The Weight of Snow

THIRTY-EIGHT

This is the land of snow, and it does not share its domain. It dominates the landscape, it weighs upon the mountains. The trees bow, they reach for the earth, their backs bent. Only the great spruce refuse to give in. They take their punishment, straight and black. They trace the end of the village and the beginning of the forest.

By my window, the birds come and go, quarrel, and scratch for food. From time to time, one of them will observe the quiet house with a worried eye.

On the frame outside, a thin branch stripped bare has been attached horizontally as a kind of barometer. If it points upward, the weather will be clear and dry. If it points down, there will be snow. Right now the weather is uncertain; the branch is in mid-journey of its trajectory.

It must be late. The grey sky is opaque and without nuance. The sun could be anywhere. A few snowflakes dance in the air and hang onto every second. A hundred steps from the house, in the clearing, Matthias is pushing a long stick into the snow. It looks like the mast of a ship, but without sails or flags.

Drops of water shiver on the roofline and slip down to the tips of the icicles. When the sun comes out, they sparkle like sharpened blades. From time to time, one of them will pull away, fall, and stab the snow. A dagger thrust into immensity. But the snow is invincible. Soon it will reach the bottom of my window. Then the top. Then I will be blind.

This is winter. The days are short and frigid. The snow shows its teeth. The great expanse of space shrinks.

THIRTY-NINE

The window frame is damp. The wood stained by spongy, tinted circles. When it gets very cold, they are covered with crystals of frost. A little like lichen.

Logs crackle in the woodstove. From my bed, I can see the glittering coals through the air vent. The stove is ancient, a massive piece. Its doors creak when they open. This heap of black, burning cast iron is the centre of our lives.

I am alone on the porch. Everything is motionless. Everything in its place. The stool by the entrance, the rocking chair, the kitchen utensils, everything. A strange golden cylinder sits on the table. It was not there this morning. Matthias must have gone to the other side. But I noticed nothing.

Pain leaves me no respite. It holds me, it grips me, it possesses me. To tolerate it, I close my eyes and imagine I am at the wheel of my car. If I concentrate, I can hear the motor roaring. And see the landscapes go by, dazzled by the vanishing point of the road. But when I open my eyes, reality crushes me. I am bound to this bed, my legs imprisoned by two heavy splints. My car a heap of twisted metal somewhere beneath the snow. I am no longer the master of my fate.

My stomach breaks the silence. I am hungry. I feel weak and stiff. On the bedside table, some crumbs of black bread and the remains of oily coffee. Matthias will be back any time now.

FORTY-ONE

The door opens and a gust of cold air blows into the room. Matthias comes in and drops an armful of wood next to the stove. The logs crash to the floor and shards of bark go flying.

Matthias pulls off his coat, kneels down, and stirs the fire with a poker. Behind him, the snow from his boots begins melting and seeks its level on the uneven floor.

It’s not very cold, he tells me, holding his hands toward the source of heat, but it’s damp. It chills you to the bone.

When the flames begin to growl and lick the iron frame, Matthias closes the stove doors, puts the soup pot on to warm, and turns in my direction. His bushy eyebrows and white hair, and the deep wrinkles criss-crossing his forehead make him look like a mad scientist.

I have something for you.

I give him a questioning look. Matthias picks up the gold cylinder from the table and hands it to me. He gives me a big smile. The cylinder is heavy and telescopic. Its ends are covered in glass. I examine it from all angles. It is a spyglass. Like the ones sailors used long ago to pick out the thin line of the coast, or the enemy’s ships.

Look outside.

I sit up in bed, extend the sliding tube, and place it against my eye. Everything moves toward me and each object takes on precise dimensions. As if I were on the other side of the window. The black flight of the birds, the footsteps in the snow, the unreal calm of the village, the edge of the forest.

Keep looking.

I know this landscape by heart. I have been watching it for some time now. I do not really remember the summer because of the fever and the drugs, but I did see the slow movement of the landscape, the grey autumn sky, the reddening light of the trees. I saw the ferns devoured by frost, the tall grass breaking when a breeze rose up, the first flakes landing upon the frozen ground. I saw the tracks of the animals that inspected the area after the first snow. The sky has swallowed everything up ever since. The landscape is in waiting. Everything has been put off until spring.

Nature with no respite. The mountains cut off the horizon, the forest hems us in on all sides, and the snow blinds us.

Look harder, Matthias tells me.

I examine the long stick that Matthias set up in the clearing. He has added minute graduation marks on it.

It’s for measuring snow, he announces, triumphant.

With the spyglass, I can see the snow has reached forty-one centimetres. I consider the whiteness of the landscape a moment, then slump back on my bed and close my eyes.

Great, I tell myself. Now we can put numbers to our distress.

FORTY-TWO

Matthias is preparing black bread. A kind of brick made of buckwheat flower and molasses. According to him, it’s filling and nutritious. And the best thing, since we have to ration our supplies as we wait for the next delivery.

Like an old shaman, he mixes, kneads, and shapes the dough with a striking economy of effort. When he finishes, he shakes off his clothes in a cloud of flour and cooks the cakes of black bread directly on the stovetop.

The weather has cleared. I observe the houses in the village, among the trees, at the foot of the hill. Most of them show no signs of life, though a few chimneys send up generous plumes of smoke. The grey columns rise straight into the sky as if refusing to melt into the vastness. There are twelve houses. Thirteen with ours. With the spyglass the village seems close by, but that is an illusion. I would need more than an hour to walk there. And I still can’t get out of bed.

I believe the solstice has passed. The sun’s path through the sky is still short, but the days have grown longer without us really noticing. New Year’s Day must be behind us. Though I am not really sure. It makes no difference. I lost all notion of time long ago. Along with the desire to speak. No one can resist the silence, chained to broken legs, in the winter, in a village without electricity.

We still have a good supply of wood, but it is going down fast. We live in a porch made of drafts, and several times a night Matthias wakes up to feed the stove. When the wind blows, we can feel the cold holding us in the palm of its hand.

They will be sending us wood and supplies in a few days. In the meantime, I keep repeating that even if I survived a terrible car wreck, I still can’t do anything for myself.

FORTY-TWO

A crescent moon embraces the black sky. A thick, shiny crust has formed on the snow. In the glow of the night, it is like a calm, shimmering sea.

In the room, the oil lamp casts its light on the walls, sketching out golden shadows. Matthias comes to me with a bowl of soup and a piece of black bread. It is all we eat. The end of one soup is the beginning of the next. When we reach the bottom of the kettle, Matthias adds water and anything else he can get his hands on. When we have meat, he boils the bones and gristle to make broth. Vegetables, dry bread, it all ends up in the soup. Every day, at every meal, we eat that bottomless soup.

Matthias sits at the table, hands clasped carefully, in an attitude of contemplation, as I swallow down as much as I can. Often I finish my meal before he has started his.

At the beginning, Matthias had to force me to eat so I would recuperate and get my strength back. He would help me sit up and feed me patiently, one spoonful at a time, like a child. Now I can lean back on the pillows by myself. The pain and fatigue persist, but my appetite has returned. When he gets his hands on a few litres of milk, he makes cheese with the rennet he found in the creamery in the stable. Sometimes he gives cheese to the villagers, but often it is so good we devour all of it in a few days, right out of the cloth it has drained in.

Getting over my injuries takes a lot of energy. So does evaluating the passage of time. Maybe I should be like Matthias and just say before the snow or since the snow. But that would be too easy.

There has not been electricity for months. At the beginning, I was told, there were blackouts in the village. Nothing too worrisome. People practically got used to it. It would last a few hours, then the power would return. One morning, it did not come back. Not here, and not anywhere else. It was summer. People looked on the bright side. But when autumn came, they had to think about what to do next. As if they had been taken by surprise. It is winter now, and no one can do anything about it. In the houses, everyone gathers around the woodstove and a few blackened kettles.

Matthias finishes his bowl of soup and pushes it toward the centre of the table.

For a moment, nothing happens. I have a particular affection for these time outs that follow our meals.

They do not last long.

Matthias stands, picks up the dishes, and scours them in the sink. Then he wraps the pieces of bread in a plastic bag, folds the clothes that were drying on the line above the stove, extends the wick on the oil lamp, takes out the first aid kit, and brings over a chair.

FORTY-TWO

Matthias clears his throat as if he was preparing to read aloud. But he says nothing, and turns his neck right and left to get rid of the tension. Then he pulls away the quilt that covers my legs.

I look away. Maybe Matthias thinks I am looking outside, but I can see his reflection perfectly in the dark window. One by one, he unties the straps from my right side. He slips his hand under my heel and raises my leg.

My heart beats faster. The pain roars and stares me down like a powerful, graceful beast.

Patiently, Matthias unwraps my bandages. He is slow and methodical. When he reaches the last layers of gauze, I feel the cloth sticking to my skin because of the humidity and the blood, and the infection too. He cuts off the rest of the bandage with scissors and pulls it away with calculated care. I breathe in deeply and concentrate on the air that fills my rib cage. Matthias moves his head back. I picture him evaluating the redness, the swelling, the bony callus, the shape of the tibia and the knee.

Pretty soon it will be time to take out the stitches, he says, disinfecting the wound.

The burning sensation is intense. I feel like my flesh is melting off my bones.

Don’t move! Matthias thunders. Let me do my work.

I try to look away as far as possible from my legs, toward the back of the room and the two doors. The front door and the one that leads the other way. I look at the heavy, squatting woodstove, the objects on the shelves, the ceiling with its beams squared off with an axe. Two light bulbs hang there like dinosaur skeletons in a museum.

Matthias takes a tube out of the first aid kit and tries to decipher the label. With a sigh, he slips his glasses from his shirt pocket and sets them on the end of his nose.

This should do.

Before rewrapping my bandages, he applies a thick layer of ointment to my wound. It is cold, and offers some relief for a few seconds. Until he tightens the straps around the splint that keeps my leg in place and my pulse starts beating at my temples. I grab at the sheets and curse my fate. Matthias starts talking. His lips move, but I hear nothing. I think he is trying to tell me that it’s over now. After a few seconds the pain subsides a little and then, as if we were at a great distance from each other, his voice reaches me, barely audible.

Just take it, he says, take it, we have to do the other leg now.

FORTY-FIVE

I think it snowed a little during the night, but this morning the sky is blue and hard. The icicles glitter from the roofline.

On the stove, a kettle filled with snow. Back in the fall, Matthias would draw water directly from the stream that flows down toward the village. It was clear and transparent, and tasted of smooth stones and roots. Some mornings, he had to break through the ice to fill his bucket. At first all he had to do was lean on the surface, but soon he had to use a branch, then a hatchet. One day he got tired of it and started melting snow. It does not taste the same, but I can’t complain. Matthias does everything here. He feeds the stove, cooks, and empties the pot I use as a toilet. He is the one who decides, disposes, takes responsibility. He is the master of time and space.

And I am powerless. I do not have the strength, and even less so the mobility. I don’t have the energy to communicate, interact, converse. Nor the desire. I prefer to ruminate on my misfortune in silence. At the beginning Matthias did not understand why I kept quiet. With time I think he has gotten used to it.

Since my accident, I have had trouble retracing the chain of events. With the pain, fever, and fatigue, the usual duration of days and weeks has been disrupted by the impatience of snow. Everything happened so fast. The accident, the watchmen, the operation, then I found myself here, with Matthias. I know very well he wanted nothing to do with me. My presence makes him ill at ease and bothers him. His plans have been upset. Since the power went out, nothing has happened the way he anticipated.

When they found me underneath my car, the watchmen saw I was finished. There was nothing anyone could do. My legs had been crushed by the impact. I had lost a lot of blood. By a stroke of luck, when they shined their light, someone thought he recognized me. And he convinced the others to bring me to the village.

It was raining. Torrents of water streamed down over the forest. I remember that much, the people carrying me had trouble making progress in the mud. There was no doctor in the village. Only a veterinarian and a pharmacist. Since the power went out, they were taking care of the injured and sick. They took care of the worst cases too, when there was no more cause for hope.

I was lying in a bed in a narrow, dim room. They had wrapped my legs in thick bandages and handcuffed my wrists to the bedframe. Some light managed to slip between the planks of the boarded-up window. Every time I lifted my head to see where I was, a lightning bolt of pain shot through my body.

People were coming to my bedside all the time. To bring me food. Give me pills. Ask me questions. My name? Where was I heading? What happened with the accident? I was in enormous pain, and the world was reduced to a few shapes bending over me as they might bend over a bottomless well. They insisted I answer the questions they asked over and over again. I could scream and struggle all I wanted, no one seemed to understand what I was trying to say. They must have wondered if they should cut short my suffering or make the effort to take care of me.

When they finally left me alone, I tried to listen to what was going on in the room next door. People were coming and going. Sometimes they raised their voices and I managed to decipher the conversation. Other times they whispered and nothing was audible.

The accident was violent. I was in a state of confusion. I dreamed of my car. I searched for my father. My memories overlapped. I pictured the scene over and over again. Days and nights on the road. The black-out, the gas stations pillaged, the militia by the side of the roads, panic in the cities. And suddenly, a few kilometres from the village, in the tired glow of my headlights, two arms lifted skyward. Tires squealing on the pavement. The attempt at evasive action. The heavy impact. The blood. The cracks in the windshield. The car rolling over. My body thrown from it. Then the weight of the metal on my legs.

I had left the village more than ten years earlier. Ten years and no word from me, or almost none. I buried the past and thought I would never come back. But the watchman had no doubt who I was and he insisted I be taken care of. His voice was clear from the other side of the wall.

Enough is enough. We can’t leave him to die like that. Don’t you recognize him? He’s the mechanic’s son. He left here a long time ago. He’s in a state of shock, but give him a chance. His father just died, but he still has family in the village. His aunts and uncles live on the road that goes to the mine. I’ll go fetch them.

My aunts and uncles came. At first I thought I was seeing ghosts, then I heard their voices and tears came to my eyes.

Yes, my uncles confirmed, struck by the terrible shape I was in, that’s him. My aunts held my hands and tried to comprehend what had happened to me. I was so happy to see them I couldn’t say a single word.

The handcuffs, take off his handcuffs, my aunts demanded. Right now.

The people told them I had been agitated since I found out my father had died, and they had to be careful so I would not aggravate my injuries. My aunts and uncles went into the room next door. I knew they were discussing my situation, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. It sounded serious.

A little later, the veterinarian and the pharmacist came into the room. They sat down next to the bed. The veterinarian lit her headlamp and cut off the bandages that girded my legs. I watched her from the corner of my eye. Her face was familiar. Her features hardened when she saw how bad my injuries were. She turned to the pharmacist. He nodded his head. As she was putting on her mask and gloves, the veterinarian looked at me and I knew she had recognized me too. The pharmacist put a sponge over my mouth and nose, and she told me to count to ten. Her voice. Yes, her voice reminded me of something. Her voice echoed back to me, but I could not remember her name. The beam of her lamp swept the room. Then everything went black.

When I came to, I had no idea where I was. Luckily my aunts were at my bedside. I heard them discussing in low voices. I lifted my head and saw that my legs were tightly held in solid wooden splints. When my aunts realized I was awake, they rushed to comfort me.

Don’t worry. The operation was a success. You’ll be fine. You’ll make it out of here. Here, drink some water. You need to rest. You have to get your strength back. Yes, rest up.

A few moments later, I was exhausted. I lapsed back into nightmares of chase, a famished beast, a labyrinth. They pursued one another in a single incoherent dream.

The next day or the day after, I’m not sure, the watchman returned to see me. Finally he took off my handcuffs. He brought me water, a piece of bread, and a can of tuna. He used the opportunity to ask questions, too. When he saw I was not answering, he kept quiet for a while, then changed his strategy.

Even if the electricity ends up coming back, things won’t be the same. You know, everything that happened since the blackout has disfigured our lives. Here we’re probably getting along better than in the city, but it’s still not easy. At first people stuck together, then some of them panicked, a few left the village, and others tried to take advantage of the situation. Since then calm has been restored. We distribute food and make our rounds and keep an eye on things. But we have to be vigilant. Everything could go wrong at any time.

The veterinarian and the pharmacist arrived and interrupted the watchman.

How is he doing?

Not too bad.

The veterinarian examined my legs while the pharmacist had me swallow a handful of pills.

He doesn’t have a fever, the veterinarian said after she took my temperature.

That’s because of what I’m giving him, the pharmacist told her. That, and only that.

The veterinarian came to me and said my legs were fractured in several places. She had operated in a similar way in the past several times, but only on cows, horses, and dogs.

I looked at her and smiled.

She ran her hand through my hair.

You’ll make it all right.

Then the two of them, along with the watchman, went into the room next door. I heard the pharmacist’s voice through the wall.

He survived the accident and reacted well to the operation, but sooner or later his wounds are going to get infected. It’s inevitable. He will need a lot of antibiotics and analgesics, and our stocks are limited.

They wondered who was going to take care of me. My aunts and uncles, no doubt. With the blackout, everyone was overworked. There was too much to do. Who else would have time to look after a gravely injured man? Care for him, feed him, wash him?

Then their voices dropped and I lost the thread of the conversation.

A few days later, my legs were swollen and my wounds were so painful I could hardly breathe. I was shivering and sweating. I needed help for everything. People came and went by my bedside. They covered their ears to keep from hearing my feverish lamentations.

Twice a day, Maria came and gave me a shot. That allowed me a few hours’ respite before the pain returned to blur my vision.

I knew it, the pharmacist sighed. I knew we would end up giving him all the medication we have.

With the pills and shots, I managed to sleep a little. But when I opened my eyes, I had no idea whether I had slept a few minutes, a few hours, or a few days. Often I dreamed I was pinned to the ground and that someone was cutting off my legs with an axe. It wasn’t a nightmare. I felt a sudden liberation.

My aunts and uncles came to visit me frequently. Even if everything around me was a theatre of shadows, I could hear them talking, telling stories, making jokes. Then, one day, they explained they couldn’t wait anymore. It was hunting season. A number of families had already taken to the woods. The electricity was not coming back and food had to be put up before winter.

We’re going to the hunting camp, they announced. We’ll be back in a few weeks with meat, a lot of meat. We wish you could come with us, but that wouldn’t work. In the meantime, don’t worry, you’re in good hands. We were promised they would take good care of you. You have to do your part and work on getting better.

They each said their goodbyes, then they left. I wished I could have made them stay.

Some time later a group came into my room. The watchman, the veterinarian, and the pharmacist were there. Someone began speaking, telling me it was out of the question for me to stay here, in this house. I felt their eyes running along the walls, slipping to the floor, and disappearing into the cracks between the planks. No one wanted the extra burden. Maybe they should have left me to my fate under the car. Then the veterinarian broke the silence and offered to take care of me until my family returned. The pharmacist cut her off immediately.

That makes no sense, we can’t have him in our house. We did what we could. We have other patients to look after.

The watchman stepped forward as if he wanted to make a suggestion. But he kept his mouth shut.

I can solve the problem, the pharmacist went on, in a way that will ease the burden on everyone. You can see how much pain he’s in.

The veterinarian stared at the watchman, who was standing in the middle of the room. And that’s when, if I remember rightly, he mentioned the old man who had come to live in the house at the top of the hill.

You know, the old guy who showed up at the beginning of the summer. He had car trouble, he was looking for a mechanic. Then the power went off and he couldn’t leave. He started living in the house on the hill. Sometimes we see him when he comes down to the village. He’s always saying he needs to get back to the city, and that the woman next door to where he lived is going to come for him one of these days. But she never showed up. Nobody believes his story, but everyone knows he always accepts the rations we give him. I came across him the other day near the church. We talked. He’s old, that’s for sure. But he looks in good shape. And he’s a lot more lucid than people like to think.

Him? the pharmacist said, surprised. He tried to steal a pickup truck a while back. I caught him just as he was breaking into it. He pretended nothing was up, as usual. He’s a wily old bastard. But why not? We could fob off our injury case on him.

FORTY-FIVE

In the morning, every morning, Matthias does his exercises. With the concentration of an alchemist, he carries out a series of odd postures, lengthy stretches, and quick contractions. Sometimes he maintains the same position for several minutes. His immobility is powerful and subterranean. Generally he accompanies his movements with deep breathing. He bends, straightens, contorts. His gestures are broad and flexible. When he breathes out, you can hear the strength of his diaphragm, as if he is fighting, with great slowness, a stranger, a bear, or a monster. Then, without warning, he stops completely and stands straight with an air of triumph. His day can begin.

The sky lightened some time ago, but the sun has scarcely made it above the forest. At certain spots its rays have pierced the trellis of trees. I take out my spyglass and examine the surroundings. The snow is unmarked except for Matthias’s heavy footprints and the skittish traces of squirrels. The other animals have retreated deeper into the woods. They can concentrate on surviving that way, far from our eyes.

Matthias is making coffee. Since there is not much of it, he mixes two spoonfuls of grounds with one of fresh coffee.

That was exactly what he was doing when I was brought here. Strange how clear my memory is of the smell in the room. Matthias opened the door to the veterinarian who was standing before him in the rain. Behind her, the watchman and the pharmacist were carrying me on a stretcher. Matthias invited everyone in for coffee.

Fever and antibiotics had cast me into a state of lethargy that had nothing to do with sleep. I was in a sort of passive wakefulness, halfway between a coma and a coherent dream. I did not move, I did not speak, but I heard everything.

Who is he? Matthias asked as he bent over me.

The mechanic’s son, the veterinarian told him. He was in a car accident.

The watchman looked around the room. There was a woodstove, a rocking chair, a table, and a sofa. A single bed bordered the window.

You’re well set up here, he remarked.

The house was abandoned. I fixed up this room in the meantime.

In the meantime?

Matthias hesitated.

Until the neighbour lady comes, he said finally. She’s taking her time, but she’s going to come for me. For sure. She knows I have to get back to town. She understands.

The watchman rubbed his chin.

You’ve been saying that for a while now. Why do you want to go back to the city so much? It’s eight hours by car in good conditions, and you know, with the power out, you can’t get around like you used to. There are roadblocks everywhere, militias, highwaymen. They say it’s chaos in the city, accidents at every corner, the stores looted, people fleeing. Maybe your neighbour had a problem, the watchman said, weighing his words.

She’ll come, Matthias insisted. She’ll come.

What if she doesn’t? What are you going to do? Steal a truck?

Matthias kept his eyes fastened on the grounds in his coffee cup.

There’s no more gas anywhere, you know.

I have to get back to town, Matthias repeated.

They stood there in silence, as if the discussion had come to an end. Then the watchman started talking again.

We’re lucky here, our village is hidden in the middle of the forest. Having no power complicates things, but at least everything is under control. We watch the entrance to the village, we consolidate our resources, we help each other out.

Matthias did not react. He waited for what would come next.

You know some people are talking about making an expedition if the outage continues. The idea is to get in contact with the outside world. They would go to the villages along the coast, then to the city. Some of them want to find family members who live there. That’s normal, you know, when you haven’t had news from relatives in a long time.

The watchman paused for effect and cast a glance in my direction. At the time, I remember, with the fog of medication, I had to concentrate to follow what was happening around me.

I have a proposal for you, the watchman went on. You look after him and we’ll keep a spot for you in the convoy that will be going to the city. From now on, you’ll get two shares of rations. That way you’ll manage. And you won’t have to go down to the village, I’ll come by and bring it to you.

Matthias looked out the window.

I have to get back to town before winter.

I understand, the watchman went on, but it takes time to organize an expedition. You have to find gas, food, equipment. You have to consider security, and plan out the itinerary. No one wants to get caught by winter, you know, especially when there are no more plows clearing the roads.

When will you be leaving?

Spring.

This spring? Matthias said, discouraged.

Yes, this spring. As soon as the roads are passable.

That’s too late, Matthias complained, how am I going to get along?

You’re going to be patient and you’re going to take care of him. That will be your contribution. Then you’ll have your spot in the convoy.

He’s in bad shape, Matthias muttered, looking at my splints.

Yes, but he’ll make it.

You think so? Matthias questioned, raising his eyebrows.

The veterinarian wanted to step in, but the pharmacist motioned her to wait. Matthias paced the room.

What about wood for the stove?

I’ll see to it, the watchman promised, I’ll bring everything you need.

Matthias thought it over.

I’ll stop by once a week, the veterinarian said, to give you a hand and see how he’s progressing.

Matthias nodded.

Put him over there, he said reluctantly, pointing to the bed by the window. I’ll sleep on the sofa.

The watchman and the pharmacist did as he asked.

Come here, the veterinarian suggested. I’m going to change his bandages with you, that way you’ll know how to do it.

The pharmacist took out a roll of gauze, the first aid kit, and the jars of pills. The watchman sat on the stool by the door and lit a cigarette.

Doesn’t he talk? Matthias asked.

Not really, the watchman answered, you know, with the accident and the medication, that’s normal. And I suppose his father dying shook him up pretty bad. At least I think so. Give him time.

Once the veterinarian saw that Matthias had understood her instructions, they tightened my splints and threw the soiled bandages into the burning stove.

If you run out of ointment, she added, you can put sugar on his wounds. That will fight the infection. But remember to always give him his antibiotics.

There are pills for pain, the pharmacist pointed out. That should quiet him down if he complains too much.

The watchman thanked Matthias, then motioned to his comrades to leave. As he was crossing the threshold after them, Matthias put his hand on his shoulder.

What if he doesn’t make it?

Come and get us as quickly as you can. But remember, his life is in your hands.

I’ll do what I can, Matthias stammered, taken aback.

Everything will be fine, the watchman assured him as he went out the door. I’ll be back in a few days with the wood and supplies.

What’s your name? Matthias asked. You didn’t tell me your name.

Joseph. She’s Maria and her husband is José, he said, pointing to the veterinarian and the pharmacist.

Joseph left, and Matthias stood in the doorway for a long time.

Maria, that’s it, her name is Maria, I thought. Then the fog overtook me again.

FORTY-FIVE

I am alone in the room. Matthias went out on his snowshoes. I pull on the old quilt that covers my feet. At the end of the bed, kilometres away, my toes are the colour of bruises, but at least they move. With the splints, they are the only part that is mobile.

Pain is still my master, but at least the bouts of fever have subsided. I have stopped waking up suddenly, gasping for breath, trying to figure out where I am. I have learned to recognize the room, the window next to my bed, and Matthias’s face. When I open my eyes, I know where I am, who I am, and what awaits me.

Not long after I was delivered here, my temperature shot up and my teeth started chattering. Matthias sat at my bedside. He put on fresh bandages and changed the sheets that were soaked in sweat. He wiped my face, my neck, and applied cold compresses to my body. He spoke to me too. I don’t know what he said, he told me all kinds of things, stories, adventures, it was like the odyssey of a man pursued by a furious god, and all he wants is to get back home after twenty years of absence. In the morning, he broke off his story and went for a nap on the couch. When he woke up later, he lifted my head, gave me something to drink and some pills. They were all the colours of the rainbow. During the day, I struggled against an invisible abyss. At night I slept with my eyes open. The way the dead do.

Often I dreamed I was running. I was running full out through the corridors of a labyrinth. Everywhere I went a red thread lay on the ground. I ran as if a beast were on my trail. I didn’t see it, but it was there, behind me. I clearly heard its panting breath and the clatter of its hooves. It was closing in. Its claws cut through the air, trying to tear off my legs. I kept on running. I was dreaming and I didn’t look back.

At the worst of the fever I must have lost consciousness, because I remember waking up, gasping for air, in Matthias’s arms. We were outside, in the pouring rain. My body was on fire and the ice-cold water helped bring me back to this world. When I regained consciousness, Matthias lifted his head to the sky as if he too had been saved. The rain poured down his face and his hair was plastered to his forehead. Then he picked me up and carried me inside. It wasn’t easy. We were soaked and I had trouble clinging to his neck. When he laid me on the bed, I was so weak I felt I was sinking into the blankets. Matthias fell to his knees and tried to catch his breath.

Over the days that followed, my fever broke and I stabilized. At the time I felt nothing outside of a tingling sensation. Then a sharp, cutting pain took hold of my body. As if thousands of nails were piercing my flesh from the inside, slashing though my spine, driving into the palms of my hands, my feet, fastening me to the bed. A black frozen pain opened my eyes in the depths of the night and made me fear I would never walk again.

The analgesics Matthias had me take reduced the agony, but they lasted only a few hours. Sometimes he would massage my legs. He would sit on my bed, take off the heavy gauze, clean my wounds, and rub my thighs, calves, and feet. I did not like him kneading me like black bread. But he was careful when it came to my wounds. After every session, the swelling subsided and I didn’t feel so cold.

My toes are still moving at the far end of my body. I believe my bones are knitting together, my wounds are closing, and the penicillin is doing its job. But the pain is tenacious, constant, tireless. I pull away the cover to look at my legs. My splints are recycled wooden slats, and belts were nailed to them instead of the usual straps. On one of the slats, I can see saw-tooth marks. On the other the trace of a hinge pulled off with a claw hammer. I am a monster fashioned from cast-off wood, bolts, and pieced-together flesh. But that’s better than nothing.

The hospitals are far away. In space and in time.

FORTY-SEVEN

It is the end of the afternoon. When he came back from his walk, Matthias stoked the fire, then went looking for a book on the other side. He reads a lot, and since I show no interest in the books he leaves by my bed, he tells me stories. Like the one about the two tramps quarrelling beneath a tree as they wait for someone who never shows up.

Every time he crosses over to the other side, a cold draft rushes through the half-open door. And every time, the draft rouses me from my lethargy and I lift my head to look into the great lifeless house. But I can see no more than a dark hallway with a light at the end.

We live in the annex of a great manor, in the summer kitchen. A porch with a wood stove and a wide window facing south. When the sky is clear, the light enters and warms the room. But as soon as the sun falls behind the horizon, we have to stoke the fire. Though it shows signs of wear and a few stains caused by leaks, the room seems to have been designed with care. The moldings feature rosette figures. The floors are hardwood. On the walls, you can pick out spots where pictures once hung.

In the centre of the porch floor is a trap door. It gives onto a crawl space. Matthias uses it as a cellar. He stores meat there, and vegetables, and everything that needs to be kept cool but not freeze.

The ceiling is criss-crossed by broad wooden beams that follow the gentle incline. In the summer, I imagine the rain must drum upon the sheet-metal roof. A sort of roll that would recall the comforting interior of cars and the weightlessness of long trips. But for now the snow piles up without a sound. When I listen hard, I hear nothing more than the beams sighing above our heads.

Matthias stands in the doorway. He looks like a navigator in the prow of a ship.

Guess what I found, he says, eager for my answer.

For a moment, the door gapes open behind him. The corridor disappears into the shadows and appears to open into a spacious salon. I picture a manor with high ceilings, comfortable rooms, and hallways branching off. A labyrinth of sorts: some rooms lead into others, but some are dead ends. A wide staircase leads upstairs, there must be a chandelier above the dining room table, an imposing library, and a stone fireplace in the sitting room. One thing is for sure, the house is too big for us. It would be impossible to heat, we would burn up our wood supply in the space of few weeks. Then we would die of cold after burning the furniture.

You give up? Matthias asks.

He stares, waiting for an answer that never comes.

It’s a chess set, he says, sighing. I thought you might enjoy it.

He closes the door with his hip. The labyrinth on the other side disappears as quickly as it appeared and the walls of the porch close in on us.

FIFTY-SIX

The wind rose in the night. Squalls shook the porch. It has begun to snow. I hear it beating against the window like birds deceived by their reflections.

From this side of the dark glass, I observe my face. A large, dark stain of shadow, haggard eyes, greasy hair, unkempt beard. Under the covers, the flat outline of my prone body, thin, useless.

Matthias is in the rocking chair. He is repairing one of the straps on his snowshoes. The oil lamp shivers. Soot is slowly smearing the glass bell. The wick should be trimmed, but Matthias does not react, too absorbed by the task at hand.

We have finished eating. The dishes washed, the floor swept, the wood stacked. Everything as it should be. I don’t know how he does it. The hours run together, the days repeat, and Matthias gets busy. He never stops, except to read. From dawn to dusk, he toils, cleans, cooks. He works slowly, never hurried. The way the snow falls. And he is right. He has to do something. Winter roars, the blackout takes us further back in time, and losing touch is the most pressing danger.

Even if I won’t accept my fate, I have to accept that I am lucky to have ended up here. Maybe I will never walk again, I have lost all desire to speak, but I’m not dead. At least, not yet.

As he sews the leather strap, Matthias watches me from the corner of his eye.

You know, during the world wars, some conscripts refused to join the army, he begins. Some of them got married in a hurry, and others, like my father, went and hid in the woods and hoped they’d be forgotten. But taking to the forest wasn’t easy. The winters were harder back then. And bounty-hunters had all the patience they needed to watch the outskirts of the village for the slightest sign of life. A rifle shot, a plume of smoke, an unusual path in the snow. Military justice was generous when it came to denunciations or information that would let them locate and hunt down deserters. But most of the time, the villages supported them secretly. Provisions were left at strategic points. The poor guys came to get the stuff in the middle of the night, attracting no attention, and returned to the mountains to pursue their desperate survival. Even in the depth of winter, they lit a fire only once darkness had fallen, and when the nights were clear, it was wiser not to stir the embers from the previous day. Deep in their hiding places, the young men busied themselves the best they could as they stared at the forest moving in on them. They darned their clothes, played cards, and polished their hunting rifles. Sometimes tensions grew, and when they switched sentinel duty, they would cast wary glances at their fellows. Yet they knew they could not do without each other. If they wanted to survive, they would have to face the cold, hunger, and boredom together. They soon understood that the most important job was, without a doubt, to tell stories to each other.

The wind is still blowing. The squalls pummel Matthias’s story and make the walls of the porch groan.

Resisters and deserters, it comes down to the same thing, Matthias went on. All of them had to spend the winter in some shelter, hunkered down in the middle of nowhere, saving their energy as they waited for spring. Spring, with its liberation. With a guy like you, he tells me, it wouldn’t have worked. We would have been discovered or would have killed each other. No one can survive with someone who won’t talk.

FIFTY-SIX

I awake. The sun is high in the sky and the blanket of snow lustrous with cold. Blinding. I slept poorly last night, my legs hurt, pain seized my bones. I could not close my eyes.

Kneeling in front of the plastic basin, Matthias is doing the washing. He rubs our clothes hard with detergent and hangs them on the line above the stove.

He gets on my nerves. Not only is he indefatigable, he is surprisingly agile. He leans over, straightens, and pivots as if his age were a simple disguise. When he drops something, he often catches it before it hits the floor. He is flexible and energetic. Slow at times, but always flexible and energetic.

Often he works without a word, though sometimes he talks too much. When he changes my bandages, when he stokes the fire, when he stirs the soup, when he washes the dishes, he chatters, he chats, he recites. I never answer. After all, he is only thinking out loud.

He was brought up in a world buried under work and days, he often says. Just before the great wars. The streets of his village were unpaved. The houses were bursting with children who wore hand-me-down boots with holes. Life in its entirety revolved around hard work and a few prayers.

Those were different days, he goes on, I would slip away from the family uproar and go to watch the blacksmith across the way hammer the metal and talk to the horses. If I really concentrate, I can still hear his raspy voice and smell the scent of burnt hoof, the fire, the iron. That was the only place where I could believe in something else. As if every animal newly shod could carry me somewhere far away. My parents died young and with them died their way of being, I took over the house and little by little the past fell silent. The flame had gone out in the heart of the forge. The newspapers shouted news of the future and fresh promises hurried to seduce us. A few kilometres distant, we could see the bony structure of the city rising. Dreams came from all directions in scrolls of smoke, there was talk of lighting the streets, digging tunnels, sending up buildings higher than steeples. My children were born, the fields fell prey to pavement, the church disappeared behind office towers. The family dwelling was lost in the corridors of intersections, fast lanes, and billboards. Everywhere you looked, cranes were harassing the horizon, a thick odour of asphalt weighed upon the roofs, in the streets the belly of the city was being opened up and sewn back again. From my balcony I heard the song of sirens. Sometimes I saw flashing lights speed by, other times not. The misfortunes were distant and anonymous. Then the children left and the house became very big and very empty. The rooms echoed with the ticking of clocks. My wife and I were alone to contemplate the endless construction sites, the sweaty foreheads of the workers, the rattling of steam shovels that lifted their arms like docile, powerful beasts. I remember the dust that floated in the beams of sunlight. When the grandchildren came to the house it was a blessing. My wife glowed with happiness. Even after fifty years of life together, I never grew tired of her beauty, her charm, her grace. But time is a thief. My wife started clinging ever tighter to the things she knew. Her memory wavered and her voice trailed off in the labyrinth of her words. She maintained an irritated, confused silence. Her movements became abrupt. Hesitation filled her eyes. I didn’t know who, of the two of us, truly recognized the other. Then one day she fell in the bathroom. I felt the end was near. The phone, waiting for the ambulance. They took her a few blocks away, to a building of elevators and corridors. I visited her every day. Her eyes soon lost their colour, and nothing seemed to bother her anymore. She started smiling again, and showed no intention of returning from her enchanted island. She knew I would be there every day, by her side. With age and fatigue, the chronology of life blurred. We distrust our memories more than we do our forgetfulness. I needed time off. I needed fresh air. I left for a week in my old car. Drive, see the landscape. See the landscape, and drive. Take a long trip, then return and see my wife, my head clear. A few days later, my car broke down in the middle of the forest. I walked to the village in search of a mechanic. Then the electricity went off. At first I thought the neighbour lady would come and get me. That was what she said when I talked to her on the phone. All right, I’ll get on the road tonight, I’ll be there tomorrow. A few days later, she still had not shown up. The phone lines stopped working. I kept waiting. I didn’t understand, she had always been a trustworthy person. I was desperate, I tried to steal a pickup truck, but didn’t know how to go about it. In any case, all the gas had been siphoned off and people kept a jealous watch over their supplies. There was no way out. I decided to settle in here. Then one night the trap snapped shut. They brought me a feverish, crippled young man. That man was you.

Matthias is still bent over the basin, surrounded by a heap of clothes and a bucket of water. On the line above his head, the pants, shirts, socks, and underwear look like carefully sorted rags.

My wife is waiting for me, he explains, and he stops scrubbing. She is waiting for my visit. She waits every day. I promised her. I have to get back to town. I have to get back to her side. I have no choice. I promised. I promised never to abandon her. I promised to die with her.

Matthias’s voice wavers. He will burst into tears at any moment.

Look, he says, pulling a photo from his pocket, that’s her.

I don’t know how to react. I pick up my spyglass and scan the empty landscape. The snow gauge shows the same amount as yesterday.

FIFTY-SIX

Today the sky has clouded over and the trees huddle together. The barometer is pointing downward. Maybe a storm on its way. It’s hard to say. When the sky darkens we always imagine a storm is brewing. The chickadees chirp among the branches. When a blue jay makes an appearance, they scatter. As soon as it leaves, they return, one by one.

Matthias brings me a bowl of soup, a slab of black bread, and a few pills. He sits down at the table, absorbed in his meditations, as I take my first mouthful. After every meal, he takes stock of our supplies and stands in front of the trap door for several minutes. Then he sits me on the sofa to change my sheets. He takes me by the armpits to move me. As he holds me in his arms, my legs swing one way, then the other, as if I were a marionette.

From the sofa, I watch Matthias’s silhouette against the brightness of the window. When he raises his arms, the sheets fill with air and settle gently on the bed. Like a spare parachute. I hear him ruminating, muttering, complaining. He may be talking to me, but his words seem stuck between his teeth. Strangely, as my eyelids grow heavy with the medication, his voice becomes clearer. As if he were speaking to me in my sleep, his words mixing in with my dreams. As if he were trying to penetrate my mind and cast a spell on me.

Before the snow started, you didn’t want to eat anything and now you eat like a pig. Eating me out of house and home. I was afraid you’d die of your fever. But you got away every time. You’re my obstacle, the stone in my path. And my ticket out of here. You can act like you’re made of ice, I know you hang onto every word I speak. You can face pain, all right, but you’re afraid of what comes next. That’s why I tell you stories. Any kind of story. A shred of memory, ghosts, lies. Every time your face lights up. Not much, but enough. In the evening I tell you what I’ve read. I tell you everything sometimes, until dawn wipes away the night. Like the book I just finished, where all the stories flow together and run into the other a thousand and one times from one night to the next. I come from another world, another time, and you know it, it’s obvious. More than a generation separates us, and everything points to the fact that you’re the stubborn, grumbling old man. We are both living in the ruins, but words don’t paralyze me the way they do you. That’s my survival work, my mechanics, my luminous despair. Are you trying to measure up to me, maybe? Maybe you want a race between two human wrecks? You’re not up to it. Just keep quiet. Keep your mouth shut tighter if you can, it’s all the same to me. You are at my mercy. I could play your game, I could stop talking, you’d sink into the folds of your blankets. You want time to pass, but time frightens you. You want to take care of yourself by yourself, but you’re not up to it. You’re stuck here. You wander through the depths. Even the simplest movement is impossible for you. You spit on your fate. You can’t get used to the fact that in the prime of life your body is broken and ground to dust. You’re wary, I know, but you have learned to accept the care I give you. You’re jealous of me too. Because I’m standing pat. Go ahead and look, and listen, I’m standing on my own two feet. Look, I’m twice your age and I’m standing tall.

Matthias stops. I hear him turn and move in my direction.

Since the snow started, the bouts of fever make you moan, and murmur, they drag a few words out of you. It’s not conversation, but I settle for what you give me. At my age, when people cheat, it doesn’t bother me anymore. Imagination is a form of courage. Look, look harder, look better, it’s snowing and we don’t even notice it, and time is going by. Soon, I say soon so as not to say later, much later, you’ll be able to stand up, you’ll hang onto me as you put one foot in front of the other and you’ll go from the bed to the sofa by yourself. From the sofa to the chair. Then from the chair to the edge of the stove. You’ll stare at the door every day a little harder. You’ll weigh your words and not speak them. You’ll calculate the depth of winter and curse the wonderland of storms. You’ll probe the state of your injuries, the depth of our solitude, the laziness of spring, and our food supplies. You’ll listen to me talk and I won’t realize it, and you won’t understand how you cheated death. Soon, I say soon so as not to say now, soon I won’t have the strength to fight for the two of us. I won’t be able to hide behind the slowness of my body or the few hopes I have cobbled together. But I will pretend. And I’ll go on believing in your recovery, the days growing longer and the snow melting. Over and over I will bring back the sparks from the blacksmith’s forge and the city spreading out and my wife’s laughter. I’ll tell you all kinds of things, I’ll make it up if I have to. We’ve got no choice, it’s the only way to confront what is coming. Don’t worry. I’ll be there, I’ll look after everything. It will be all right. Don’t worry, I’ll pretend. There are only so many ways of surviving.