vicious and massively heinous attacks, I only noticed the extent of their havoc when the party was over. Seeing me return covered with bites, the Old Man cried out and rushed to the medicine cabinet at full tilt. I was given intensive care.
It happened one Sunday. An itinerant clergyman had detoured through Grande-Ourse, which hadn’t been able to afford a permanent pastor in a long time. Now and again, a priest who was passing through would stay a while. This time, his services were needed to administer first communion to a pair of converts already tangled in a protocol that was supposed to be flexible. Mr. Administrator suggested I accompany him to the service, to sound out the population like in the good old days, when pipe-chewing parishioners stood on the square, reaching into pig-bladder tobacco pouches. But the steps to this chapel weren’t very wide and, with the flies biting, people tended to take them at a clip.
All the right-thinking residents of Grande-Ourse were there. I’d put on a spotless cotton T-shirt with large draping folds, a kind of mini-cassock, which must’ve made me look like a runtish White Father who’d escaped from cannibals. Streaks of ointment on my skin identified the most injured areas. The inquisitive gazes of attendants converged on us while I took a seat in the back, beside my boss. Heads turned towards us like filings drawn to the poles of a magnet. People came here to pry as much as to pray. Mr. Administrator smiled at everyone indiscriminately, as though to say everything’s fine, nothing to complain about.
I got a shock right from the introit. Two cherubs accompanied the celebrant: a chubby voting white boy who seemed carved from soft marble; a young girl, Salome, draped in the vestal robe of choir children. Her brown face contrasted with the garment and was exceedingly beautiful.
She piously lowered her almond-shaped eyes, while I gaped in admiration. Her modesty was the picture of passion. I didn’t take a very active part in the ceremony. People moved their lips, emitting breaths and sounds, while Mr. Administrator mimicked them as best he could. Amid the murmurs, people would lean to their neighbour, inhaling the waxy redolence of their ears. Lukewarm chants alternated with hot gossip. The on-duty preacher, energetic and ruddy, was visibly relying on his instinct to find words able to move this potbellied and unrefined crowd. He spread the word of Christ without affectation, in his own gut-felt language, perverting Christianity’s founding metaphors if needed.
“And so,” he bellowed powerfully to the two converts nestled in the first pew, “what is the Eucharist, eh? What does it mean precisely? Well, my children, I feel like asking who you are exactly. Eh? Answer and you’ll receive communion! Your host, my children, is a nice big stew with a really fat brown sauce dripping between your fingers! And later, when you’re old enough to handle the bottle, the caribou your parents drink will warm your blood during ordeals! That, my lambs, is the nature of your Eucharist in this land of Cain, this land of Canadians!”
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
