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 no fundamental concession.
After scattering the riff-raff and addressing the one who’d lingered with elementary rhetoric, the Old Man returned to the back of the building, juggling prize inanities. The half-naked old fool went back to the unstable comfort of his springs, waving his arms as though to brush an entire battalion of demons out of his way. He’d acted in a semi-sleepwalking state, and was now busy realizing how rash his bravery had been. As he was about to pass by me, he snatched a can from a shelf and, waving it as though it were a projectile, turned towards the door, howling furiously,
“Next time, it’ll be with a 30-30!... BAAANG! With a rifle, I tell you!... BAAANG!”
The old scarecrow’s backside had been guarded anyhow. Benoît had surreptitiously worked his way into the manager’s narrow office, which he often had to relinquish during the day to Mr. Administrator’s inquisitive pen. A large unglazed window in the wall of that room allowed you to slip into the hallway. Benoît was seated on the edge of a pivoting chair, eyes opened with great difficulty, rifle on his knees. He was stiff as a rail. The Old Man murmured, with a hint of tenderness in his voice, “It’s over, TiKid.... You can go to back to bed, young fella.... It’s over,”
Outside, the dog was still howling. Benoît returned to his room, leaning the rifle against the wall between stacked boxes of bullets and a dictionary he consulted regularly in the line of duty, since he sometimes needed words to defend himself. And I fell back into the bay-coloured arms of my dreams, as though they were a parenthesis in the long insomnia that was beginning.
A double streak of grease squirted from the hamburger fried the Old Mans way, and Mr. Administrator suddenly announced wearily, “I’m leaving today.... For Montreal.”
He’d said this while massaging his jaw. Through the sharp sputtering of the fat, the Old Mans distinct sigh of relief could be heard as he leaned over a cast-iron pan spitting grease. He could keep his position by default. Once again, Mr. Administrator hadn’t dared give him final notice, and he could see this as another reprieve.
“Another one? Hungry enough for another one?” he bellowed, artistically tossing the beef patty swelling on his spatula. “You’ll never eat better ones, not even at McDonald’s!” he added triumphantly.
Mr. Administrator looked at him furiously. Heartburn was curling his lips.
A little earlier, the previous night’s raid had been discussed, a raid scuttled by our very own Old Man’s courageous stand. Breaking his usual silence, Benoît then launched into an epic description of the Old Man’s outburst, giving a detailed vignette of the terror that had stricken the intruders at the sight of this fury. The zeal of his panegyric plastered a delighted smile on the Old Man’s mug, who probably saw this as an opportunity to boost his image in the eyes of the boss. He cleaved the air with his skillet, elated. “Baaang! Nothing but dogs!”
Mr. Administrator, sullen looking, concealed his face behind the golden back of a large hamburger. He repeated, in a quieter voice, “I’m leaving this afternoon.”
A prolonged stay would’ve inflamed his ulcer. The previous day, he’d wanted to shake hands with parishioners outside the chapel, following the principle that he’d have nothing to gain by setting everyone against him. But his flaccid paw was left dangling in the breeze, bent like a fish hook. All he got were wary looks. Finally, the Muppet himself, tossing like a Cartesian diver, came over to grab his outstretched hand, only too happy to clutch some protrusion. But Mr. Administrator would’ve preferred to speak with some notable specimen of that crowd which, in recent years, had specialized in being indebted to his business. He looked around, diffident, giving me a worried expression mixed with resentment.
Id attracted attention to us, though perhaps not exactly the way he’d have liked. They’d quickly carried me out, while the kneeling priest, with Salomé’s help, busily picked up his supply of hosts, swearing. Slumped on the squares lowest step, Id regained consciousness amid a circus of concerned faces more astonished than moved by genuine charity. Every tragedy has its good side, however, and a decent blonde girl, possessed of more initiative than the local average, had, with quiet assurance and self-confidence, wiped my pale face with a dampened altar cloth. I was conscious enough to hear her explain to the others, who were already anticipating my emergency evacuation, “it’s only an allergic reaction, that’s all.... He’ll recover. There’s venom in those tiny creatures, you know....”
“Who? Him?” an astonished voice cried out.
“The flies, stupid!” she answered him, smiling at me. “I saw a guy rushed to hospital after being bitten like that...,”
I couldn’t stop looking at her.
“A city guy, obviously!” decreed someone else, whom I couldn’t see.
I’d managed to sit halfway up, “You’re the nurse, I guess?”
