of Flora Fontanges's voice, though it is broken, her profound conviction act upon them, in their final entrenchment, in this place where they can see themselves in a mirror, for a flash, unrecognizable, suddenly bared, ridiculous, and condemned.

They brought down the house, because of the performance they say, then were angry with her for her poisoned gift.

Two of the critics maintained that this was not a play for a summer theatre, and that even if Madame Fontanges was splendid, she could not make them believe in the futility of all things, when the bright July sun was blazing over the world.

The curtain is barely down and they are there backstage, to embrace her. Raphaël's prickly cheek, Maud's as smooth as a baby's. She takes off her makeup and she trembles. The traces of
Happy Days
are inscribed on her face, in lines more enduring than the greasepaint. Maud begs her to remove it all, quickly, and to wash her face with soap and water. She says:

“I don't like you to be old!”

Raphaël repeats:

“You're fantastic . . .”

He appears to be embarrassed by his emotion and seems somewhat aloof from her now. It's all over between them, the sweet familiarity that held them together for long days. She is alone again. She made her tour of the forbidden city, including the Côte de la Couronne and Saint Roch, without her appointed guide. If you only knew, Raphaël dear, she wants to tell him. But it is to her daughter that she turns now, a little girl so busy liste
ning to her own heart, stolen by Raphaël.

She explains to Maud all the horror that filled her just now, when she picked up the parasol and it wouldn't open.

For a month, she plays Winnie every night except Tuesday, suffering a thousand deaths and a thousand sorrows. She is possessed. She quivers with Winnie's passion and cannot sleep at night, for the plague of small bitter waves that strip her and wear her down, one by one.

At the end of the month, her contract finished, the two of them came to take her to the same country station at which she had arrived. They said goodbye, looking vaguely embarrassed.

She left the city.
The separation has already occurred and the exile into which she enters follows her.
While in her bag, a letter from Paris offering her the part of Mme Frola in
Right You Are
makes her want to laugh and cry at once, like a musical instrument that you graze with your hand, and it vibrates in secret, amid the silence of the earth.

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi's commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada's pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”