explained to me by the bible, or by Mother, or on the radio. The rest was already inside me. There was nothing more for me to learn, or at any rate, very little.
I spent the best years of my life looking through The Thermosiphon and Balloons and Air Travel, although I really enjoyed reading Apparent Death and Real Death: Assisting the Dying in Body and Spirit, the celebrated book by Dr. Desroches. Between books, I would faithfully watch Mother’s daily naps, as she would often sleep in the afternoon. Dr. Desroches was the one who told me that the best way to go unnoticed is to play dead. So Mother was playing dead.
While I slowly gained confidence, Mother persisted in not thinking for herself. We kept the doors and windows shut, but the humans from Rivière-à-Pierre kept overrunning our porch. We were invaded by their voices; they told us how it was going to be. The things I heard through the boards were about me. Things that crouch in the depths but that later resurface. Things that I force myself to forget but that are stronger than forgetting.
It started innocently enough, almost without warning: ‘You have to take her out for some fresh air. What are you feeding her? What are you teaching her?’ Then it would continue like this: ‘Is she an idiot? Do you still breastfeed her? Do you still hold her hand?’ And then, at age seven: ‘Enough childishness, lies, and foolishness. She isn’t an infant anymore. She has to stop acting like a baby. Look in the mirror. Other people don’t behave like this.’
I didn’t matter that Mother put thicker and thicker curtains on the windows; we could still hear the voices. They got in through the ears and made their way through the skull. Once they got inside the head, they would make it split and crack. The nonsense would slip inside, slip so far inside it almost came back out. But it would stay in there, surviving, lying dormant within us. Nonsense is surprising at first, but after a bit there is nothing surprising about it, and soon it makes every gesture not so innocent. I wash my hands. I scrub my nails. I brighten my complexion. I don’t yawn like I used to. I don’t sneeze like I used to. I don’t talk, I don’t laugh, I don’t play anymore. Constantly, at every moment, I put my hand in front of my mouth because putting your hand in front of your mouth is supposed to change everything.
And one day the passersby no longer stopped in front of the porch. They looked down at the ground but they still eyed us; they closed their mouths but showed their teeth. I thought we would finally get a bit of peace, but it was not to be because Mother kept opening her mouth. And it kept on. It started over, only more so: Don’t get your clothes dirty (particularly on Sunday). Watch you don’t stain them (particularly on Sunday). You have to be careful not to show your underwear (even if it’s beautiful). You have to be polite and say ‘hello’ and not ‘hi’ like a boor, say ‘excuse me’ and not ‘whoops’ like a boor. You don’t have to suffer to be beautiful but be beautiful to suffer, always write in cursive script (because it looks neater), always smile with your mouth closed (because it looks neater), always lower your eyes in front of men and be charming honest virtuous reserved timid docile. Don’t complain if there is violence at lunch. Be fresh and ready for anything and when I say anything, I mean anything.
But fear not, no no no. Our village is the best village in the world, and our world is the best world there is. But just think about that for a minute. We have always lived in a village. So how can we not be favourably disposed to it? How can we not love it from the bottom of our hearts? How can we not cherish it like we cherish a mother? Here’s my theory: the love we feel for Rivière-à-Pierre results from an emotional attachment. If you love Rivière-à-Pierre unconditionally, it’s because you haven’t cut the umbilical cord. I cut the cord posthaste, and now my village makes me sick. It generates deep hostility in me. I think the whole world should agree that the village leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. I will hear no further argument: the village is ugly. A new verifiable fact, an accepted idea, a universal truth. Yes.
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