The Weight of Snow

TWO HUNDRED SIX

I close the door behind me. A point of light glimmers at the end of the hallway, but darkness is dominant and the walls stretch out in dimness on both sides.

Anyone home?

No answer. The house is empty. Lifeless. Only Matthias’s ghostly existence and my own haunt this place. My hands firmly on my crutches, I take a few steps forward. The humidity quickly penetrates my bones and stiffens my joints. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep this up.

The living room is on my right. Books are scattered across the floor beneath wide bookshelves. The books are like a heap of coal about to be shovelled into a furnace. A stone fireplace dominates the room from the back wall. Inside, there are charred tin cans and a few half-burned logs. A blanket partly covers the old sofa. A bottle of gin stands on the low table. Curtains are drawn over the windows. The cold has frozen everything in place. From the corner of the room, the television watches my every move and offers me the reflection of a middle-aged man moving forward painfully, leaning on two wooden sticks. The living room gives onto a dining room. Tinted blue from the snow blown against the windows, daylight filters in weakly. Further on, in the kitchen, cold air blows through the planks of a boarded-up window. Drafts carrying snow. Above the counter the cupboards are bare but for faded wax paper. In the sink, rags and oily cans. The floor tiles are covered with the broken necks of bottles and footprints from heavy, muddy boots.

I glance into the bathroom. It is dirty and unusable. I close the door before nausea gets the better of me. I go back to the main hallway and past the front door. Curious, I look out the peephole, but see nothing. Maybe it is defective. Or is the snow playing tricks on me? A reflex: I make sure the door is locked. I stop in front of the staircase leading to the second floor. The stairs are wide and heavily built. The wooden railing has been sculpted with a skill that belongs to another time. I hang onto it carefully, taking both crutches in my free hand, and climb the steps in my lurching manner. Upstairs, the three bedrooms are flooded with light. The round windows pour down brilliance on the unmade beds, the wardrobes thrown open, the chests of drawers emptied hurriedly, the clothing scattered on the floor. I move toward one of the windows.

The view is surprising. The line of the mountains seems to be drawn with unaccustomed confidence. The endless stretch of forest runs down to the clearing where the snow gauge stands. I feel as if I am the lookout on a ship and have finally grasped the dreadful magnitude of the horizon closing in on us.

Further down I can see the beginning of the village clearly. Really no more than a few buried roofs, four meagre plumes of smoke, and small trails leading from dwelling to dwelling like fragile gangways, threatened by the elements.

I could stay here forever, gazing at this desolate, magnificent landscape. But the cold is slowly taking hold of me. When I breathe out, a cloud of steam issues from my mouth as if I were smoking. I lean over with some difficulty, pick up a sweater from the floor, put it on, and rub my hands together.

Back in the hall I notice a door under the staircase. The access to the cellar, no doubt. A shiver runs down my back. I don’t want to catch cold, but I can’t resist: I open the cellar door. Just to see.

All I can make out are the first few steps that disappear into a black, gaping mouth. I bend over, leaning on my crutches, and slip my head into the entrance. My pupils dilate and slowly I see into the darkness. Something is lying on the floor and blocking the way. I kneel down to inspect. A large black suitcase. It is heavy, and I have to brace myself against the doorframe to drag it into the hall and daylight.

In one of the compartments, I find a sleeping bag, a pair of boots, a yellow raincoat, and clean clothes. In another provisions of all kinds are carefully stacked. Canned food, jars of jelly, crackers, chocolate bars, dried dates. And Joseph’s two bottles of wine and the slabs of pemmican.

I have discovered Matthias’s secret provisions. This is where he squirrels away everything he can, discreetly, at night, like a greedy, stubborn little rodent.

I search further and come across batteries of every size, two flashlights, a detailed road map, knives of different formats, rope, and a compass. Everything a man needs for an expedition. Everything he needs to leave without warning. I even find an alarm clock in working order. It has been a while since my days were ordered by the passage of the hours. Time has become a viscous substance between sleep and wakefulness. Ten minutes after two, the alarm clock says as I slip it into my pocket.

As I put everything back in its place, I notice a pouch attached to the side of the suitcase. I open it. There is a small cardboard box inside. Bullets for the revolver. Now I know what Matthias hid under his shirt this morning.

I put the suitcase back in the cellar, close the door carefully, and hurry back to the porch to warm myself by the stove.

TWO HUNDRED EIGHT

Heavy grey clouds weigh upon the landscape. They pass over the forest at low altitude and stroke the treetops, leaving a few flakes behind.

Matthias returned some time ago, but he has not said a word. We ate white rice with a few sardines. After the meal he collapsed onto the sofa, his eyes staring, like a dead animal. He has not moved since. Outside, the light grows weaker. Night is crouching at the edge of the woods, about to creep toward us like a wolf.

It’s like the village is moving in slow motion, Matthias says, demoralized. Jude and the other guys haven’t come back, and most people are just laying low and waiting. Some people say they must have had trouble with the minibus.

You think they’ll come back?

Matthias sighs and takes the key ring out of his pocket, the one Joseph gave him.

I heard they left with the gas, weapons, and a good share of the supplies.

At the corner of his eyes and on his forehead, his wrinkles make him look like the sunset before a storm. I turn toward the window and see that the flakes are liquefying as soon as they hit the glass. The snow seems to want to change into rain.

Matthias toys with the keys and gazes at the little plastic moose.

They left, he says bitterly. They lied to Jonas, they won’t be back. I should have suspected as much.

Darkness settles over the porch, but neither of us seems ready to make the effort to light the oil lamp. I get the feeling Matthias is doing exactly what I am: counting the falling drops of water and trying to sleep.

For the time being we’ve got enough supplies, he says after a while, but we’ll have to figure out something else for food. There’s no other choice.

I act like the words mean nothing to me and picture the suitcase he has hidden on the other side. And the alarm clock in the pocket of my coat.

TWO HUNDRED TWO

It is a morning without light. A dull sun wanders on the other side of the clouds. For the first time since winter began, it is above freezing. It is raining and the landscape sops up everything, thickens, and sags onto itself.

Today, by hanging onto the reinforcement posts, I tried to put a little weight on my left leg. Gently, not pushing too hard. I could not take a step, not yet, but I’ll manage one day soon.

The roof is leaking more. The drops run closer together and fall before the ones ahead of them finish their trajectory. Matthias has to empty the bucket on a regular basis to keep it from overflowing. Everything seems to be moving faster, but the comforting tick-tock of the alarm clock reminds me that the minutes are passing as slowly as ever.

I call over to Matthias and ask him what time it might be, according to him.

Why do you want to know? he replies, irritated, it makes no difference.

Just to know, I tell him, getting under his skin.

Then I pull the alarm clock out of my pocket.

That’s all I needed, he growls, now that you can move around on your crutches the way you want, you start pawing through my stuff.

Furious, he grabs the clock from me and sets it on the table. The time is exactly eleven twenty-four.

At eleven twenty-eight, Matthias picks up the bucket and heads outside to empty it. But when he gathers the momentum to throw the water out, he slips and falls backward. I grab my crutches and go to the door. He is rolling on his side and moaning in pain. Finally he pulls himself up on all fours, stopping to rest on his knees. He lays a hand on the small of his back and leans forward to pick up the pail again. Then, carefully, he retreats back into the house.

Outside, the rain is falling and everything is covered in a layer of ice. The front entrance is perilous, the snow glitters, and tree branches bend and sparkle.

Get out of the way, Matthias orders me, his face twisted in pain, let me get by.

I close the door and turn around. He hurls the bucket at the wall.

They left for the city! Do you get it? Where else would they have gone? They took everything they could and left me behind. That’s what happened – that and nothing else!

He is struggling like a bear caught in a trap. I try to make it back to my bed without riling him up. I stretch out and avoid moving, lying low.

They don’t give a shit about me! he bellows, kicking the pail that rolled back in his direction. And I didn’t see it coming. You understand? A man my age! A bunch of pissants, all of you! You can’t understand. You have no respect for anything. I want to see my wife again! Is that so hard to understand? My days are numbered. I prayed, but everything is behind me now. I want to be with her, I want to be at her side. That’s all that matters. I don’t care about the rest.

TWO HUNDRED FIVE

The clock says four fifty. Despite all of Matthias’s carrying on, I fell asleep. I move my legs and sit up in bed. The battered bucket is under the table, and the leak is falling directly onto the floor. A little river crosses the room, heading for the sea.

Matthias is sleeping on a chair, mouth open, head thrown back. It looks as though his heart has simply stopped. On the table before him, his key ring, a book, and a bottle of wine. Empty.

It is still raining, and everything lies beneath a thick layer of ice. A few trees have fallen to the ground. Others have lost big branches. The electric poles are scattered across the snowy fields, laid low by the weight of their wires. The ice storm has fossilized the landscape in crystal glass. Even the snow gauge has been petrified.

When I stretch out my arm to take my crutches, Matthias springs to life, as if someone had slapped him in the face.

Where do you think you’re going? he growls, his teeth stained with wine and his speech slurred. Look outside, go and take a look, he insists, pointing toward the window. Where do you think you’re going to go? There’s nowhere to go. We’ve been left behind. Look, go ahead! Look as much as you want! There’s nothing to see. We’re caught in a trap in a sea of ice. Twenty thousand leagues under the snow.

His glassy eyes glitter briefly, then flare out. He grabs the bottle by the neck and sucks out the last drops.

We’ll never get out of here, he declares, banging the bottle back onto the table. Winter won’t give us a second chance.

He belches and adjusts his position to look at the clock. Three minutes after five.

All that happened over two centuries ago, he tells me, point­-ing at the book in front of him, in a magnificent and God-fearing city, celebrated for its churches, basilicas, and cathedrals. It was a quiet morning, even the waves entered the port on tiptoe. The entire population had gathered to attend Mass. Suddenly, the water drew back from the shoreline. The birds rose into the sky. The dogs began to bark, seeking out their masters. And the earth shook. Crevasses opened up in stone walls, the mortar between the bricks split apart, and clouds of dust tumbled to the ground. The sculpted arches, the pinnacles of the belfries, the painted domes – nothing resisted. The vaulted ceilings collapsed on the praying people. Buried alive in the churches. And when they rushed into the street to gaze upon the damage, Matthias declares with a glance at the crucifix above the door, the survivors were swept away by a tidal wave.

Darkness is slowly swallowing the surroundings. A snake digesting its prey. Matthias picks up the oil lamp, his head nodding. Several matches break between his fingers before he manages to light a flame inside the narrow glass chimney. I listen to the seconds turning circles inside the clock as if they were trying to stall for time.

What the hell are we doing here? he shouts, waving his hands in the air. We’re caught in a trap. We’re stuck. We’re screwed. Look at the clock, watch how the hands move, listen to the sound it makes. It’s not cold or snow, it’s not darkness or hunger. It’s time – time will destroy us. It’s five seventeen, and no prayer will get us out of this place. Are you listening?

Matthias gets to his feet and points his finger at me. Then he staggers and sits down again.

We don’t have a prayer, he repeats, his voice hoarse.

It is five twenty. Matthias has calmed down. His eyelids droop as if he were hypnotized by the silence that separates each second.

Maybe you should lie down on the sofa, I suggest gently.

His eyes pop open like a glowing forge made red-hot by the bellows.

Are you telling me what to do? Are you my mother or something? You’re the one making decisions and issuing orders? You’re still limping, but your wounds have healed. You don’t need me anymore, is that it? My presence is an annoyance, I disturb you, and you’re trying to tell me so? Oh, you’re doing better, but what are you going to do next? Do you have somewhere to go? Or do you want to stay here? The snow is piling up, the food is running out, and people are deserting the village. I can’t believe I’m still stuck here, he spits between clenched teeth, it makes no sense.

His eyes narrow as he looks at me, a target in his crosshairs.

It’s your fault. This is all your fault!

He picks up the alarm clock and throws it at me as hard as he can. I barely have time to duck as it shatters into pieces against the window frame. I look up and see the wine bottle coming my way, end over end, smashing just above my head. He gets up, turning over his chair in the process, moves around the table, and comes lurching in my direction. I want to move and react, but I am paralyzed. Matthias stands over me like a thundercloud. I hear the air rush into his lungs, rattle around his chest, and exit through his nostrils. He grabs my chin and forces me to look him in the eye. I feel his fingers squeezing my jaw and crushing my cheeks. This old man with the black, hard, bulging eyes is a stranger. I don’t know what he wants or what he is going to do.

Joseph is gone, he can’t defend you now, he says, slurring his words. Nobody will help anybody anymore. You understand? You’re doing better. You’re talking and you can move around. But nothing has changed here. I’m the one who makes the decisions. You got that? Here, you do what I tell you to. Answer me – you got that?

Saliva sprays my face as his bony hand holds me prisoner. I reach out to grab one of my crutches, but he reads my mind. With one hand he pushes them out of reach. With the other he steps up the pressure, pushing my head deep into the mattress.

Look at me, he thunders. I’m twice your age. But I won’t be pushed around. Not by you. Not by Jude. Not by anybody in this place!

Our breath comes hard and fast. Our eyes are glued to each other. Then, for a split second, I sense a weakness in the muscles of his face.

Everything happens very fast. I let out a shout. Matthias is startled. I push him away and free myself from his grip. I slip off the bed and crawl toward the door, paying no attention to the shards of glass on the floor. Matthias grabs my ankle. I fight back with my other leg. Though the pain blinds me, I manage to kick him in the crotch. I knock the wind out of him, and his balance goes. He falls backward, hitting a post and knocking it flat as he falls.

When he gets to his feet among the upended chairs, his nostrils flare and he is staring straight ahead. He sizes me up, picks up one of my crutches, and waves it in the air like a club. I dodge the first blow by backing against the wall. I parry the second with the stool that stands by the front door. I ward off his assault and look for a way out. If I manage to stand, he’ll knock me down. If I open the door to escape, I won’t get further than a few metres. I throw the stool, but I don’t have much strength, and it falls to the floor before reaching its target. Matthias attacks again, I roll in a ball to protect myself, the crutch slams into one of the posts that breaks free from the impact. He roars in pain; the blow must have travelled up his hands.

He prepares to attack again as I try to reach the poker from the stove. Suddenly, a groaning sound startles us both. Matthias freezes on the spot, but I stay in my defensive crouch, keeping my eyes on him. I hear water pouring onto the floor. He has recovered his senses and stares in amazement at the state the room is in. I lift my head and glance at the ceiling. There are four or five leaks now. And the window next to my bed is cracked from one end to the other.

A great boom shakes the porch. Seconds later, the window explodes into pieces, icicles fall away from the roof, and cold air invades the room.

Matthias stands there, uncomprehending, like a monument from a bygone age. Outside, the rain has changed back into snow and the wind rushes in to scatter flakes on the floor, the bed, and the stove. The beams groan dangerously. Matthias looks at me. Winter is walking on our heads. Then part of the ceiling collapses and knocks him to the floor under a tonne of wreckage, pieces of sheet metal, and blocks of ice.