The Boy Who Belonged to the Sea Page 5

  * * *

  This really is too odd for words. I couldn’t get Luc’s mother out of my mind and, since I felt in the mood to investigate, I went to see Grandfather in his smokehouse. While I helped him stir the brine, I questioned him about the mysterious Chantal and I could tell my queries bothered him, for he gave nothing but murky replies. He had hardly known Luc’s mother, since she only lived in Ferland for a short time. A discreet young woman who didn’t leave the house very often. Grandfather hadn’t seen her anywhere but in church during the months before her death. Because she is dead.

  She drowned in the bay one night in July, ten years ago, when Luc was just a baby. A swim that apparently ended in tragedy. Grandfather thinks she must have underestimated the currents and been swept along. In any case, her body was never found. Only her clothes, on the shore, the next day.

  I seem to have been catapulted into the fourteenth dimension, and the landing is rough. What throws me is the way Luc talks about his mother, always in the present tense, as if she were alive. Yet he must know the truth. Or is it because he refuses to accept it? Does he believe she may have survived or swum away? At least that total fascination the ocean has for him makes more sense to me now. Those liquid arms he loves to melt into… Perhaps what he is looking for in those deep waters he so desperately wants to explore is a woman, his mother, who was swallowed up by the sombre sea.

  9

  Nitrogen narcosis manifests itself in hallucinatory phenomena and impulsive acts (removal of the mouthpiece, loss of a sense of direction, shedding of the mask, behaviour that is inconsistent or reveals a lack of concern for fellow divers, and so on), which may result in a diving accident (death by drowning, pulmonary overpressure, decompression accident…).

  That business about Luc’s mother really freaks me out, but I don’t know how to bring it up with him. It’s because of the crab, that anti-personnel crustacean who turns the terrain into a minefield, complicating the approach. Luc would have to be the one to broach the subject, but nothing indicates he has any intention of doing so. Very much the opposite, actually. He doesn’t wish to talk about his mother’s disappearance. He’d rather discuss how to wake up my mother, and that possible resurrection is fast becoming a major preoccupation for him. You don’t need to be Freud to understand what is happening: Luc is transshipping into Mama’s holds the cargo of attention he was never able to deliver to his own mother.

  He has hunted up some medical encyclopedia which he refers to constantly, reading up on anything related to comas, catalepsy, and tsetse flies. He is familiarizing himself with the illness. We go to see Mama nearly every morning, and Luc watches what is going on, turns things over in his mind. He observes the various medical procedures and disapproves totally. He is highly critical of the people who are paid to treat Mama, to the point of questioning their competence. He doesn’t think the medics are going to get anywhere. He feels we should take control. Since his prayers remain unanswered, he is dreaming up other types of therapy, such as dragging Mama out of bed and forcing her to walk. Not in the least put off by my objections, he then tackles the problem of warming my mother up and suggests we wrap her in an electric blanket and turn up the heating in the room as high as it will go. He comes out with one crackpot idea after another, and I can only forgive him for spewing such nonsense because I know he means well.

  Turning up the heat! Why not put her in a four-hundred-and-fifty-degree oven while we’re at it? And how about a little electroshock on the side?

  * * *

  This morning, after we got back from Mass, Grandmother gave me quite a surprise when she told me she planned to invite Luc for supper. ‘I’m sure the poor boy doesn’t often cook a proper meal. It will do him good to eat a little,’ she said almost apologetically, as if to justify her sudden change of heart. The Sunday display of Luc’s skeletal structure must have softened her at last. In any case, she asked me to pass on the invitation. I fully expected Luc to turn it down. I was convinced his natural shyness would override any kind of stomach considerations, but the day had another surprise in store for me: he accepted on the spot. He promised to be here at six. It’s not until later that I realized how easily the event could hit the skids. I know Grandmother; she will take advantage of the opportunity to probe all the recesses of Luc’s mind, and I don’t see how the inborn wackiness that forms the very basis of his character may be kept hidden. But it’s too late to go into reverse; what will be will be. I cheer myself up with the thought that, as far as prestige is concerned, Luc doesn’t have an awful lot to lose.

  * * *

  He turned up on the stroke of six. He was in full regalia, which included socks and a yellow shirt that I took to be his formal attire. For her part, Grandmother had worked like a dog on the grub: the menu boasted scallop chowder, turbot with olives, and a huge angel cake. There was enough to feed an entire football team, and I was afraid Luc might panic at the sight of such a gargantuan spread, but fortunately he had understood the importance of behaving in a civilized way. He came out of it with flying colours, calmly cleaning off his plate, gladly accepting a second helping, then a third, and battening it all down with half the cake. Grandmother was flattered, Grandfather full of admiration, and I was somewhat relieved. After serving the coffee, Grandmother went into gossip mode. Inquiring about Luc’s academic results, she was delighted to hear they were among the top. Reassured about my friend’s intellectual abilities, she asked him what he planned to do when he grew up. Luc declared he wanted to be a marine biologist. My grandfolks acknowledged that this was a worthy vocation and, if you stretched it a bit, perhaps even a useful one. Becoming more expansive as a result of the unanimous approval, he added that in any case, no matter what we did, the bones of every one of us would lie bleaching in the tropical sun one day. A block of ice smashing to pieces on the table would not have chilled the atmosphere more effectively. In an effort to save what was left of the furniture, I butted in with the explanation that Luc’s macabre utterance should be taken simply as a philosophical statement about the futility of all human effort, or something like that, but I noticed how this only fanned the flames of Grandmother’s distrust. Luc picked that particular moment to announce he was going to wash the dishes, and before anyone had a chance to react, he’d got down to work, gaily scalding the cutlery, juggling Grandmother’s precious porcelain in the most terrifying way. I grabbed a tea towel and did my best to slow down the pace while the queen of the household hyperventilated at the end of the table and jumped at every bang, clink, or clatter.

  A little later, while Grandmother inspected her dishes, looking for cracks, we — the men — stepped out onto the verandah to enjoy the breeze. Grandfather, who prides himself on being an astute weatherman, forecast an easterly wind at rising tide for the next day. Luc studied the skies, then agreed, but not without pointing out that there was a chance of a shower before noon, which made the old man shake with laughter. Since Luc is normally infallible in this domain, I have a feeling Grandfather won’t be laughing quite so hard tomorrow morning as the rain beats down on the roof of the smokehouse, but he can always save face by citing beginner’s luck. Meanwhile, the evening was balmy, a playful wind capered about, and suddenly the idea popped into my head of inviting Luc to stay overnight. At first, he thought I was putting him on. Then, when he saw I was serious, he accepted, as impressed as if I’d offered him accommodation at the Manoir Richelieu. Grandfather gave his consent, using teeth-clicking code. Grandmother seemed disturbed at the thought Luc would spend the night under our roof, but she didn’t have the heart to turn me down, so she gave the go-ahead. Providing Luc’s father approved, of course. My friend assured her that it would be perfectly all right with his dad, but Grandmother insisted on getting his permission. She wanted to phone him, but Luc explained that their line had been cut off. He said he’d go and let his father know in person instead and jogged away along the beach. Half an hour later, after giving his legs a workout in the dunes, he showed up with the
animal’s hypothetical blessing. I didn’t feel like reproaching him for this little white lie; I was only too happy it worked.

  We lit a big fire and carbonized a full bag of innocent marshmallows. Then, when Grandmother went up to bed, Luc asked Grandfather to teach him teeth-clicking. The old man agreed to instruct him, and Luc turned out be an excellent pupil thanks to a solid jaw as well as a thirst for knowledge. After a single lesson he already knew the Morse code almost by heart and nibbled at the night like an old pro. Grandfather uncapped a beer and declared it was now storytelling time. We were treated to the tale of Jos Chibougamau, king of the Matagami lumberjacks, a zealous executioner of trees whom Grandfather claimed to have known personally in the days of his adventurous youth. A tribe of prickly boreal deities had decided to punish Jos by gouging out his eyes. Blinded, lost in the woods, he was overtaken by nightfall. As I stared into the flames, I could see him wander about while Grandfather’s smoky voice hovered among the incandescent splutters. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck bristled when a vindictive tree toppled over on Jos, pinning him to the ground. And when legions of carnivorous beetles gathered in a great crunching of chitin to crawl all over him and eat him alive, it seemed to me that the night itself leaned in to hear every word and shudder at the demented howls of the accursed lumberman. A hush greeted Jos Chibougamau’s ghastly end. Then we threw ourselves at Grandfather’s feet, begging him for another story. But he said no, because it was getting late. After urinating into the fire like giant firemen, we went up to bed.

  There’s another bed in my room and Grandmother had put clean sheets on it. We were too excited to sleep, but that was part of the plan. Actually, it was more or less for that reason I had invited Luc — so he could help me foil the ruses of sleep. He was thrilled by the many possible uses for teeth-clicking; he envisioned turning into a Morse teacher for cetaceans. After that, we talked about my mother’s situation and how we might wake her up. Luc thought of administering a therapeutic shock: wishing to fight the train with the train, he suggested we play a recording of a tooting locomotive at top volume by her bed, but he did come around to admitting the idea was perhaps a bit far-fetched. Speaking of these things made me sad, and thinking about Mama brought tears to my eyes. When he saw me stranded at low tide, he did his best to refloat me, forbidding me to self-destruct in the next ten seconds and reminding me it was my duty to stay buoyant. He wouldn’t let go. He kept maintaining there had to be a way to get Mama back, and that’s when he asked me to tell him about my dreams. A foggy request — I didn’t see the connection with my mother — but he explained how the solution to a problem nearly always came to him in a dream. He thought the key to Mama’s wakening might be buried somewhere in my dreams, and he wanted us to analyse them together. The fog was clearing, but what could I possibly say about my dreams, since I had been dodging them for months now? I told him about my voluntary insomnia and the terrors that were the cause of it. For the first time, I gave a sparse description of Kilometre 54 with its labyrinthine torments, the horrifying pawing of the Minotaur, that iron monster. It did me good to talk about it and especially to see that Luc appeared interested. In his opinion, my refusal to sleep confirmed his theory — it actually explained my mother’s endless swoon. This all seemed pretty obscure to me, but to him it was crystal-clear, and he returned to the charge with that business about dreams, urging me to stop fighting the night. He wanted me to sleep and, above all, dream, while remaining on the lookout for anything that might be related to my mother’s resurrection. And thereupon he practised what he preached by passing out, abandoning me to my dread.

  So here I am, writing by the faint glow of my flashlight, struggling through yet another pallid, bat-like night. I thought of following Luc’s advice, but fear of Kilometre 54 wins out every time. I don’t have the guts to dream, but that’s not serious, since Luc dreams enough for both of us. He thrashes about in his sheets, gets all tangled up in them while uttering palatal sounds and fluty syllables. He is talking, no doubt about it. He is conversing with an unfathomable speaker in the liquid idiom of his poems. Will he mumble on like this until the gulls arrive?

  10

  Grandmother knew. She knew all about our trips to the hospital. She found out from a gabby nurse who couldn’t keep his big mouth shut, but she wouldn’t take action. I think it’s because Luc shows such concern for her daughter’s health. That touched her. Anyway, there’s no more reason for us to be secretive: Grandmother has officially given Luc permission to come along. So we’ll be going on our pilgrimages to Mama as a threesome from now on. That should simplify matters, if only from a logistic point of view.

  * * *

  I’m glad Luc joins us whenever we go to the hospital. The growing anxiety these visits generate is a burden we need to share among the three of us, since it’s becoming more obvious every day that Mama is getting worse. She is wasting away. She is melting like a snow-woman in the heat of summer. The way things are going, I’ll soon have nothing more to cherish than a bag of bones, yet the medics can’t do anything. They’re beaten. Left behind in the dust. Worthy representatives of the Guy in Charge of Special Effects, come to think of it.

  Weighted down with my helplessness, I drag myself about. What can we do? What could we, poor ignorant boys, possibly try? How could we even dream of defeating the mighty physicians in charge of my mother on their home turf? I would happily sell my soul to see her re-open her eyes — if only some warm-hearted old devil turned up and offered to buy it.

  * * *

  Heaven-sent, coming to the rescue of the doctors, a blank-looking visiting specialist examined my mother and confirmed what we already knew: she is going downhill. He recommends that she be moved to a renowned experimental clinic in the capital where they deal with that kind of illness. But Quebec City is a long way away and I am dead set against it. I don’t want them to ship Mama off to the ends of the earth, where she will be lost to us; the thought of her falling into the greedy clutches of a bunch of mad scientists turns my stomach. But Grandmother explained that we have reached the stage of desperate measures and may not have any choice. This prospect hovers over me like a pterodactyl. Luc does his best to put my mind at ease but I can tell he’s frightened, too, and so we’re playing a ping-pong game of mutual reassurance, which neither of us really wants to win.

  * * *

  Putting on a conspiratorial air, Luc stated that he needed to speak to me about urgent matters and dragged me off with him towards the west, all the way to the first escarpments of the Gigots. Once he’d made sure there were no inquisitive eavesdroppers about, he told me he’d given the situation a lot of thought: since the doctors proved to be incapable of waking my mother up and the gimmicks of science remained as ineffective as those of prayer, he recommended using an unconventional method. This prologue aroused my scepticism. What was he going to trot out now? Another crackpot scheme involving tape-recorded train horns and microwave ovens, or some nutty new invention? But he maintained that this time it was serious, totally different. The procedure might fail, of course, but it had to be tried — didn’t we have our backs to the wall? He seemed confident he would pull it off. First, he swore me to secrecy about what I was going to see, then he asked me to follow him into the mountains. And I hung on to his footsteps, figuring that, at the very worst, I would finally know what he was up to, all those times he headed for the mountaintop.

  Not a single footpath cut through the Gigots. Nobody had cleared one because the place was too forbidding. A mass of gigantic Lego blocks. A procession of carnivorous fractures and mossy crests. The mosquito kingdom. The perfect spot to hold a Sprain Festival. But Luc had roamed these basalt ridges. He knew their twists and turns, their dead ends; he recognized the traps and boldly thrust his way through. Indifferent to the thornbush’s bite, he hauled himself up or slid down, now skirting an insidious crevice lurking beneath a tangle of shrubs, then leaping across another one as jauntily as a young goat. Again and again, he had to wait for m
e while I stumbled along like a pitiful bug going around in circles in some auto junkyard. Sometimes I thought I was in the nave of a decrepit cathedral, at other times in bombed-out barracks still guarded by stern sentries, and every now and then I seemed to be caught inside the ribcage of a brontosaur which the necrophagous centuries hadn’t quite picked clean. The Gigots enclosed and perpetuated one another, and I began to believe their furtive gorges would snake on into infinity. But lo and behold! after christening these new Carpathians with my sweat and satisfying their wee vampires with my blood, after inching along that nasal ledge overlooking dark shards jutting from the waves, after slithering across the brow of a wind-lashed cliff, then climbing one last guano-soiled peak, I received the reward for my efforts. Because down below, hemmed in by the mountains, there lay a tiny cove.

  It was a rocky inlet fringed by a tranquil beach of auburn sand. Turquoise waters washed it and large reefs sheltered it against the waves. After the heat, the barrenness, the schizophrenic spruce, nature seemed to let out a sigh, give itself a rest. A treat for the eye. A piece of the tropics that had drifted with the current and ended its long journey here. I followed Luc and clambered down to set foot on the miracle, pulled off my boots and walked on the cove’s smooth sand, breathed in its peacefulness, savoured its wild beauty. At the tide line there was a ring of stones from an old fire and a polished tree trunk to sit on. A pretty waterfall drizzled down the mountain face. The cove was a haven, a safe hideout in the rocky heart of the muscular Gigots, the perfect refuge for a clown like Luc. He led me to the corner of two granite lips that opened into a cave. Wriggling into the fragrant gloom, I found it to be spacious and carpeted with sand. There were candles here and there which Luc did his best to revive, and the cave glowed with light, then with colours, because the ceiling was a fresco that had suddenly been revealed. Vast paintings sprawled over the uneven rock. They were Luc’s work. Narwhals mingled with seals; starfish and lobsters drifted whimsically alongside octopuses and rays. Here, porpoises frolicked in seaweed or gamboled in circles above luminous ocean depths, while elsewhere sirenian shepherds rode jellyfish and led their herds of whales to glittering pastures of plankton while, further still, sea monsters clashed in a tangle of snarled tentacles and kraken devoured sharks.