He was rampantly bawling the sermon, his exuberance soon managing to elicit reactions in the stomachs of attendants. And the rumblings that typified the end of services soon began rising in the incense-filled air. The priest punctuated his sermon with heavy taps on the curve of his stomach, which jutted towards his audience like a promontory. He sniffed ostentatiously, contracting the capillaries in his large nose, which were visible from that distance. He must’ve been rather familiar with the chapter about caribou.
When we got around to the grand apportionment, the first-time communicants accepted the miserable unleavened chip, just transformed into meatball stew by the magic of the Word. Veterans followed, enticed by all this juicy solemnity. Mr. Administrator decisively got up, turning onto the short aisle, hands joined over his mid-section, brimming with contrition. He had no choice: he had to continue polishing his image and playing the enlightened-leadership card. It was really funny seeing him mix with these characters, to whom he generally had to concede an impressive girth and more than a foot in height and muscle. The communions elbow rubbing swept him along in its muffled swirl and, cupping his hands, leading the procession and leaning before the celebrant, he seemed to be begging for public understanding, indulgence, and approval.
I was overcome with hesitation as I was about to claim my share. I wouldn’t normally have wanted to be in this sad comedy for anything in the world, nor to participate in its supremely facile gregariousness, returning with a host stuck to my palate, thin and bland as the taste of faith itself. As I approached the distribution point, screened from it by the large backs of attendants, Salomé’s white dress dazzled me all the more. Her dark face seemed made of obscurity as she stood in the priest’s shadow.
Head lowered, eager to get it over, I suddenly noticed the bright red stains on the nice T-shirt I’d worn specifically for the occasion. Mr. Administrator had just completed the formality and was returning towards the back, chin resolutely plastered to his chest. My heart beat faster as I made a rapid inventory of the mess. Tiny spatters stretched out like scars across my chest. Beginning to panic, I raised my hand to my neck, pulling it away smeared with blood. I then understood: my morning wounds had reopened, accompanied by new exactions from the bit braces that had found me on the way to the chapel. The result: I was dripping like a tap.
Following a second of terror, I stretched out my palms, placing the smeared one underneath. My stomach emitted something like a nervous giggle. The priest lowered his dismal eyes, while Salomé gazed straight ahead. I could no longer see anyone and, eyes overturned, was looking for flies on the ceiling. I was growing faint, and their little barter was taking forever. He finally plunked the host in my palm; I fell forward as though it weighed a ton, with Salomé’s image swaying and waltzing in the air with total absurdity. Throwing her arms around my neck, she stirred the shoulder blades lying beneath her wings, and began avidly licking the host in the palm of my hand. My head crashed into the ciborium and snow flew beneath the nave, as I registered the brushing of a robe against my cheek. I think that was all.
Our guard dog was giving a recital as the moon rose. The poor devil of a bastard spent his whole existence chained to a rudimentary kennel near the store. When needed, he could give the alarm with conviction, not much else being required of him. But when the moon was full, he yielded to heredity with breathless vigour, singing the praise of the big orange ball, tilting his litany of barks and whimpers at the firmament; it was enough to freeze blood in your veins and urine in your bladder.
I was sleeping fitfully one night when he began to howl. Yet I could’ve sworn his favourite satellite was in its new phase. I tore myself from a stranglehold as humid as it was purely dreamlike. A train whistled in the distance, while the mutt had started a genuine concert. His chain scraped heavily against the ground, providing backup harmonies while he ran to and fro. Beats worthy of a large drum echoed from the main door, providing percussion. I went down the hall leading to the kitchen, leaning forward in my briefs, staggering as though a cement bag had been loaded onto my back without warning. The Old Man was up, hair on end, wearing shorts and an undershirt, spreading his stench. He’d always turned down the privilege of having his own room, where he could have had some privacy during the brief intervals when sleep came to his proud and decrepit body. Exposed on the front lines, he slept in the living room, always turning in last, curled up on a tired couch whose springs ejected him for the least reason.
Benoît also appeared, eyes puffy with sleep, stifling a yawn as well as a gesture of rebellion.
“Sleeping around here isn’t easy.... “ he said, gritting his teeth.
Blows continued to rattle the door panel, as the rumbling of muffled anger invaded the obscure building. The Old Man made a few steps, repeating to himself, in the neutral tone of a litany, “Pack of dogs! They respect nothing! Pack of dogs! There’s no way.... Pack of dogs!”
Benoît had considered the situation, and taken time to put on his pants. Being well-kept meant everything to this boy.... Well-kept numbers, well-kept premises, well-kept appearance: everything had to be well-kept and, as much as possible, kept quiet.
The Old Man and Benoît, standing abreast, peered down the dusty aisle bordering the shadow-flooded shelves. The blows gathered strength behind the door. Neither a word nor a shout punctuated this patient display of impatience. A fist beating the wood door, the crude rhythm of this pounding. Blows striking the door, that’s all.
Lending a music-lover’s ear to this rolling of kettledrums they knew very well, Benoît and the Old Man exchanged knowing looks. The latter said with all the authority required, “It’s okay, boys, we can go back to bed!... They’ll get fed up!... They must’ve been on the train.... The train always brings Indians.... They’ll get fed up, guaranteed! Bastards.... “
While Benoît returned to his quarters, yawning to the point of breaking his jawbone, the Old Man, finger raised, gave another of those special lectures he really liked to hit me with at the drop of a hat, “Never open!... N-e-v-e-r, d’you hear? Once their foot’s in the door, it’s over! O-v-e-r!... Only thing left is the gun!... Baaaang!... Oh, the bastards will get fed up.... They’ll get fed up, guaranteed!”
As soon as we’d gone back to bed, they knocked with increased obstinacy. The insistent and stubborn rhythm of the pounding, in the midst of my half-awakened delirium, insidiously replaced the throbbing of my blood. It was like the sound of a tom-tom in the night, powerful and primitive, unrelenting and impenetrable. And I clenched my fists in despair, absolutely wanting to sink into sleep but continually caught, awakened by the controlled madness of the drumming. I wanted to hit something as well, anything, just to release pressure and somehow respond to the primary impulse filling the night. But I remained there, proffering death threats muffled by my pillow.
I finally got up and returned into the hallway. The Old Man, expelled by the springs of his berth, passed in front of me in a whirlwind, charging through the store, lifting a genuine dust cloud in the finest tradition of cavalry regiments, bellowing like the devil the whole time. He rushed to the door, tossing the bar like a mere toothpick, then leapt onto the steps, continuously railing against the undesirables, calling them all the names in the Bible, taking stock of and trotting out all the church dishes and other liturgical hardware in an impromptu sermon whose main theme went something like, “Go to bed! You pack of dogs! Go to bed, go to bed! Pack of dogs!”
The vision of the hoary old man floating like a ghost in his underwear must’ve made a strong impression on the Indians, who retreated in disorder without even trying to parley. I glimpsed Donald Big-Arms’ barrel-shaped figure through the doorway; he seemed to be hesitating, wavering on the spot. He split the darkness with a yellow smile and, blind drunk, proudly struggled to stand up before thinking of running off. Behind him, Cowboy was slipping away at a moderate pace, taking his time, calmly looking over his shoulder, as though underlining that such a strategic retreat implied