The Tin Flute Read online

  Marguerite, busy in front of the ice-cream wells, was a tall, sturdy girl whose cheeks were naturally pink, as if even in this oven they could keep the perpetual bite of some far-off country frost. She would lift off a cover, plunge the scoop into the thick of the ice cream and toss the contents into a high tapered glass with a base. She added a little whipped cream, squeezing it from a cardboard cone as from a toothpaste tube. From an aluminum drawer she took a spoonful of marshmallow and let it drip on the cream, then doused the whole creation with caramel, and crowned the summit with half a sugared cherry, red and appetizing. In no time the Sundae Special, fifteen cents, was on the counter, like a fountain of coolness on a burning summer day. She would pick up a coin, rush to the cash register and return to the ice-cream wells to start another Sundae Special. The process never varied, but Marguerite put as much care and simple joy into constructing the cunning edifice of her tenth sundae as she did for her first. A country girl who had recently come to town to stay with relatives, she was not yet disillusioned with the cheap glitter of the neighbourhood. Nor was she sated with the surprises and sweet smells of the restaurant. The animation, the flirtations continually launched around her, the atmosphere of pursuit, of withdrawal, of half consent, of seductive openings, all this amused and pleased her greatly. "Florentine's fella," as she called Jean Lévesque, had particularly impressed her. And when Florentine, carrying an order, passed near her, she couldn't resist making her usual remark, with a full, good-natured laugh:

  "Your fella's givin' you the eye, eh?"

  And, licking her moist lip to get a last trace of marsh-mallow, she added:

  "You know, I think he's real smart, and nice, too. It won't take long, Florentine, he's going to loosen up."

  Florentine smiled disdainfully. No doubt that was how life seemed to Marguerite, the big simpleton: a continuous round of sundaes after which each of the girls, without lifting her little finger, would magically be engaged, then married, in a wedding dress, with a little bouquet in her hand. As she went over to Jean Lévesque, however, she thought with some satisfaction that the young man must be showing a good deal of interest if even that great booby of a Marguerite had noticed it. Funny way to be interested, she thought, and her face twitched with resentment.

  She put his plate before him and waited for him to speak, but he, absorbed in his reading, murmured a "Thanks" without looking up. Then, absent-mindedly, still reading, he picked up his fork and began to eat; while she, irresolute, stayed on, more afflicted by this silence than by the young man's earlier ambiguous words. At least when he spoke to her she had the satisfaction of telling him off. Suddenly, overtaken by an undefined but melancholy thought that moved crushingly into her life from time to time, she leaned back against the shining edge of the sink.

  God, was she tired of this life! Serving rude men who insulted her with their advances, or others like Jean Lévesque, whose admiration was perhaps no more than sarcasm. Serving, always serving! And don't forget to smile, even when your feet burned as if they stood on hot coals. Smile, with rage in your throat, and aching limbs ready to collapse.

  Her eyes grew dazed. On her childish features, heavily made up, could be seen, briefly superimposed, the image of the old woman she would become. At the corners of her mouth was a hint of the wrinkle into which the graceful relief of her cheeks would later fall. But it was not only this anticipation of time that flashed across Floren- tine's face; the hereditary weakness, the deep misery of which she was an extension and which would play its part in the work of time, seemed to well up in her dull eyes and spread like a veil over her naked, unmasked countenance.

  That all passed in less than a minute. Abruptly, Florentine was on her feet again, straight and nervous, and the smile automatically came back to her rouged lips. Of the half-formed thoughts that had crossed her mind she retained only one clear impression, as bitter as her fixed smile: right now she had to stake everything that she still was, all her physical charm, in a frightening gamble on happiness. Leaning over to pick up some dirty dishes from the counter, she glimpsed Jean Lévesque's profile, and her heart knew, with a sudden dizziness as from a wound, that this boy could never again be a matter of indifference to her. She had never felt so close to hating him. She knew nothing about him except his name, which he had just told her, and a little from Louise, who said he worked in a foundry as an electrician-machinist. From the same source she had learned that he never went out with girls. This had intrigued her and was still a point in his favour.

  She glanced down the length of the counter. She saw in profile all the faces leaning over their plates, mouths open, jaws working, lips greasy — a sight that always upset her — and then, down at the end, the young man's shoulders, square and powerful in his well-fitting brown suit. The skin of his cheeks was tight, his teeth strong. Young as he seemed, slight wrinkles were already to be seen on his high, stubborn forehead. His gaze, whether it touched a person or an object, or remained fixed on his open book, had a hard glint to it.

  Slim, noiseless, she went nearer to him and, her eyes half squinting, examined him more closely. His suit, in English cloth, couldn't have come from a store in St. Henri. It seemed to her that even this suit was a clue to a character and a kind of life that were somehow special. Not that he was all that impeccably dressed; on the contrary, he i a certain carelessness. His tie was loc

  :red. his hands were stained with grease, and his hair was bushy and unmanageable. But it was this lack of care in small things that gave class to the expensive things he wore: the wrist-watch, whose glass flashed with his even-move, the rich silk scarf slung casually around his neck, the fine leather gloves sticking out of his suit pocket. It seemed to Florentine that if she leaned closer to him she would breathe the odour of the great, exciting city. She could see St. Catherine Street, the department-store windows, the elegant Saturday-night crowd, the florists' displays, the restaurants with their revolving doors and tables set almost on the sidewalk behind gleaming bay windows, the brightly lit movie theatres, their aisles disappearing into the dark behind the cashier's glass cage amid tall, glittering mirrors, polished banisters and potted plants, rising toward the screen that brought the most beautiful visions in the world. Everything she desired, admired and envied floated there before h

  Oh. you could bet your life this young man w^ bored on Saturday For her, they were nothing

  special. Sometimes, not often, she had gone out with b but they'd only taken her to the neighbourhood m house or some dingy suburban theatre, and then c to be paid off in kisses for such a miserly evening. She'd be so busy fending them off that she didn't even get to watch the movie. Occasionally she had gone to the end of town with other girls, and in the midst of this entirely female, chattering herd she had felt more vexation and shame than amusement. Every couple that pas caught her eye and increased her resentment. The

  for couples, not for four or five girls with their arms stupidly around each other's waists, weaving along St. Catherine Street, stopping at every shop window to admire the things they never would possess.

  But how the city "downtown" appealed to her now in association with Jean Lévesque! How this unknown young man made the lights shine brighter, the crowd seem gay, and springtime on the point of burgeoning in the wretched trees of St. Henri! It seemed to her that if she had not been held back by the great restraint the young man inspired in her, she would have said, Let's go together. We're made to go together. At the same time she felt that absurd impulse to reach out and touch his dark, tangled hair. She had never encountered anyone who was so obviously bound to rise. Maybe he was only a mechanic now, but she was as convinced of his future success as she was of the instinct to make an ally of him.

  She woke from her dreaming and asked him in the slightly formal tone she put on for customers:

  "Would you care for a dessert?"

  Jean half leaned on his elbows, squared his strong shoulders and gave her a look of mischievous impatience.

  "No, but y
ou know you haven't told me if I'm going to be the lucky guy tonight. You've been thinking about it for the last ten minutes. What did you decide? Yes or no: are you coming to the show?"

  He saw the anger flash in Florentine's green eyes. But she quickly looked down. In a voice that was at once irritated, pitiful and trying to be conciliatory, she replied:

  "Why should I go to a show with you, will you tell me? I don't know you! How do I know who you are!"

  He chuckled, realizing that she was trying to get him to make some revelation about himself.

  "Well," he said, "you can find that out little by little, if your heart's really in it."

  Less intimidated by the double sense of the phrase than by his detachment, she thought, humiliated: He wants to get me talking. Maybe it's only to make fun of me. Her own laugh now sounded shrill and forced.

  But he was no longer paying attention to her. He seemed to be listening to sounds from the street. A second later Florentine heard the dull beating of drums. In front of the heavy glass doors a crowd began to gather. Salesgirls who had a moment free ran to the front of their counters. Canada had declared war on Germany more than six months ago, but military parades were still a novelty in the St. Henri neighbourhood and drew crowds whenever they passed.

  As the squad reached the Five and Ten, Florentine leaned out to watch with a childlike fascination, eager and surprised. There they marched, stalwart fellows, solid in their massive khaki greatcoats, their arms stiff, sugar snow drifting down upon them. Beaming, she turned to face the young man, as if to ask him to share in her childish excitement, but his expression was so hostile and contemptuous that she shrugged and turned away, attentive again to every detail of the spectacle.

  Now entering her field of vision were the new recruits, still in civilian clothes, some wearing only a light suit, others in old fall coats, ragged and patched, penetrated by the bitter wind. She knew by sight some of the young men marching behind the soldiers. Like her father, they had been on relief for a long time. Suddenly, though still captivated by this spectacular evocation of war, she had the vague intuition of a wretched poverty 7 which looked upon it as a last resort. She remembered like a troubled dream the depression years during which she had been the only one of the family bringing home a little money. And before, when she was a child, the way her mother had worked. Rose-Anna's image passed clearly before her eyes, and she was back in that daily misery and distress. For an instant she saw through her mothers eyes the passage of these men, tramps already marching like soldiers in their flapping rags. But her mind never lingered over thoughts of this kind, which led to tiring and confusing ideas. The parade seemed to her a simple distraction, a break in the monotony of the long store hours. Her eyes wide, her cheeks slightly flushed under her makeup, she turned once again to Jean Lévesque. Lively, offhand, she made her brief, pitiless comment on the scene:

  "Crazy, eh?"

  But Jean looked at her with such animosity that she thought almost happily, taking secret revenge: Why, he's crazy too! Passing judgement on him gave her a moment of genuine satisfaction.

  His hand moved over his face again and again, as if to wipe away the cobweb of his thoughts, or perhaps simply from fatigue or habit. Finally, staring at the girl, he asked for the second time:

  "Your name. Tell me your name."

  "Florentine Lacasse," she answered curtly, already robbed of her small victory, and angry that she could find no escape from his ascendancy.

  "Florentine Lacasse," he murmured, amused. He was searching in his pocket for a coin. "Very well, Florentine Lacasse, while you're waiting for the right soldier to come along you can always meet me tonight in front of the Cartier. Eight o'clock, does that suit you?" he added, almost playfully.

  Seized by disappointment but tempted nonetheless, she did not move. This wasn't the kind of invitation she had been waiting for. But it happened they were showing Bitter Sweet at the Cartier. Yesterday Marguerite had been telling her about the plot, which was beautiful and very moving. She thought also of her new little hat and the perfume she'd just bought, and, more consoled every minute, of the fine couple they would make, she and Jean, almost the same height. People would certainly be intrigued at seeing them together. She even began to imagine the stories that would go around. That amused her. What did she care if stupid people wanted to talk! Really! And she saw herself with him in a smart restaurant in the neighbourhood, just the two of them in a discreetly lit booth where they could hear the flood of sound from the nickelodeon. There, she would be sure of her charm and power. That would be the place for making this insolent young man eat out of her hand. And she'd bring him around to inviting her again and again. Impudent, dreaming, the beginnings of a smile were showing when Jean stood up and tossed a fifty-cent piece on the counter. "Keep the change," he said coldly. "Buy yourself a decent meal. You're far too thin"

  A harsh reply was on the tip of her tongue. She was cruelly hurt, more by her secret submission to him than by anything else, and she wanted to throw the money back, but he was already getting into his overcoat.

  "You hate me, do you?" he muttered to himself. "You hate it here, you hate everything." It was as if he concentrated until he saw only the desolate landscape of her heart where nothing had yet grown but thoughts of bitterness and rejection.

  Then he was out, walking quickly, decisively, strength and vigour in his shoulders. He didn't have to use his elbows to get through the crowd. It opened before him.

  Florentine had a feeling that if she didn't go to his rendezvous she would never see him again. As she watched him leave she had the intuition that this stranger knew her better than she knew herself. For an instant he had cast a brilliant light in her mind, and she had glimpsed a thousand things in her life that before had lain in darkness.

  Now that he was gone it seemed to her that she had fallen back into unawareness of her own thoughts. She was angry and confused. I won't go. I won't. We'll just see if I'll go, she thought, digging her nails in the palms of her hands. But at the same time she saw Eveline watching her and holding back a mischievous laugh. And Marguerite, pushing to get past with a sundae, whispered in her ear:

  "I wouldn't be mad if he gave me the eye, that guy. He suits me right to a T."

  The rage in Florentine's heart was appeased a little, mingling with the agreeable certainty of being envied. She had never been able to enjoy the possession of the most insignificant thing, or of a passing friendship, or even her scanty memories, except through the eyes of others.

  TWO

  The whole afternoon at the foundry, Jean, who should have been giving his full attention to a motor he was repairing, was surprised to find himself thinking, I'm stupid, God, am I stupid! What do I want, getting mixed up with that Florentine. When those kids get their hooks into you they never let go. I don't even want to see her again. What got into me, asking her for a date?

  He had thought he could pull back from this flirtation, which was barely started in any case. That's what he had done in the past, stopping halfway in his rare attempts at a conquest, either because it promised to be too easy or seemed like a waste of time. Striving for success, devoured by ambition, he had until now devoted his spare time stubbornly to his studies, with no regret or sense of sacrifice.

  But at the end of his working day, walking back to his little furnished room on St. Ambroise Street near the Lachine Canal, he was surprised then irritated to find how persistently Florentine occupied his mind.

  She's just like all the others, he thought. She wants to have fun, make a guy spend money and time on her. That's all she's after. It could be me or anybody. . . But then he imagined her skinny body, her childlike mouth, her tormented eyes. No, he admitted to himself, there's something different about her . . . and maybe that's what interests me . . . just a bit.

  Then, walking alone in the darkening street, he burst out laughing. He had just thought how he must appear to Florentine: a joker, a bad boy, maybe even dangerous, probably attractive, lik
e any real danger. At the same time he realized how many contradictions there were between himself and the character he had created for other people: the smart guy who liked to astonish by boasting about his supposed wild life, a guy who was admired. The true Jean Lévesque was quite different: quiet, stubborn and, most of all, hard working. This was the one he preferred, the practical Jean who liked work for the ambition it fed and the success it could lead to, this young man with never a daydream who gave himself up to work as if it were a kind of revenge.

  "That's it!" he said, and thought of himself hidden in his little room, working all evening at his correspondence course. He took a kind of delight in this picture of himself. This was the way to get more education. Who needed teachers? He was his own teacher, hard and determined. The rest — the tangible forms of success, money and respect — could wait a while. He already knew the intoxication of success when, feeling as lonely in his room as in a desert, he would tackle a hard problem in algebra or geometry, swearing, teeth clenched: "I'll show them some day. . . " A few more years and he would have his engineer's degree. Then, if they had been too stupid to see what he was worth, they would get an eyeful. They'd see that Jean Lévesque was somebody.

  At home he went to sit at his desk, but the thought of his rendezvous with Florentine came back to vex him.

  "Damn it, I just won't go, that's all," he said to himself, and he opened his books and notes. But the thought wouldn't leave him; and at the same time the notion that he would accomplish less than usual tonight put him in such bad humour that he suddenly pushed away the papers spread before him.