You’re going to be patient and you’re going to take care of him. That will be your contribution. Then you’ll have your spot in the convoy.
He’s in bad shape, Matthias muttered, looking at my splints.
Yes, but he’ll make it.
You think so? Matthias questioned, raising his eyebrows.
The veterinarian wanted to step in, but the pharmacist motioned her to wait. Matthias paced the room.
What about wood for the stove?
I’ll see to it, the watchman promised, I’ll bring everything you need.
Matthias thought it over.
I’ll stop by once a week, the veterinarian said, to give you a hand and see how he’s progressing.
Matthias nodded.
Put him over there, he said reluctantly, pointing to the bed by the window. I’ll sleep on the sofa.
The watchman and the pharmacist did as he asked.
Come here, the veterinarian suggested. I’m going to change his bandages with you, that way you’ll know how to do it.
The pharmacist took out a roll of gauze, the first aid kit, and the jars of pills. The watchman sat on the stool by the door and lit a cigarette.
Doesn’t he talk? Matthias asked.
Not really, the watchman answered, you know, with the accident and the medication, that’s normal. And I suppose his father dying shook him up pretty bad. At least I think so. Give him time.
Once the veterinarian saw that Matthias had understood her instructions, they tightened my splints and threw the soiled bandages into the burning stove.
If you run out of ointment, she added, you can put sugar on his wounds. That will fight the infection. But remember to always give him his antibiotics.
There are pills for pain, the pharmacist pointed out. That should quiet him down if he complains too much.
The watchman thanked Matthias, then motioned to his comrades to leave. As he was crossing the threshold after them, Matthias put his hand on his shoulder.
What if he doesn’t make it?
Come and get us as quickly as you can. But remember, his life is in your hands.
I’ll do what I can, Matthias stammered, taken aback.
Everything will be fine, the watchman assured him as he went out the door. I’ll be back in a few days with the wood and supplies.
What’s your name? Matthias asked. You didn’t tell me your name.
Joseph. She’s Maria and her husband is José, he said, pointing to the veterinarian and the pharmacist.
Joseph left, and Matthias stood in the doorway for a long time.
Maria, that’s it, her name is Maria, I thought. Then the fog overtook me again.
FORTY-FIVE
I am alone in the room. Matthias went out on his snowshoes. I pull on the old quilt that covers my feet. At the end of the bed, kilometres away, my toes are the colour of bruises, but at least they move. With the splints, they are the only part that is mobile.
Pain is still my master, but at least the bouts of fever have subsided. I have stopped waking up suddenly, gasping for breath, trying to figure out where I am. I have learned to recognize the room, the window next to my bed, and Matthias’s face. When I open my eyes, I know where I am, who I am, and what awaits me.
Not long after I was delivered here, my temperature shot up and my teeth started chattering. Matthias sat at my bedside. He put on fresh bandages and changed the sheets that were soaked in sweat. He wiped my face, my neck, and applied cold compresses to my body. He spoke to me too. I don’t know what he said, he told me all kinds of things, stories, adventures, it was like the odyssey of a man pursued by a furious god, and all he wants is to get back home after twenty years of absence. In the morning, he broke off his story and went for a nap on the couch. When he woke up later, he lifted my head, gave me something to drink and some pills. They were all the colours of the rainbow. During the day, I struggled against an invisible abyss. At night I slept with my eyes open. The way the dead do.
Often I dreamed I was running. I was running full out through the corridors of a labyrinth. Everywhere I went a red thread lay on the ground. I ran as if a beast were on my trail. I didn’t see it, but it was there, behind me. I clearly heard its panting breath and the clatter of its hooves. It was closing in. Its claws cut through the air, trying to tear off my legs. I kept on running. I was dreaming and I didn’t look back.
At the worst of the fever I must have lost consciousness, because I remember waking up, gasping for air, in Matthias’s arms. We were outside, in the pouring rain. My body was on fire and the ice-cold water helped bring me back to this world. When I regained consciousness, Matthias lifted his head to the sky as if he too had been saved. The rain poured down his face and his hair was plastered to his forehead. Then he picked me up and carried me inside. It wasn’t easy. We were soaked and I had trouble clinging to his neck. When he laid me on the bed, I was so weak I felt I was sinking into the blankets. Matthias fell to his knees and tried to catch his breath.
Over the days that followed, my fever broke and I stabilized. At the time I felt nothing outside of a tingling sensation. Then a sharp, cutting pain took hold of my body. As if thousands of nails were piercing my flesh from the inside, slashing though my spine, driving into the palms of my hands, my feet, fastening me to the bed. A black frozen pain opened my eyes in the depths of the night and made me fear I would never walk again.
The analgesics Matthias had me take reduced the agony, but they lasted only a few hours. Sometimes he would massage my legs. He would sit on my bed, take off the heavy gauze, clean my wounds, and rub my thighs, calves, and feet. I did not like him kneading me like black bread. But he was careful when it came to my wounds. After every session, the swelling subsided and I didn’t feel so cold.
My toes are still moving at the far end of my body. I believe my bones are knitting together, my wounds are closing, and the penicillin is doing its job. But the pain is tenacious, constant, tireless. I pull away the cover to look at my legs. My splints are recycled wooden slats, and belts were nailed to them instead of the usual straps. On one of the slats, I can see saw-tooth marks. On the other the trace of a hinge pulled off with a claw hammer. I am a monster fashioned from cast-off wood, bolts, and pieced-together flesh. But that’s better than nothing.
The hospitals are far away. In space and in time.
FORTY-SEVEN
It is the end of the afternoon. When he came back from his walk, Matthias stoked the fire, then went looking for a book on the other side. He reads a lot, and since I show no interest in the books he leaves by my bed, he tells me stories. Like the one about the two tramps quarrelling beneath a tree as they wait for someone who never shows up.
Every time he crosses over to the other side, a cold draft rushes through the half-open door. And every time, the draft rouses me from my lethargy and I lift my head to look into the great lifeless house. But I can see no more than a dark hallway with a light at the end.
We live in the annex of a great manor, in the summer kitchen. A porch with a wood stove and a wide window facing south. When the sky is clear, the light enters and warms the room. But as soon as the sun falls behind the horizon, we have to stoke the fire. Though it shows signs of wear and a few stains caused by leaks, the room seems to have been designed with care. The moldings feature rosette figures. The floors are hardwood. On the walls, you can pick out spots where pictures once hung.
In the centre of the porch floor is a trap door. It gives onto a crawl space. Matthias uses it as a cellar. He stores meat there, and vegetables, and everything that needs to be kept cool but not freeze.