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Ramasseur

..the peppermint taste lingers on his tongue long after the peppermint has disappeared; the boy looks out the window, squints into a hard winter sunlight that scatters jewels across the snowy field, and stares at the distant point where all lines meet; is this where everything comes from? or where it returns to?

...the fire crackles as the lilting words of the old Irishman sing a continuous song, a story winding out of and back into itself, If I were going to write a novel, I wouldn't be running off somewhere. There’s nothing in Paris or Zurich or Trieste that isn’t here.

...the boy wonders who Danny is talking to; is it to him? or to himself? why not to himself? don’t stories have to be told to yourself before they can be told to anyone else?

...there’s just Danny and the boy in the warm kitchen; but down the hall, on the other side of the bathroom door there’s an old woman making pee on the toilet; the boy has stood beside her when she’s lifted her dress and sat down, listened to the tinkling of water,seen her face scowling at some distant thought, sometimes speaking to someone who is not there,

...Danny keeps on talking, And I wouldn’t be writing about the smallness of everyday people! I’d be writing grand stories of people great as kings. ...he removes the pipe from his mouth, spits on the floor, his voice soft as a whisper as he turns to the small boy sitting next to him, Promise me, my son, that when you write your novel you’ll stay right here, and write a mighty story.

...the room is sweet with the smell of pipe smoke upon which the old man’s words rise and spire to the ceiling; Danny smiles at the boy, and the boy smiles back, not at the man but at the sweet flow of words that entwine him,

...the boy looks over the old man’s shoulder now, out the window; there are muddy patches in the field, and the gulls that rest there suddenly rise into the air, disturbed by something unseen, coming out of the vanishing point; the birds hover and wait for the man,

...but how can a man appear from nowhere, materialize out of nothing? but it happens; there he is, see him, a dark silhouette on the light, staggering as if under some weight, weaving among the frozen patches of March snow; above his head a white gull floats, caring nothing for the rules of gravity,

....Danny’s wet whispering continues, When you’re old enough to write you’ll write a mighty story. Indeed. One greater than The Dead. A story finer than Himsilf ever wrote. Promise me.

... pipestem hanging from a lower lip covered with a sheen of spittle, smooth as ice on a pond, his voice insistent, Promise me you’ll write it in a straight line. Not all Geeways like that blind old Jesuitical Bastard.
We’ll steal you from the Jesuits. And you’ll write a mighty story, not more claptrap about forging a conscience for your race, but something bigger and deeper than that. A might story.


...yes, thinks the boy, and with the thinking of this consent the promise is made: yes, yes, a grand book, a mighty story, one that will sprawl across the whole world and will collect everything in the world into it, the way dreams do, but it will not be a dream, it will be a cathedral of story, better than the one by the Bastard, one that will have a beginning as real as this room, right here, with an old man and pipesmoke and a window through which you can feel the sunlight and see the snow and birds and an old man walking toward the house, closer now, still followed by the gull that hangs motionless on the sky,

... the thin hunched man waves his empty arms but the snow white bird will not leave,

...the man gets larger,

...Danny’s voice surges, What are you looking at? There’s nothing out there? Listen to me now. Listen to what I’m telling you.

...the boy turns to him, abandons the vision,

The old Bastard wrote a big book about small things, about the day to day things that mean nothing. But that’s not what you’ll write your book about. I’ll see to it. Even if I’m dead.

...even if he is dead: yes, he will come back because the dead always return,

...look out the window: the man has vanished,

... footsteps on the back stairs,

...from the bathroom Grandmother shouts at old Danny, Answer the door!

...but there has been no knock,

...Danny leans over to the boy and whispers, She’s off her head.

Answer it! she barks,

...Danny makes no move to answer a door, shouts back at the woman, There’s no one there!

Answer it! Grandmother bellows,

By the Jesus, the old girl’s batty, Danny mutters,

...the door to the bathroom swings opens so violently that it bangs against the bread bin, Grandmother’s great bulk of flesh comes tumbling into the room and in three great limping strides she is at the back door, growling, Do I have to do everything myself?

There's no one there but your imagination.

...she angrily yanks it open, revealing a thin man with snow on his shoulders,

...Grandmother hauls him in, seats him at the table, prepares a cold plate for him, pours a hot cup of tea,


So, what brings you out on such a day? Danny says sucking at the extinguished pipe,

Eat, instructs Grandmother,

...the man looks at the food and tea as if they can’t be trusted, he begins to speak in a low voice, as if he’s continuing a story he’s already begun, There’s a boy...

...the boy listening wonders who this other boy is,

...Danny strikes a match on the table top, he holds the long flame to the pipe bowl and draws the fire into the half burnt tobacco, with long deep pulls he makes the tobacco glow, he sucks the smoke into him, Speak up Belanger. What boy are you talking about?

...Belanger’s crusted eyes look across the room as if at some invisible person, He is walking on the banks of the river.

Tell us from the start, says Danny,

Let him do it his own way, Grandmother tells Danny,

...but Danny does not look at Grandmother and Belanger does not look at Danny,

...Belanger's fingers play at the rim of the plate but he does not touch the food,

When’s the last time you ate? Grandmother asks Belanger but he does not answer her, he continues to talk as if Danny and Grandmother have said nothing,

...the boy has heard this before, a story of long ago; he’s heard it in pieces, each time in a different order; the words fly from Belanger’s mouth like little birds that land on top of the wood stove and on the door sill and on the open cupboard door; if the boy tries to shelter one of these birds in his hand it flutters quickly away, over to the curtain rod or to the coat rack by the back door,

....Vincent Belanger’s words tell of the hardness of that winter when the men cut white pine; the trees fell to the snow-covered forest floor like dead soldiers and the horses skidded them through the deep snow to the team way where they were later loaded onto sleighs and pulled by the steaming horses through the bright winter, and onto the frozen river,

... when the ice melted, the winter-cut logs would float down the river but sometimes the river jammed with too many logs,

...the story starts on a spring day that began with a great noise and puff of distant smoke; when the cook realized what had happened he sent his young helper down to the river by himself--to do a job no one else would do,


...see how strangely he’s dressed as he stands on the sandy shore of the river contemplating the task before him; he wears a black wool suit coat and boy’s cap as he stares at the water’s surface, as hard and flat as steel; he turns and gazes at the hill above the river where a grove of trees stand and wishes he were there; he looks at the cool shade, then walks again along the shore; a brown burlap bag tied to his belt hangs to his knees; his eyes scan the grass and the muddy flats, every once in a while he stops, bends down and picks up something with great care, puts it into the bag and walks further; at one point he feels a sudden tiredness and walks away from the water and partway up the grassy slope, he leans back on his hands and stares at the indifferent sun that burns into his eyes; when he looks back at the earth everything seems to be covered with splotches of blood and when these fade he sees a soft white object in the supple grass; he reaches to it, touches it and, averting his eyes from its ugliness, puts it into the burlap sack,

...he stands now, leaving behind any hope for rest; his eyes scan the plain of shattered light and he remembers he must find all these pieces before dark; he walks to the river that just a few hours ago was jammed with logs but now is unimpeded; he looks at it and wonders how the river seems to be so real and fixed in time when it is constantly flowing from the place it has never really been to the place it will never reach,

...he walks closer to the water, careful not to slip, not to let the unseen current drag him under and carry him to the mill where he will be sliced by circular blades into pieces of himself; but he does not fall in, he recalls his unpleasant task and walks away with shoulders slumped from the weight of this responsibility,

...Danny shouts, This isn't a story. Its just a bunch of nothing going nowhere. It starts in the middle and goes all arse backwards from there. Tell it right. Merciful Christ!

...but what is mercy?

Leave him to his own methods, he’s doing no harm, says Grandmother.

You think the way you tell something is of no importance!

...now Danny addresses Belanger, Good Lord, how are we expected to understand anything unless you tell it in a straight line? Tell it right!

I am telling it right, mutters Belanger,

How can you jump to the part about the boy picking up the pieces when your story hasn’t reached that point? When there was nothing for the boy to collect?

He was the Ramasseur, says Belanger.

...Ramasseur: name given to the one who performs this task,

...Ramasseur, just a boy dressed in black, walking in the hot spring sun, shoulders stooped; he looks at the ground, sees another piece he must collect, bends down, feels the velvety smoothness of the object; a sickening softness spreads into his gut, down legs that wobble and drop him to his knees, he hangs his head and vomits,

Tell us about the woman first, says Danny,

My Dove, whispers Belanger, You are drowned, he confesses to that very woman,

No! No!, says Danny,

...Belanger’s eyes turn from the invisible spectre to Danny, Yes. She is gone.

No. No. Don’t tell us she’s drowned yet . The man in the story has to find her first, in the arms of the other man. You have to tell that part before your story can move on to the explosion. Only then can it end with the young boy walking on the riverbank.

Yes, says Vincent as if agreeing with Danny but not talking to Danny at all,

He must find her, says Vincent,

...Vincent continues the story in french and it flows easier, as if it is another story altogether; it leaps across distance and time and recommences in a large rooming house: there’s a long dim corridor with a row of doors on each side and behind those doors people live separate lives, a tall muscular man walks toward the room where he knows the woman will be waiting for him, he’s been gone for months, the heels of his high bush boots squeak on the worn linoleum as he approaches the room where he and the woman have shared a bed, he opens the door and sees a vision that fills his eyes with a low fire of hate, he stands in the middle of the disordered room and shouts in french, Whore.

...the thin Indian looking girl rises naked and approaches him; in the bed huddles a young man,

...the tall man screams at the naked woman who rushes toward him, he calls her faithless, she weeps, he reaches out and grasps her wrist and yanks her forward, she stumbles and falls to her knees at his feet, he screams,Give me the ring.

...she pleads for mercy, but what is mercy?

...the man tries to wrench the ring from the naked woman’s finger but it will not come off, she screams in fear, Don’t take this from me!

...in the bed the young man watches, does not speak,

...the muscular man drops the dark girl’s wrist, looks over at the red headed man in the bed and shouts at him, You!

...he lunges like a wolf, the naked man cringes and raises his arms to protect himself from the onslaught; the muscular man pounds his face and head, blood splatters the sheets, the victim falls limp, the woman screams for the man to stop but he does not; he drags the bleeding man to the door of the room, shoves him into the hall, curses him and kicks him, then returns to the woman who waits for her punishment,

...he shouts, Whore. You have undone it all.

I have done nothing.

Whore! Whore, whore, whore.


...she lies at his feet and weeps, What have I done wrong?

...she reaches up to touch the man's hand, he grabs her wrist so hard her fingers splay, and with the other hand he tries to yank the ring from her now swollen finger,

Don't take this from me. It is all I have.

You betrayed me.

I’m innocent.

You opened your legs for him.

Only for money.

Whore.

Yes, she admits, this truth as plain as love,

...he lifts her by the hair,

I love you, she proclaims,

...when the man hears the word, Love, he slaps her face, she falls to the floor, the man unsheathes the knife on his belt,

...Belanger tells the story in a long stream that leaves him breathless; the boy doesn’t want to hear any more, doesn’t want to see what the tall man is going to do with the knife but can not help but see how the blood splatters across the floor as she screams more in despair than pain,

...Belanger stops, blinks in the sunlight, looks around the room to see where the small desperate birds have come to rest, he mumbles, The boy couldn't find all the pieces.

Danny exclaims, You can't go back to the boy. Finish the part about the whore first.

The whore? Belanger asks, confused,

The whore. The whore. The one who had her finger chopped off.

They told the boy he had to find all the pieces of the man. But he couldn't.

No. No!

But the boy couldn't find them because the pieces flew too far. Who knows how far a man can be scattered?

As far as the force of the explosion will carry him, replies Danny, Now get back to the start of the story.


...see the pieces of a man flying through the air when the dynamite on the barge explodes, there are shards of wood and clumps of flesh,

Sweet Jesus, you've blown him up too soon. A story's got to move in natural order. To flow.

Flow? Belanger mutters,

From beginning to end. Like a river.

...the river moves from the place it has never been, to the place it will never reach,

Yes, mutters Belanger, Like a river,

Now you've got the idea, says Danny with a smile; he leans forward, his eyes wet with wonder, he tells Vincent Belanger, Your problem is your story jumps all over the place. It starts with the boy on the river bank, picking up pieces even before the explosion happens. Then you tell the part about the whore, and then you tell the part about the barge going down the river. You see, the barge can't be there now because you just told me the boy is on the river bank picking up the blown-up pieces. A thing cannot be there if it has just vanished. Now can it?

...but why not? isn’t everything still there after it is gone? don’t even the dead refuse to leave?

...Danny leans forward, If you want the story to be proper it's got to start when the man meets the whore. Then he gives her the engagement ring. Then, you tell the part about how he comes back and finds her with the young man. That's when he takes out his knife and does the deed.

... don’t look! but how is it possible not to see the woman kneeling on the floor beside the table while she watches the man cut off her ring finger? she begs the tall man not to take this from her but he continues to hack at her bloodied finger, he picks up the severed piece and puts it in his pocket, then walks to the door while she crawls after him; all through the town she follows him, dripping a crimson trail and calling, My Beloved.

....the tall man strides toward Carmel Creek; the woman trails, begging for mercy; the man and woman reach a place at where the water widens and swirls around a submerged tree; replica sharkskin band watches the naked woman is on her knees on the sand, she wraps her arms around the strong man’s legs and one last time begs for mercy, but he has set himself in motion, his arm is raised and he tosses the woman's severed finger into the air, it rises in a slow arc, it stops in mid air and the sun glints on the gold band encircling it, then the flesh falls along the path of its descent, replica cartier the water opens and swallows it: the way it will swallow the woman,

There, says Danny, All the parts of the story are in their right order. And they make sense.

My sweet beloved, says Belanger,

...the light has begun to withdraw from the room,


...Danny continues, Now the man goes back into the bush. He tells himself he will work like the devil all winter and forget about the woman. But she plays on his mind, even though she is gone. In the spring he is sent down the river to un-jam logs with dynamite. He can not get the woman out of his head so he sets the charge and stays with the logs. There. Now you can end your story with boy picking up the pieces.

Pieces, says Belanger as he stands,

You haven't touched your food, says Grandmother,

It's all in proper order, proclaims Danny,

Yes, mutters Belanger, then grows quiet, signifying the story is over; but it is not over because the boy can still see it: the riverbank, the orange fragments of setting sun scattered across the water, and that boy dressed in black, replica platinum band watches who is now weeping as he feels the lightness of the burlap sack and knows there are not enough pieces in it to make a man,

...without a word Belanger moves toward the door and slips on his coat; Grandmother attempts to do up the buttons but he acts like she does not exist and walks into the porch; she stands at the doorway and watches him stagger across the frozen March field; then she returns to the room, begins to clear the table, and gives Danny a hard look,

Don't be starting with me, he tells her,

...she tosses the empty plastic cups into the sink and runs water over them,

I've got to be going too, says Danny but does not move from his place at the table; he blurts, Merciful Christ, you're not going to tell me you liked it better the way he was telling it?

...Grandmother bangs the cups and plates against each other as she washes the dishes; she does not turn to speak,

...the boy looks out the window and sees how the sun has sunk toward the earth, and how the staggering man weaves among patches of snow that rise into the air, spread their wings and hover above his head,

... the man swings feebly at a solitary gull that hovers motionlessly above him; it floats there until he moves further into the distance and then it lands on the ground behind him and becomes a patch of snow again,

...see how the tall, thin figure of the man shrinks as he moves toward that far point where all lines converge; see how that empty place swallows him and how it drains from the day the pale orange light, so that the sky becomes violet at first, then a bruised mauve, and finally a dark tender purple, as deep and as solemn as mercy .

End

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