The Weight of Snow

TWO HUNDRED SEVENTY-THREE

I awake suddenly as if someone had grabbed me by the collar to save me from drowning. I am lying by the fireplace. I feel the weight of my legs at the far end of my body but do not dare move them.

The daylight is dazzling on the other side of the window. The sun is melting the snow on the roof, and water comes streaming down everywhere, along the roofline. The smell of flour is in the air. I turn my head and see Matthias kneeling in front of the fire. On the coals there is a kettle of soup and an aluminum plate with slices of black bread.

I sit up and touch my face. Frostbite has formed a film of dead skin like a snake that has molted.

Matthias looks in my direction. I raise my chin to swallow my saliva. We consider each other for a moment. Then he shakes his head and sighs, disapproving of my stubborn nature. Or refusing to believe in my resilience. I lift my eyebrows. He gives me a bowl of soup and a slice of bread. It has been a while. I eat hungrily. After the meal, Matthias makes instant coffee.

In the village, he says, I found a bag of food on a front porch. I figure someone left it for us. At least that’s what I thought when I saw there was a little bit of everything inside. Maybe people aren’t so stingy as we thought.

Next to the fireplace is a crowbar and a pile of short planks.

I started pulling up the hardwood floors in the rooms upstairs, he explains. Look how good it burns.

He throws a few pieces on the fire. The varnish melts, bubbles, colouring the flames, then evaporates. The wood is dense. It burns well and produces a lot of heat.

We’ll survive this, he predicts, showing me the book that was on his bedside table. The blackout, your accident, this village – just detours, unfinished stories, fortuitous meetings. Winter nights and travellers.

I watch the pieces of wood being consumed. The nails that are left turn red, fall, and are lost in the carpet of hot ashes where the coals glow.

I didn’t break anything. My legs are swollen, but I’ll be all right. I’ll be back walking again, tomorrow, soon. But I probably won’t be able to trust them.

Matthias stares at me, his head to one side.

I told you you’d never make it.

TWO HUNDRED FIFTY-TWO

We have had a week of good weather, maybe more. At midday, we can feel the temperature rise above the freezing point. But when the sun sets, the landscape drops down below zero as if the illusions of the day had no effect on the world of the night.

Slowly, the skin of my face is healing. I went to look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and I just look like I have a bad sunburn.

Yesterday we did an inventory of our reserves. We have been rationing for a while, and skipping a meal now and again. Matthias went to the village this morning. I used the time to do the exercises he taught me earlier in the winter. I concentrated on my leg. So it won’t give out on me again in the middle of nowhere.

Early in the afternoon, I stick my nose outside for the first time since Matthias found me in the blizzard. I lean on the door frame and watch the light nestle in the black arms of the trees. With the growing warmth, the snow seems to be sinking deeper into the landscape. I stand there for a time, between the day’s warm caresses and the wind’s icy hands. I think of my uncles, who must have put out chairs on the front steps of the hunting camp to soak up the sun and listen to the promises spring makes. I think of my map in the wreckage of the porch. And my slingshot and spyglass.

The sight of Matthias climbing the hill tears me from my daydreams. He joins me in the doorway.

I searched a few houses but didn’t find much, except for these dried dates. We’re not the only ones going over the places with a fine-toothed comb. And this time no one left us any bags of food. I’m going back tomorrow. There are still some houses to check.

We eat a few dates. They are stiff and dry.

With a few of these, he points out, the men of the desert could survive for weeks.

I give him a penetrating look.

How long in the frozen desert?

Eat and we’ll see.

We suck the remaining nourishment from the pits and watch the sun flood over the surroundings. I gaze at the distant mountains, a series of superimposed planes.

Suddenly an idea comes to me.

There’s a lake in the back country, a few kilometres from here.

What about it?

We can go fishing.

It’s winter, he says stubbornly.

I know. And we have everything we need in the basement. A shovel, a chainsaw, fishing line.

Matthias squints at me.

Is it far?

A few kilometres, the other way from the village.

You’ll never make it, he tells me categorically.

I’m better and you know it. I’m still limping, but I’m better. We’ll leave early to be back before dark.

TWO HUNDRED THIRTY-NINE

We move across the crusty snow hardened by the cold of the night. We make slow progress, slowly but surely. Matthias is pulling the sled with the equipment. He is huffing and puffing like an old horse, but he isn’t letting go. I’m saving my strength by putting most of my weight on my poles.

When we finally reach the lake, the sun is just peeking over the treetops. We get right to work, moving onto the middle of the frozen surface, then shovelling aside the snow for a few metres in all directions. Beneath our feet the ice is smooth and dark. I start up the chainsaw and cut a wide rectangle. The ice is very thick. It takes a while before the water begins to bubble up and we can push the block under the surface.

I attach gold-coloured lures to the end of our fishing lines. It’s not ideal, but it’s all I could find. Once we catch something, we will be able to use it for bait. Fish don’t have any taboos.

We sit down on the sled. The sun caresses our shoulders and the backs of our heads. Our lines are deep in the cold, black water. From time to time the ice grumbles, and cracks run between our legs and dart across the frozen lake.

The light changes quickly, the sun turns and lengthens our shadows. A snowy owl flies high above without a sound. In its claws it grasps the body of a rabbit that it is about to devour.

Matthias leans over the hole we have cut.

They aren’t biting, he sighs. Maybe we should have set snares for rabbits. Do you know how to do that?

My uncles trapped when I was young, but I never tried.

Just then I spot a house hidden among the trees at the edge of the lake. I’m surprised I didn’t notice it sooner. From here I can’t tell if anyone is living there, but there are no signs of life around it. Once again I could use my spyglass. One thing is clear: there is no smoke coming from the chimney.

Did you see that? I ask Matthias, pointing at the house.

He pays me no mind. He is concentrating on opening a bottle of wine with a corkscrew.

That’s the wine Joseph gave us?

Yes, monsieur.

Warmed by the heat of the sun, we drink and stare at our fishing lines. Warmed by the wine too. As we pass the bottle, the air grows milder. There is not a breath of wind. The mountains thrust out their chests, and the snow is splendid.

Tell me, he asks abruptly, do you think that eight canisters of gas is enough?

I glance at the house by the shore. Nothing moving there. But if there are people inside, they must be watching. And laughing because we haven’t caught anything.

What do you think? Matthias insists.

It depends.

He nods and waits for the rest.

It depends on the motor, it depends on the road, it depends on all kinds of things.

But it’s possible?

I consider the sun that has started its descent toward the horizon.

Yes, maybe. With a little luck.

He gets to his feet, shouting.

I’ve got something, I’ve got a bite!

He reels in his line, as excited as a schoolboy, and pulls a handsome trout from the dark waters of the lake. With one hand he proudly displays his catch. With the other he grabs the bottle of wine. He keeps the pose a moment as if I were going to take a picture, then sits down silently, watching the life slip away from the fish’s writhing form.

Give it to me, I tell him.

I unhook the trout and cut it into pieces so we can bait our hooks. As soon as we get our lines back in the water, Matthias pulls another trout to the surface. Two minutes later it’s my turn to get lucky.

We’re off to the races.

And we still have plenty of wine.

TWO HUNDRED FOUR

For three days, we ate all the fish we could. Today we are smoking the rest. A cloud is floating through the living room. Our eyes are stinging and our clothes stink.

We set the fillets on a grill above the fire and feed it slowly, just enough to keep it from going out. That way the smoke stays dense and thick. It is easy, but it takes forever. It shouldn’t cook, it should dry. Matthias made that clear.

If there’s any water left in the meat, it will rot.

For hours and hours, heads spinning from the smoke, we watch, hypnotized by the glowing embers and the delightful perspective of meals to come.

ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-NINE

For some time now, we have not had to take turns keeping an eye on the fire. The cold is still insistent, but during the day, the heat of the sun helps us keep the house warm. From time to time, blocks of ice break off from the roof, slide down, and crash to the ground. Each time a powerful groan shakes the walls and we jump, as if an avalanche were bearing down on us. The ice that falls from the roof piles up in front of the window, the doorway, all around the house. It is surrounding us, walling us in.

This morning, opening my eyes, I hear an unusual sound. For a moment I figure another piece of icy snow is falling from the roof, and then I think someone is trying to sneak into the house. But the sound is coming from the chimney. Carefully, I approach the fireplace and stick my head into its black mouth. Suddenly, something bursts from the darkness and pushes against my face. I try to protect myself and end up falling backward. Matthias wakes up, startled at seeing me in a cloud of soot and ashes.

Above our heads a bird is frenetically throwing itself against the ceiling and windows. We want to capture it, but it is quick and frightened. Matthias throws his coat over it like a net and manages to still its flight. I take it firmly in my hands. It is a beautiful thing. Its heart is beating like crazy. At the same time it is completely calm. As if ready to die.

Outside, I ease my grip. For a fraction of a second the bird is motionless. Then it flies off and disappears.

We stand on the porch, as if waiting for something. The day is dawning before us and the snow gauge is standing free. Finally we go inside because of the morning chill.

I make coffee and contemplate the living room. We have taken apart the floor, done our washing, and darned our clothes. And stuffed ourselves on smoked fish. As we do every day, at every meal.

Matthias goes to the window and gazes pensively outside.

We could have varied our menu and eaten that bird, he points out.

True, I agree.

A little later Matthias heads off to the village in search of food. He looks determined. When he closes the door, a block of snow slides off the roof. I hear it pick up speed and crash to the ground with a dull, heavy thud. Just behind Matthias who goes on his way as if nothing had happened.

ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-THREE

Matthias returns from the village at the end of the afternoon. I spot him coming up the slope. He is walking head down, and his progress is laborious. With every step his snowshoes sink into the wet snow. He comes in and collapses onto the sofa without taking off his boots.

His clothes are spattered with blood.

I found something to eat, he explains. But it didn’t go the way I thought it would.

I do nothing. I say nothing. I can’t keep my eyes off from the blood on his coat and pants.

Heat some water, he asks, barely lifting his head, do you mind? I have to wash off.

I stoke the fire and fill two kettles with snow. Matthias lets his clothes drop to the floor and wraps himself in a blanket. I ask no questions. I pick up his clothing and put it in the wash basin. A revolver slips to the floor. He bends over, picks it up, and hides it under the sofa cushions, away from my prying eyes.

I’d spotted a house that didn’t seem to have had any visitors for a while. Right behind the church. Maybe I could get my hands on something. Even if it was only some ketchup and mustard. People always leave stuff behind. I was trying to force the door when Jonas came up behind me in a panic. At first I thought he wanted pemmican, but he told me he needed help, he was being threatened. I showed him the house I was trying to break into, and told him he’d be better off hiding, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I had to go with him. I followed him to the stable. Five people were standing by the door. Four men and a woman.

They want to kill, they want to kill one of my cows, Jonas explained to me. He was a nervous wreck. They want to kill one of my cows. There’s only three left, just three.

I went over to the little group and we talked. It was very simple. They were starving. And there were three cows in the stable.

Jonas was desperate, but he knew he couldn’t stop the group. I asked him why he had come looking for me.

No one said anything.

I hear you have a gun, one of the men finally said.

I denied it.

That’s not what Jonas told us, he replied. Listen, nobody’s got a gun here anymore. Jude and his bunch took them all. We looked everywhere.

I started to back away.

We just want you to shoot a cow, the lady begged. We’ll share the meat.

It’s true, Jonas said. That’s why I went looking for you. The last time, the other time you went looking through your things to give me a piece of pemmican, I saw your gun, I saw your gun under your belt.

Why don’t you use a knife? I asked.

They’re my cows, Jonas insisted, they’re my cows. I don’t want them to suffer. I don’t want them to panic. The last time, the last time it turned out badly. Me, I told them to wait when I saw you go by.

I nodded my head.

Thank you, Jonas murmured, relieved, thank you.

It all happened very fast.

We went into the stable. They pointed out the cow. It was tied to a post. I took out my gun. The cow was beautiful and very calm. I walked right up to it, put the barrel of the gun to its ear, and fired. I didn’t think it would go off that quickly. And that the explosion would be so loud. The cow stood there a moment, then slid slowly to the ground. I don’t know why, but I wanted to catch it in its fall. But it was too heavy. I nearly broke my back. The next thing I knew, the guys started to cut up the animal. I let them go about their business, and I went back outside where Jonas was.

When he saw me, his eyes got wide and he looked away.

What’s wrong?

Blood, the blood on your clothes, he told me.

When I saw what had happened to my coat, my head started spinning.

Matthias is quiet. I look at him. His shoulders slump forward, his face is thin, his eyes are surrounded by dark circles. Suddenly he looks like nothing. Nothing but a weary body worn by years and circumstances.

During the great wars, he tells me, when the army was retreating, soldiers ate horses. Here it’s the end of the winter, and we’re eating our cows.

I take out the piece of meat he brought. It’s a good cut. I slice off several pieces and fry them quickly in a pan. When it is ready, I offer him dinner.

No thanks, I’m not hungry.

ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN

The ceiling is low. The clouds are sewn to the snow. It has been raining for the last ten days. Sometimes hard, sometimes just drizzle. As if the skies wanted to speed things up now and melt the landscape.

We tear down the room dividers and closets upstairs to feed the fireplace and bring down the humidity. When we pull off the drywall, dust goes billowing through the rooms and galaxies of particles float in the grey light of day. With a sledgehammer we break down the uprights, the lintels, and the two-by-fours. With every blow the house echoes like an empty theatre. Then we saw everything into pieces. A lot of work for not much wood. But it keeps us busy.

Often, before breaking down some sections, we have to cut the electrical wires that run from one wall to the next. I think of radiators, switches, ceiling lamps. I think of the constellations of green and red indicators that belong to electrical equipment. All that seems light years away.

During the day, we take long breaks and go to the window to watch nature’s slow transformation.

Winter’s finishing up, Matthias says pensively, several times over. The roads will be passable soon enough.

Every time he mentions his departure, I wonder what kind of condition the city is in. Maybe power has been re-established, and life is going back to normal. Or maybe everyone has fled, abandoning the old, the sick, and the weak. Like here.

EIGHTY-NINE

The temperature fell below freezing today. The snow hardened in the cold air, and we can walk on it a lot more easily. We use the opportunity to go in search of provisions.

To increase our chances, we split up. Matthias goes to the village, of course, and I climb toward the house by the lake.

As I close in on it, I look across to the mountains. I can feel the trees wanting to shake off the snow. There are no footprints around the house. The place looks deserted. No one has shovelled around the front door. I don’t know why, but the old shed attracts my attention. As if work spaces and storerooms have always been more familiar than the order and comfort of the house.

I want to go in, but the doors are caught in the snow and ice. I break a small window around the side. I make sure to break the glass cleanly, then I climb through.

The inside of the shed smells of dust, old oil, and closed-in spaces. My eyes grow accustomed and, little by little, the darkness gives up its secrets. Wood shavings, tools, tobacco cans full of screws, nails, and bolts. A wide workbench runs along the wall. At the back, by a heap of shovels and rakes, I spot two gas cans. There is even a canoe, upside down, in the rafters.

In the middle a tarp covers a heavy-looking block. I lift the cloth: it’s a four-by-four ATV. An old model. I sit down on the seat and put my hands on the controls. As I rest my leg, I picture myself speeding down the logging roads.

The key is in the ignition. I turn it. No answer. The battery must be dead. I pull on the starter rope. Nothing doing there either. I look beneath the machine to inspect the starter cable. Everything seems to be in working order. I take off the spark plug and carburetor, then clean and replace them.

I get back up and feel that this time the machine will roar to life. I pull on the rope and the motor starts right up. I hit the accelerator to wake up the engine. The smell of combustion fills the shed. When I turn it off and replace the tarp, I think of Matthias with his car and figure that I have no reason to envy him.

On the way out, I cover the window with a piece of plywood. It is still light out, but the day will soon be over. If I want to get back by nightfall, I won’t have time to look through the house. That will wait.

On the way home, I turn around a few times. I’m worried. The shed is a treasure chest, and even if the snow is hard, my tracks can still be seen. Anyone could follow them. You can’t hide anything from the snow.

FIFTY-THREE

The snow has melted by half over the last few days. Or nearly half. Enough so we can make out the rushing veins of water running beneath what remains of the ice and snow. When we step onto the porch and listen, we can hear the rivulets. In spots we can see bare ground. Islands of yellow grass, crushed by winter. When we turn our eyes toward the village, we see that sections of the road are starting to appear where the sun shines with full force.

It is evening now. Sitting across from each other, we are eating a can of corn beef that Matthias managed to unearth during his last expedition. We each take a spoonful, alternating scrupulously. When we have finished, he throws the metal container into the fire. The label burns immediately, then the metal glows red before turning completely black.

I did not tell Matthias what I discovered in the shed. He reveals none of his preparations, though he does describe the book he is reading, where the inhabitants of a village set in the middle of the jungle have been held prisoner by solitude for the last hundred years.

Matthias blows out the candle and we settle in to sleep. We stare at the ceiling weakly lit by the shimmering glow of the embers. Then he tells me he would have liked to play a game of chess. I warn him that I would have beaten him. We laugh. And I say I would have gladly drunk another bottle of wine. Like that day on the lake.

His voice is so low I can scarcely hear him when he says that was one of the best times all winter.

In the fireplace the ashes have won over the embers. The darkness is complete, and the silence that settles over us is comfortable.

FORTY-EIGHT

I open my eyes when I hear the door close. Outside it is light, but the sun hasn’t risen yet. The fire has been lit and the coffee is ready. I go to the window with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Matthias is heading down the hill.

Something isn’t right. Why would he go to the village this early? I’m confused. Then I see the note on the bedside table. I don’t bother reading it, I pull on my clothes and rush outside. When he hears me calling, he stops and looks back. I reach him, limping and out of breath.

What’s with you?

Where are you going?

To the village – why?

There’s still too much snow, I tell him.

Matthias sighs, then looks me over. As if nothing ever happens the way he’d planned.

Look at me, look around, he tells me, furious. I’m old, I was patient all winter, and now spring is here. I can’t wait anymore. I’ve waited too much as it is. The roads are passable, the snow is melting fast. Look, you can see the asphalt on the village streets.

There’s still too much snow, I’m telling you, you’ll get stuck.

I’ve got a car, gas, tires with chains, and food. I even have a gun.

That’s not the point. Wait a few more days. Until it melts some more.

I’m the one who’s melting. I can’t take it anymore. I took care of you, you’re fine now, so let me go. I need to get back to my wife, can’t you understand? I need to find her.

I take a step closer, hoping to reason with him. Matthias backs away.

Let me at least walk you to the village.

No, he shouts. You’re going to turn around and leave me alone.

I move closer to him.

There’s too much snow, I insist, the roads will be blocked when you get to the mountains, you won’t even reach the villages on the coast.

Just as I’m about to put my hand on his shoulder, he pushes me away and pulls out his gun.

I freeze. His hand is trembling.

Above our heads a flight of geese crosses the sky, squawking.

You’re going to turn around, Matthias repeats. And you’re going to let me go.

He moves away, backing off carefully, the gun still pointed at me. The sun is rising. The geese have passed. I can hear them, though they have disappeared from sight. Matthias turns and disappears, following the slope down to the village. I know he would not have fired, but I didn’t want to push things.

FORTY-SIX

Back at the house, I pace for a while. I drop onto the sofa and close my eyes, but sleep does not come. The smell of rotting fish hangs in the room. With all the humidity, the last bits have started to rot. I hurry outside to throw them away, then circle the house, looking for something to do. I stand in front of the fleshless body of the porch, which has become visible with the melting snow. Several times, I hear a car engine in the distance, down the hill.

I make my way through the debris and icy snow. I can’t get all the way to the trap door to the cellar, but by lifting lengths of sheet metal and planks, I find several dented cans, a torn bag of noodles, and a few damp packets of powdered soup. Everything is in bad shape, and I don’t know whether I’ll be able to do anything with it.

By using a plank as a lever, I manage to lift part of the collapsed roof. Carefully, I crawl on my belly through the opening I have made. It is like a cave, an underground chamber spared by the snow. I move forward, feeling my way, and come upon my slingshot and, a little further on, my spyglass. I slip on some wet paper. It is the map Joseph gave me. I take hold of it, move out of the wreckage again, and go back to the living room.

The map is drying by the fire. It was damaged by water, but no information was lost. Over and over, with the tip of my index finger, I retrace the route that leads to my uncles’ hunting camp.

The fire burns down. I throw on a few more planks, and the flames illuminate the room again. I gaze at the objects I brought back, relics like the tin cans, and next to them the strips of bark on the floor. I pick up the note Matthias left. Three lines of black ink.

We survived the winter. I’ll never forget it. Now it’s time to leave. The next step can’t wait and you know it. Farewell.

I put the scrap of paper in my pocket and suddenly feel very alone. Matthias is right. Winter is finishing up. There’s nothing more to do here.

THIRTY-NINE

I can’t sleep at night. I think of Matthias journeying toward the city with his supplies and his gun. I think of Joseph and Maria, happy somewhere, far from the village. And my aunts and uncles watching the fast-flowing river and playing cards. I think of the ATV waiting for me in the shed.

I get up as soon as I spot the first glow of dawn through the window. I slip the spyglass, slingshot, Joseph’s map, and my meagre provisions into the pockets of my coat, then step outside, closing the door securely behind me.

The next step can’t wait. It’s true. It’s my turn to leave.

The sky is grey and smooth. Like a blanket draped over the landscape. The snow is heavy and sticky. With every step, I have to clean off my snowshoes with my poles to make any progress.

I reach the house by the lake. There are no fresh tracks. I am the only one who knows the secrets of this place. With one snowshoe I push aside the snow and ice from the shed doors. A padlock keeps the latch shut, but it is not locked. When I open the doors, the ATV is there, waiting under its tarp.

I sort through the piles of objects and tools in the shed and put everything useful in a box and strap it to the front of the ATV. A sleeping bag, a hammer, a short saw, a retractable knife, rope, and the tarp. All sorts of things. Among the treasures is an old pack of cigarettes. There are six left. I finish the job: I tie the gas cans on the back, on the luggage carrier, and I walk down to the lake with a cigarette in my mouth.

The ice is covered by a good layer of water. The lake is about to break up. Its surface is grey and featureless. Like the sky. I can’t tell where the lake begins and the shoreline ends.

I move a little closer and light my cigarette.

The mountains rise up around the lake and close one upon the other. I squint and make out a path that leads into the back country. A white line on a white background. That must be the way to go. There is always a lot of snow in the woods at the end of winter. If I bog down, I can use the ATV’s winch to get unstuck. Those machines are made to get through anything.

My cigarette is very good, and I smoke it down to the filter. I throw the butt toward the lake and turn around to head back to the shed. But when I move, the snow gives way beneath my feet and I’m up to my thighs in water. My boots and clothes are soaked in a matter of seconds. I try to get free, but I have nothing to hold onto, and the ice breaks when I put any weight on it. I finally manage to drag myself back onto the snow by stretching out full length. But once I start crawling, the surface opens up again and I fall back into the icy water. By the time I reach the shore, I am frozen stiff. It’s not easy finding my feet. My clothes weigh a tonne and I have lost my sense of direction. I have lost my coordination, too, and I have to concentrate to put one foot in front of the other. I stop in front of the shed. I am trembling, my teeth are chattering, and I am afraid I’m going to pass out with every breath. I need dry clothes. Now. Right now.

I move toward the house. My heart is pounding, but it is barely delivering any blood to my limbs. I throw myself against the door. It is locked. It looks like the downstairs windows have been boarded up from inside. The ones upstairs are out of reach. Cold is taking hold of me a little more firmly with each second. I can’t open and close my hands anymore.

I check the door and try to take a deep breath. Use my shoulder. My hip. My feet. The frame splinters, and the door finally gives way. I fall forward inside the house and pull off my clothes as fast as possible, struggling on the floor. The scars on my legs are deep blue. I run upstairs, shivering, open the first chest of drawers I see, and throw on all the clothes I can.

The socks, long johns, pants, wool sweater – they’re all a little small for me but that doesn’t matter. I sit on the edge of the bed and rub my legs for as long as I can.

When my limbs thaw out, I explore the room. I go to the closet in hopes of finding a pair of boots. When I open the door, my heart stops. Beneath the clothes on hangers is a shadow curled up on itself. It is motionless. I bend over. It is a woman. She is thin and old. Her white hair is shiny, her skin diaphanous, her eyes wide open. In a panic I exit the room and go down the stairs, making as little noise as possible, as if I had disturbed the repose of a very tired person.

Everything is impeccable in her kitchen. The floor is clean, the dishes are stacked in the cupboards, and an immaculate oil lamp stands proudly in the centre of the table. Home-made preserves are carefully lined up in the pantry along with baskets of garlic, onions, and potatoes. Only the cold and the dead plants on the windowsill betray the harmony of the room.

For a moment I wonder why I didn’t come here earlier. Matthias and I would have had something to eat, and the lady might have been freed from her loneliness.

In the vestibule I come upon a lumberjack shirt and rain boots. They will have to do. I pick supplies at random, gather up my wet clothes, and go out, trying to close the smashed-in door as best I can. Then, slowly, very slowly, I go back, regretting that I have to put off my departure. But as I walk away, I am not thinking so much of my aunts and uncles in their hunting camp but of the distress of the old woman in her closet.

THIRTY-THREE

When I make it back to the house at the end of the afternoon, the birds are pecking away at the rotten fish. I stop to watch them, then go into the living room. And here I thought I would never set foot in this place again. I try stoking the fire, but there is no more wood, and I don’t have the strength to attack the kitchen walls. Nor to go outside and gather wet branches.

At one spot in the room are the books we piled up when we burned the shelves. The books where Matthias poached his stories. I lean over and grab a few of them, the first ones I get to. I go back to the fireplace and, without hesitation, throw one onto the embers. The cover catches almost immediately. The corners roll up and the cardboard bends in the flames. The first pages bunch into each other. The book opens like an accordion. The heat is intense, but soon the book is no more than a shapeless, orange-and-black mass. Like a fragile, burning stone. I throw another book on, and the flames leap higher, spiralling up the chimney, and bright light fills the room. I take off all my clothes to enjoy the heat of the books and eat a few pickled beets from the old woman’s house. As I watch the pages burn, I wonder where Matthias might be about now. Further than I’ve gotten, that’s for sure.

Suddenly I hear the door creak. Someone has entered the house. It is a reflex: I tie a blanket around my waist and pick up the poker. The footsteps come down the hallway. I hide against the wall. Maybe it is the ghost of the old woman coming to reclaim her beets. A figure stops in the doorway. I stand motionless, both hands gripping the poker. The intruder must be on his guard too. I hold my breath. Then Matthias walks into the room. When he spots me in the corner, he looks surprised. It must be what I’m wearing. We size each other up a moment, then he begins coughing uncontrollably.

I lost control of the car, he explains, disoriented and still in a state of panic. In the curve before the big hill, a few kilometres past the village. I wasn’t going fast, but I skidded into the ditch. The snow… the snow took my car. I couldn’t do anything about it. I had to walk to get back here. It’s over now, everything is over.

I hand him the jar of beets. He eats a few, his eyes empty.

I left everything back there. His voice is trembling. My stuff, the supplies, the gas.

You’re exhausted, I tell him, throwing a few books on the fire. You need to sleep. We’ll see what we can do tomorrow.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid of being stuck here, he sobs, lying down on the sofa.

THIRTY

It is cold in the living room this morning. Matthias is still asleep. His white hair is stuck to his forehead. His beard is dirty and his closed eyes are sunk deep in their sockets.

As I stir the ashes to awaken the embers, I see there are bits of paper where a few words, a part of a sentence, are still legible. As if Matthias’s return had frozen the flames.

I go out for some fresh air. It is snowing. The snowflakes are tiny, like confetti. I consider Matthias’s stubbornness, his misfortune, as I watch the birds pecking away at the remains of the fish. Some of them hop from piece to piece, others concentrate on a single prize, but all of them are agitated and on the alert. When I go inside to get my slingshot, they fly off in a disorderly cloud. And when I go back onto the porch, a few minutes later, they return, one by one.

I wonder what it must be like to have lived as long as Matthias has. And shared your whole life with the same woman. Be afraid you might lose her. And die alone, by yourself. Like the old woman in the house by the lake.

The harsh cry of blue jays stirs me from my thoughts. Several of the birds are perched on an electric wire. One of them spreads its wings, flies past the house, and lands on the snow, a few steps from the porch. It evaluates its chances with its piercing, intelligent eyes, then moves toward the fish, its head cocked. Slowly, I raise my arm, pull back the elastic, and aim. I let fly with a shot. The projectile whips past it, over its head, and disappears into the snow without a sound. The bird lifts its head, but does not move. I wait a little, then try another shot. This time, the bird topples over backward. When I go to pick it up, its wings are still quivering with the final reflexes of its nervous system. I take up position again and wait for another bird of its size to land in front of me, guided by its stomach and the light of spring.

THIRTY

Matthias wakes up as I am making our meal. He seems to be in better shape. Sleep has restored his energy. He sips at a glass of warm water, then takes out the one book he had brought along with him in his coat pocket.

This book is precious, he tells me. I’ve read you a few passages from it.

A good thing he carried it with him. Otherwise I would have thrown it in the fire with the other ones to cook our food.

Listen, he begins, setting the book on his lap, and take heed. A man had two sons. One day, the youngest announced to his father that he was leaving. Fine, said the father, I will give you half of what I possess, for the other half will go to your brother. Not long after, having gathered together the fortune, the youngest son went off to a faraway country and dissipated everything in debauchery. When all was spent, he found himself empty-handed and was forced to feed the pigs that belonged to a rich land-owner. To quell his hunger, he was ready to dip into the animals’ feed, but that was forbidden. In desperation, he decided to run away. Though he no longer considered himself the worthy son of his father, he returned to his homeland. He approached the house, feeling ashamed and lost, and when his father saw him, he threw his arms around him. I am not worthy to be your son, the young man said. But the father ordered a fatted calf to be slaughtered and a great banquet to be held for his glorious return. Let us eat and make merry, he sang, for my son was dead and now he has returned to life, he was lost and now he is found. During the festivities the eldest son came back from the fields. He questioned the guests and learned that a fatted calf had been killed to celebrate his brother’s return. When he saw his father, the eldest flew into a rage. All these years I have worked for you without a word of complaint, he spoke, and you never as much as gave me a goat kid that I might feast with my friends. And now your youngest son returns after wasting half your fortune, and you kill a fatted calf. The father looked at his son. Then he answered in a soft voice. My son, you are always by my side and everything I have is yours. But we had to hold a feast and make merry because your brother was dead and now he has returned to life, he was lost and now he is found.

I motion to Matthias to sit down. The meal is ready. He sits near the fireplace, stares at his plate, then looks up.

What is this?

It’s the feast.

We begin to eat. The flesh is tough. We have to chew every mouthful at length.

Matthias picks up a piece and holds it up, examining it.

This meat’s like leather. What is it?

Blue jay.

Oh, he says, turning toward the books I have piled next to the fireplace.

We finish our plates without further conversation.

TWENTY-NINE

After we eat I tell Matthias to get dressed and come with me.

He doesn’t react.

I insist.

Come on, I need your help. Take everything you need, we won’t be coming back.

He finally gets a move on, and we start out for the house by the lake. When we reach the shed, I ask him to wait for me. He stands there, frozen to the spot, while I get two shovels.

We go to the edge of the forest and I start digging a hole in the snow at the foot of a tree. At first Matthias just watches me, then he picks up a shovel. When we hit the ground, we try to keep digging, but it is as hard as a rock.

That’s good enough, I say, and ask him to come with me.

We leave the shovels behind and go into the house. When we walk through the kitchen on our way to the stairs, Matthias notices how orderly everything is.

It’s so clean here, he murmurs, as if astonished. Everything in its place.

We go upstairs to the woman’s room.

When we come to the closet, Matthias jumps. It is his turn to look like a ghost.

You take her legs and I’ll take her arms.

He leans over the woman and looks at her, then caresses her forehead with the back of his hand.

All right, he says, finally, after closing her eyes, let’s go.

The cold has preserved the woman’s corpse. She is as stiff and hard as stone. We can’t loosen her limbs. To carry her we have to wrap her in a sheet. She is so rigid and so light she seems to weigh nothing. We take her to the edge of the forest without too much effort and place her gently in the hole.

She could be my wife, Matthias says, looking at her body in the grave.

Then we grab the shovels and cover her with a thick layer of snow.

Matthias goes back to the house and returns with the oil lamp that was on the kitchen table. He lights it and sets it like a votive candle at the foot of the tree.

Come on, I tell him, come with me, we’re not finished.

Wait, he whispers, staring at the flame wavering in its chimney.

Then he crosses himself, kisses the mound of snow, and falls in behind me.

TWENTY-EIGHT

We are by the shed now. As I open the doors, Matthias spots my tracks that lead toward the lake and disappear into the water.

You almost didn’t make it, he says.

The water is cold as ice.

We go into the little building. The ATV is there, loaded and ready to go. I take off the case I attached in front, and motion to Matthias to sit down at the controls. He refuses. He has never driven a vehicle like this, but I insist and he ends up agreeing.

You’ll be able to go everywhere with this thing.

He looks at me, unsure what I mean.

You’ll be able to leave the village, no problem. Just go and get your things from the car.

The light of hope gleams in his eyes.

You’ll see, this machine hardly uses any gas at all. You can make it to the city with what you have.

Matthias’s look of gratitude is so strong, it shakes me.

Thank you. Oh, thank you so much.

You’ll be careful on the road, okay? Don’t drive too fast, and don’t stay too long in one place. And avoid the checkpoints.

I’ll be all right, he promises, showing me the revolver in his belt.

I tell him how the starter cord works. Matthias pulls on it, and after eight or ten tries, the engine starts backfiring. Shouting over the racket, I quickly explain how the clutch works, and the winch, and the handbrake.

The next minute he is hugging me and kissing me on the forehead, then he pulls away, leaving deep tracks behind. I wave goodbye, but I don’t think he sees me.

A mild breeze blows through the forest. The sun is beating down. The landscape is made of running water and the snow looks like big kernels of corn, scattered with pine needles, branches, and dead leaves.

Before disappearing altogether, Matthias turns around, waves one quick hand in the air, and nervously grabs the controls again. As if he were riding a bucking bronco.

I sit down heavily in the snow. I feel happy, and worried too. For Matthias and for myself.