drunkenness is funny. Ervant taught her how to toss back vodka in one gulp, and you can see it clearly all the way down your back as you feel it go down. The table becomes solid, Ervantâs shoulder, too; itâs easy to start drawing a garden or living room furniture, a big living room like those in the new houses, in the addition to the old Townsite which has just been authorized. Easy to long for saucepans, china, silverware, and sheer curtains.
What she would see if she drank alone would be, perhaps, the road that leads out of here. Straighten its curves, repave it before winter, and soon you could save half an hour over the four hundred miles. She would drive, she would get there.
But at home there are only the sour wines her father cultivates in stoneware basins, that have to evaporate before they can be drunk; you donât sample them till winter, and then such a small amount.
From school to park takes twice as long if you go by way of the Portage. One last time Marie gives in, because it looks as if tomorrow there will finally be storms. She will draw out her walk along the main street, at least she can have lunch at Kresgeâs, alone and elbow to elbow with the old maids who watch the ballet of waitresses between the tubs of margarine, the production line of toast, the deep-frying vat, the coffeepot that starts up over and over. The place used to smell of breakfast all day long, it was the reward for hours of shopping on the Saturdays of her childhood. Unknown women in their thirties will certainly come here today, dragging their children to the stationery department just beside it. Strange plastic knapsacks have replaced flat bags this year, even leatherette has disappeared. There, hesitating over the schoolbags, will be a pupil destined for her class next week, whom she wonât recognize once his mother shines him up. In her eyes they all resemble one another, despite whatâs said by those who like to think of themselves as pedagogues. You filter them through yourself as best you can, their affection is never sincere, no one is more duplicitous than a half-grown child.
The bookstore window has been changed, a new paperback collection sheâll explore briefly, classics that she ought to tackle. But those can be kept for old age, a way to guarantee that youâll arrive there. Under its hardcover jacket the latest American novel offers the true story of a cold-blooded killer whose only motive is his hatred of quiet folk, of farmers and married couples. She takes it and the bookseller disapproves, she can tell from the way he gets rid of her.
She is alone at the outer limit of the park, with no dog or knitting, itâs three oâclock, much earlier than usual, and if Corrine doesnât show up sheâll be free of her, the interval will suffice, summer will have ended, a simple misunderstanding. Some willow leaves have already turned inside out, the storm will come slowly but it will come, before five oâclock, and then sheâll have to run away at last.
She walks jauntily now. It wouldnât take much to make her feel the chill in the wind that is brushing against the rock at the edge of the park. From green and ochre, the poisoned water is turning black at her feet. Look, now the scar is a mere thread, not even wide enough to hold a secret. She wonders what colour the ice will be in January, when no one comes to this place where they dump the only old snow that is picked up in town, along the three commercial streets. Mauve, perhaps, like those plum-flavoured drinks that taste like artificial pectin. Itâs cheerful now, with the sun that plunges into the black water and does not resurface. You can resist all the lights come from elsewhere, make an opaque square for yourself and still be warm. She canât wait to read about the crime, that will be for Ervantâs next night shift, the last one before the wedding.
Corrine isnât there, Marie would have to wait
What she would see if she drank alone would be, perhaps, the road that leads out of here. Straighten its curves, repave it before winter, and soon you could save half an hour over the four hundred miles. She would drive, she would get there.
But at home there are only the sour wines her father cultivates in stoneware basins, that have to evaporate before they can be drunk; you donât sample them till winter, and then such a small amount.
From school to park takes twice as long if you go by way of the Portage. One last time Marie gives in, because it looks as if tomorrow there will finally be storms. She will draw out her walk along the main street, at least she can have lunch at Kresgeâs, alone and elbow to elbow with the old maids who watch the ballet of waitresses between the tubs of margarine, the production line of toast, the deep-frying vat, the coffeepot that starts up over and over. The place used to smell of breakfast all day long, it was the reward for hours of shopping on the Saturdays of her childhood. Unknown women in their thirties will certainly come here today, dragging their children to the stationery department just beside it. Strange plastic knapsacks have replaced flat bags this year, even leatherette has disappeared. There, hesitating over the schoolbags, will be a pupil destined for her class next week, whom she wonât recognize once his mother shines him up. In her eyes they all resemble one another, despite whatâs said by those who like to think of themselves as pedagogues. You filter them through yourself as best you can, their affection is never sincere, no one is more duplicitous than a half-grown child.
The bookstore window has been changed, a new paperback collection sheâll explore briefly, classics that she ought to tackle. But those can be kept for old age, a way to guarantee that youâll arrive there. Under its hardcover jacket the latest American novel offers the true story of a cold-blooded killer whose only motive is his hatred of quiet folk, of farmers and married couples. She takes it and the bookseller disapproves, she can tell from the way he gets rid of her.
She is alone at the outer limit of the park, with no dog or knitting, itâs three oâclock, much earlier than usual, and if Corrine doesnât show up sheâll be free of her, the interval will suffice, summer will have ended, a simple misunderstanding. Some willow leaves have already turned inside out, the storm will come slowly but it will come, before five oâclock, and then sheâll have to run away at last.
She walks jauntily now. It wouldnât take much to make her feel the chill in the wind that is brushing against the rock at the edge of the park. From green and ochre, the poisoned water is turning black at her feet. Look, now the scar is a mere thread, not even wide enough to hold a secret. She wonders what colour the ice will be in January, when no one comes to this place where they dump the only old snow that is picked up in town, along the three commercial streets. Mauve, perhaps, like those plum-flavoured drinks that taste like artificial pectin. Itâs cheerful now, with the sun that plunges into the black water and does not resurface. You can resist all the lights come from elsewhere, make an opaque square for yourself and still be warm. She canât wait to read about the crime, that will be for Ervantâs next night shift, the last one before the wedding.
Corrine isnât there, Marie would have to wait
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