The Years of Fire (16 page)

“Yes there is. I can tell by the look on your face.”

“I said there was nothing and I meant there was nothing! Go mind your own business!”

But the barmaid had nothing else to do, and she kept at him until he finally gave in and agreed to recount the source of his immeasurable pain. Nadine signalled to the regulars in the room; everyone crowded around, Charles and Steve in the front row, and, with the air of a Roman martyr about to have hot needles shoved under his fingernails, De Bané launched into a story of the unmitigated evil recently endured by one of his favourite uncles.

The uncle’s name was Charlemagne Alarie. He had a bad leg and a big mouth and was a former police officer who, they say, had one day run up against none other than Machine Gun Molly herself. The previous night he’d asked De Bané to go with him to look at a boarding house he owned on rue Beaubien, saying the place needed some repairs. The two men had just stepped out of Alarie’s car when a kind of wolf-dog with teeth like a Swiss Army knife leapt over a fence and started chasing them down the street, howling at their heels like a hound from hell. De Bané ran across the street and nearly got himself run over by a taxi, but the dog, realizing it couldn’t chase them both at the same time, stuck with the one with the bum leg, who was hopping stiffly along like a madman trying to keep ahead of it. The animal was gaining on him. Then De Bané, keeping pace with them on the other side of the street, hoping he could somehow help his uncle (though he had no idea how), witnessed the most amazing thing he’d ever seen in his life. He saw, with his own eyes, how absolute terror transformed a cripple into an Olympic runner! Charlemagne Alarie, knowing that there were no more than a few centimetres between his ass and the dog’s teeth, dug deep and came up with a reserve of strength that must have been hiding in there for years: he literally flew down that sidewalk! In a matter of seconds he was so far ahead of the dog that it stopped dead in its tracks, totally confused, and sat on its haunches in disbelief. The
old man jumped – yes, jumped! – over a fence and ran up a set of spiral stairs, taking them four at a time. When he reached the balcony he banged on the door to ask for help. But it was too late! His heart, weakened by the valiant effort it had just made on the old man’s behalf, gave out.

And it was there, clinging to a doorpost, his eyes turned heavenward and his mouth gaping open, that the poor man gave up the ghost, while his four-legged murderer sat down below on the sidewalk barking like it was trying to rip out its own throat.

De Bané stopped, his eyes moist, his lips trembling. To his grief at losing a much-loved uncle was added the pain of losing a contract, since he knew full well that whoever took over the ownership of the building would never take him on. There followed a moment of silence.

“Are you going to the funeral, René?” someone asked.

De Bané gave the questioner a look that clearly showed how pained he was by such a question.

“When is it?” asked another listener. “I’d like to go too.”

“Family only,” sniffed De Bané. “By his own request.”

“What I find most amazing,” Steve breathed in Charles’s ear, “is that he believes his own bullshit.”

Just then a group of kids burst loudly into the room and came up to the cash to get a table. Everyone went back to their games. De Bané smoked two or three cigarettes while pacing up and down beside the bar, then took a table himself. Telling the story seemed to have calmed him down. He even began humming to himself as he played.

The owner leaned on the bar and watched him for a while. Then, tauntingly, a bit scornfully, he called over to him.

“Tell me, René, doesn’t anything normal ever happen to you? You know: you cross a street and don’t get run over by Santa Claus, or you go to a movie and a fire doesn’t break out in the theatre, things like that?”

“All the time, my friend.” And he burst out laughing.
By dint of constant little attentions, an unlimited supply of cigarettes, judicious counselling in matters relating to pool, and endless rounds of beer, De Bané succeeded in winning, if not Charles’s and Steve’s friendship, at least their tolerance. He even took them and their girlfriends out for meals to a nearby restaurant famous for its club sandwiches. Charles couldn’t figure out how someone who seemed to live hand to mouth had so much money to throw around.

“He must have a racket,” Agatha said. “I’m going to try to get him to tell us about it.”

But neither her cleverness nor her charms were able to pry anything out of him but evasive pleasantries. The pool-hall regulars she quizzed couldn’t tell her much either. Out of desperation she sought out the owner, despite his reputation for having no time for gossip. His only reply was a smile and a slight shrug of his shoulders, with his eyes focused on an indefinite point somewhere in the middle of the room.

Charles worked at his game like a man possessed and was on the verge of becoming something of a shark. He’d been beating Steve regularly for some time, and he was at least as good as players who were twice his age, some of whom he’d already sent to the showers; a few of them had even suggested he register for the next tournament. At the Orleans he was considered a regular; Nadine sometimes gave him credit, and the distinct impression that with a little effort on his part she would gladly give him a lot more than that.

One night in early June, however, when a stretch of fine weather was keeping most of the regulars away, an event took place that knocked Charles out of his habitual routine. He was playing with Marlene, Steve, and De Bané when the downstairs door banged open and he heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. A man appeared in the doorway, red-faced, hair dishevelled, shirt half unbuttoned; he leaned against the door frame and his eyes swept the room as though he was looking for someone. When Charles saw him he turned pale and crouched down behind the pool table, to the astonishment of his companions.

“Go back and open the door to the storeroom,” he whispered to Steve. “I’m going to sneak back between the tables. I don’t want that man to see me.”

His friend thought he was joking, but a hard punch on his thigh made him realize that Charles was serious.

Steve made his way to the back of the room, followed by Charles crawling on all fours between the tables. Marlene and De Bané, sensing the seriousness of the situation, went on playing as though nothing were amiss.

“What’s going on, buddy?” Steve asked when they were alone in the back room with the door closed.

“That’s my father who just came in. I don’t want to speak to him.”

A slight tremor passed through Charles’s jaw, and his eyes began leaping frantically around the room from one object to another – old pieces of furniture, tables piled with cans of soup and bottles of cleaning products – as though he were looking for a crack to hide in. They could hear Wilfrid Thibodeau laughing loudly at the bar, his strange, high-pitched cackle breaking off sharply, making him sound pitiful.

“Your father?” Steve exclaimed, surprised. “He’s the guy who owns the hardware store?”

“He’s not my real father, that’s him out there, I’ve already told you,” replied Charles angrily. “Now go, hurry up, get out of here before the owner comes in. He might’ve seen us. Go and tell him I’ve got to hide here, and no one is to come looking for me, for the love of God! When my father leaves, come and knock on the door.”

Wilfrid seemed to be in a jubilant mood that night. Recognizing a drinker sitting at the bar, he sat down beside the man and began talking and laughing loudly at everything, every so often banging his fist on the counter. He laughed so hard and so long that two of the players put down their cues and joined the party. De Bané, smelling fresh blood for his ludicrous stories, left Steve and Marlene and went over to the group, which was already settling in to do some serious drinking. Wilfrid’s laughter cranked up a notch and filled the four corners of the pool hall so full the
room could barely contain it. Marlene went home, put out by the way the evening had turned sour.

Sitting on a broken chair in the dark, Charles stared at the line of light coming in under the door and rubbed his mouth and jaw. He remembered his father as a taciturn man, always grumpy, hardly ever laughing except when he was drunk, and even when he’d had a skinful his brief bouts of hilarity would suddenly turn into fierce anger at the slightest word from his mother, who had done her best to be a good parent. Never had he heard his father laugh like this, so uncontrollably, almost dementedly. His laughter echoed in Charles’s ears like a threat. After a few minutes he could barely stand listening to it, but he forced himself to remain seated, his eye fixed on the thin band of light, trapped in this storeroom that reminded him of the bleak day he’d survived only by acts of courage and ingenuity, and the kindness of little Alice, who had allowed him to follow her through Wonderland. Tonight, however, Alice would not be able to help him. Alas.

Wilfrid decided he wanted to play pool, and he challenged De Bané to a game. A bet was laid. The game was even for the first few shots, then De Bané began potting balls with a nonchalance that made a few of the onlookers start to chuckle. The carpenter remained silent, chewing his lips, becoming more and more sullen, and he tried to use all the skill left to him in his drunken state. Suddenly he became angry and began insulting his opponent and accusing him of cheating. When De Bané, supported by the spectators, denied the charge, Thibodeau broke his cue on the table and threw it at him. The next moment the owner was grabbing him by the shoulders and throwing him out. For several minutes they could hear him shouting down in the street. The mood in the pool hall seemed to have darkened.

“He’s gone,” De Bané announced, leaning out one of the windows. “He’s a total pain, that one.”

A few customers left. Steve knocked on the door of the storeroom. When there was no response he stuck his head in and was met by a current of fresh air. Charles had found a small window hidden at the back behind
some boxes and had succeeded in getting it open and crawling outside, where a fire escape had let him climb down to the street.

Charles stayed away from the pool hall for the next two weeks. His excuse was that he had too much work at the pharmacy, and in fact Monsieur Lalancette had asked him to add Thursday nights to his work schedule. But no one believed this was the real reason. He had made Steve and Marlene promise to keep the scene at the Orleans a secret, not wanting anyone else to know what a loser he had for a father. The two friends kept their word, though as much from indifference as from friendship, since such situations were not uncommon in the neighbourhood and few people would have been surprised by this one.

To the great relief of Fernand and Lucie, Charles began spending more time at home, falling back into some of his old habits. Once again they would find him reading in his room, or in the living room, or even in the bathroom (which he monopolized with the egocentric insouciance of a typical adolescent); he spent Sunday nights watching TV in his pyjamas, often in the company of Céline. He went back to visiting Parfait Michaud, to borrow books or simply to chat when the notary wasn’t swamped with paperwork or tied up with clients.

One thing Lucie and Fernand didn’t know was that the day after the incident at the pool hall, Charles had gone to Amélie Michaud and asked her if he could spend a little time in the Christmas room. He was only in there for ten minutes. The sickly sweet, artificial atmosphere in the room failed to have its usual effect on him; the magic didn’t work; he was bored by the whole thing. Greatly disappointed, even shaken, by this failure, he left the house and headed towards his old daycare in the hope that the soul of the little yellow dog would still be hovering above the ground near the cherry tree, and that it would help him to find himself again, to see himself clearly once more. But he stopped after two or three blocks. The idea was
absurd. He thought about phoning Blonblon, who always had a sympathetic ear to lend to his friends, but he couldn’t find the courage to talk about his troubles, so he returned home, more downcast than ever.

The incident at the pool hall had thrown him for a loop. Not so much because of his father’s behaviour (he wasn’t his father any longer, after all), but because of the similarities he had discerned between the carpenter and himself. It was no accident, he thought, that the two of them had found themselves in the same pool hall at the same time. If Charles were a bit older they might have met in a bar, or a tavern, or a nightclub. He’d been drinking beer fairly regularly for months now, and the distaste he had always had for it was wearing off bit by bit. He was even beginning to like it. Like father, like son, as the saying went. Was he sliding down the same slippery slope, one that would take him into the nether regions where Wilfrid was now festering? Would he share the fate of a man he detested and for whom he’d never felt anything but contempt? Was there an escape hatch somewhere? Who could he find to help him? And how?

Well, he could confide in Boff. Lying on his bed one night, his hands resting on the dog’s flanks, and gazing deeply into his eyes, he talked in a quiet voice about the things that were tormenting him inside, things he had never been able to tell anyone else. He emptied his heart of everything that had been eating away at him. Forgotten memories resurfaced, and once again he was four years old sitting at the kitchen table with his father, his father’s red face spitting curses at him as he tried to force him to eat a plate of reheated spaghetti, while Alice sobbed in her bedroom with the door closed. He was engulfed again by a terrible sadness, as intense as it had been at the time, and tears rolled down his cheeks. Boff regarded him with an air of powerless sympathy, then licked the end of his nose and the corner of his left eye.