Washika by Robert A. Poirier Page A

others. Télesphore Aumont was forty-one years old and captain of the tugboat, Hirondelle . Every morning, he would walk to the washroom with his back bent. Before he would reach the washroom, his face would be very red from coughing and his eyes so large and wet that the students would watch him attentively to see if this was the day his eyes would come popping out of his head. Télesphore smoked cigars and he had, most certainly, the worse cough of the whole camp.
    In the bunkhouse-and-office, the students stumbled around the space heater trying to find their jeans and socks and bumping into one another. They no longer noticed that, from the waist up, their bodies were a light brown while their legs and feet were the colour of white chalk. Henri was a special case. In addition to his light tan, his chest was covered with a thin rust-coloured scab. Lavigne came closer to look at it as Henri buttoned his shirt.
    â€œ Et calis !” he said.
    Henri said nothing. It was bad enough without talking about it. It made him feel sick just looking at it. Maybe he would see Lise about it after breakfast. He could not work with a chest like that. That made him feel better, that, and the rain, and maybe seeing Lise later.
    As Henri prepared to leave with the others it struck him suddenly that André Guy was not with them. He had not noticed earlier. Perhaps it was because of the scabs, or the rain, or the excitement of seeing Lise Archambault again.
    â€œHey, you guys! Look at that,” Henri called to the others.
    The guys came over to where Henri was standing. There, on the bed closest to the stove, was a mound beneath the grey wool blankets with several strands of brown hair sticking out at one end.
    â€œI’ll get some water,” Lavigne offered.
    â€œNo, leave him alone,” Henri said. Already he regretted having spoken about it.
    â€œYou’ve forgotten the French bed, Henri?” one of the guys added.
    No, Henri had not forgotten. It was another of André’s many pranks. He would simply remove all of the blankets from the bed, take the sheet from the foot of the bed and fold it up to the head. The blankets were then returned to the bed as they had been previously. That night, when Henri drove his feet in under the blankets there was some resistance at first, and then he heard the sound of cotton tearing as his feet went through the sheet. There was another sound in the darkened room, insane laughter, coming from the bed closest to the oil space heater.
    â€œCome on, Henri,” Lavigne pleaded. “Don’t miss your chance. I’ll do it for you if you want.”
    â€œNo,” Henri said flatly.
    â€œWait! I’ve got an idea,” said St-Jean.
    Maurice St-Jean stood by the door with a towel draped over his shoulder, his sandy brown hair rumpled from sleep, and with that grin that always gave him the appearance of not having any teeth.
    â€œHurry up, Gaston,” he said, nodding towards the bed. “Grab one end. Henri, you hold the door.”
    St-Jean looked around the room. The other two roommates, Pierre Morrow and Gaston Cyr, stood by the oil furnace waiting to see what would happen.
    â€œGo on!” St-Jean turned on them. “Get going before he wakes up.”
    Morrow and Cyr left, running across the yard in the rain. Henri tied the inner door open with a length of wire. He held the screen door open with one hand while he remained standing inside.
    St-Jean signalled to Lavigne and, together, they lifted the bed off the floor. They walked slowly, shuffling their feet and carrying the bed at arm’s length.
    As they carried the bed past Henri and out through the doorway, St-Jean stumbled on the square timber landing. He was a strong young man and the muscles stood out on his neck as he squatted on the sand with the foot of the bed against his chest. Stepping backwards on the sand, St-Jean pulled himself upright. He and Lavigne carried the bed out to the