By Anne Hébert
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He eats his shortbread scorching off the hearth . . . “What a superb existence! ” The groom, shouting as he twirls the bride approximately. I’m ill. ill to my belly. That swallow of shortbread that won’t cross down . . . It’s stifling in right here . . . The Irish jig . . . The devil’s personal dance! And that jarring sound of the fiddles, scraping, piercing my cranium . . . i have to have had an excessive amount of to drink. Tin cups packed with liquid fireplace. strong God, I’m demise! . . . on the governor’s ball little around slices of lime flow in a purple punch, great and candy . . . Mustn’t put out of your mind my place . . . i think so vulnerable, the best way I do prior to my interval . . . This kingdom hotel is to this point underneath me . . . Now he’s twiddling with the lace on my petticoat. lower than the desk. Slipping his hands among my stocking and my shoe. Ever so lightly. at the back of the lengthy linen textile, placing down. “I’m a contented guy! ” The groom, proclaiming his pleasure. every person observing, a bit embarrassed, cooing with pride. Then all of them giggle and giggle. forged sly little seems to be on the bride. realizing glances . . . within the wee, small hours, the bride remains to be wide awake, nestling head to toe opposed to the groom, who lies submerged in an exhausted, alcoholic sleep. With that fresh-cut gash among her thighs, the bride appears to be like around the room. Dismayed to work out her garments strewn approximately in a tangled muddle of velvet, linen, and lace. A two-week trip. lengthy, abandoned roads. via forests. Little village motels. The fatback and molasses make me ailing. occasionally there are insects crawling out of the bedsteads. And the sheets are consistently so tough. the warmth is insufferable. The rain comes during the hood into the carriage. Louiseville, Saint-Hyacinthe, Saint-Nicolas, Pointe-Lévis, Saint-Michel, Montmagny, Berthier, L’Islet, Saint-Roch-des-Aulnaies, Saint-Jean-Port-Joli . . . The air of the river, downstream, filling my lungs. The evenings, growing to be cooler. more advantageous and better, the odor of the sandy banks. driving alongside, Antoine Tassy issues to an invisible line the place the river turns into as salty because the ocean. Elisabeth d’Aulnières we could her suggestions run again domestic to the candy, clean waters of the Richelieu. Sainte-Anne, Rivière-Ouelle, Kamouraska! The hills loom up, upward push out of the underbrush. unexpected whiteness, speckled with black. Layers of marbled rock, larded right here and there with stunted timber. and shut by means of, the wooded area . . . The flat banks, stretching alongside the river. Reeds and rushes. And sea grasses, long-stemmed eelgrass, swaying within the wind. Like ripples alongside the water’s side. The groom waves his whip opposed to the July sky. issues out the islands. Names every one, slowly, as though they have been people. Introduces his area to his younger bride. “Ile aux Corneilles, Ile windfall, Ile aux Patins, Grosse Ile . . . ” summer time panorama, hot and misty blue. The lengthy expanse of muddy banks. The odor of low tide fills the air. The water blends with the sky. You can’t see over to the opposite shore. i've got lots of time to dwell the following with my younger husband . . . many years of violence and melancholy . . . See how I grasp to him, like a tom cat! Nestling opposed to him as he introduces me to his mom, status on the manor door to greet the newlyweds.