ambos » Hamac

Déjà

ambos — Wed, 18 Dec 2013 14:00:49 +0000

a review by Peter McCambridge

Roland is happily married. He lives life to the full, trying to juggle his roles as a father, a lover, an employee, a student. Then one day he falls at home. A brain tumour. He’s 30. From one day to the next his life is turned upside down. He’s operated on. The tumour is benign. Then it turns malignant. Aphasia, partial lobotomies, experimental surgeries, and an inevitable slide towards death follow.

And yet the book is all about tone. As the tumour goes inexorably about its work, the author avoids self-pity and melodrama. We, like our friend Roland, go to bed “a little upset.” Because from just a few pages into the novel, Roland is our friend. We care about him, and his wife.

And as the novel goes on, the tone becomes colder and more clinical, dissecting the (lack of) emotions of all concerned. Roland becomes a guinea pig to his doctors, a prize specimen that might earn them a mention in the New England Journal of Medicine. To his wife, he becomes an object that sucks away her energy, something she wants to protect her young son from.

It is a strange balancing act. The novel is set in the 1970s. It is another distancing device and one that adds little to the plot but never seems gratuitous, just lingering there in the background; like most of the novel it just feels right, almost inexplicably sometimes. The writing is not sparse or clinical; it is well dosed and subtle. There are no elaborate descriptions, just well-measured ones, not a word out of place, not a word too many.

This is not a novel of offbeat metaphors; it sticks close to realism, and is all the more touching for it. When reaching for comparisons, names like Graham Greene and Graham Swift come vaguely to mind, though never quite sharply enough into focus for me to really ever be able to pin down why Bertrand’s style seems quite so British, as his publisher points out. Certainly there are few writers in Québec today who write in this style:

“Without moving from his leather chair, Dr. Fauteux watched his patient and his wife leave. When they had disappeared into the corridor, he sank back down into his chair, stretched slowly, and seemed satisfied.”

Certainly at first glance Bertrand’s style appears closer to Graham Greene’s “Wilson sat on the balcony of the Bedford Hotel with his bald pink knees thrust against the ironwork” (The Heart of the Matter) than to an Eric Dupont or a François Barcelo, say. Unlike Dupont, Bertrand’s prose is bereft of playfulness; it is cinematic, never melodramatic. And unlike a Barcelo, for example, there is more emphasis on tone and theme than on twists and turns in plot development.

By stepping back from his characters, Bertrand manages to touch on some important themes (the decline of a man, the will to survive, how others perceive the sick and dying, the fragility of the human condition, the absurdity of sickness and death, the physical and moral transformation of a man under the knife, bereavement) without weighing down the book. The novel describes the state of mind of a dying man, leaving the reader to mull it all over in our minds long after we have finished reading.

That said, like the author, I am reluctant to focus too much on these weighty themes. The book leaves its mark through its simple and effective tone. And that is plenty. ≈

IN TRANSLATION

From Déjà

by Nicolas Bertrand
≈ translated by Peter McCambridge

I
Roland was thirty when he started to die.

One day when he had climbed up onto a stepladder to screw in a lightbulb, he collapsed.

Apparently, for no reason.

≈ ≈ ≈

II
When he came back round that day, Roland took a while to realize, not without surprise, that he was lying on the floor. A cold sweat dribbled slowly down his back, then a huge wave of fatigue suddenly washed over him. Worried, he closed his eyes to gather his thoughts, but found nothing more than an unpleasant warmness in his pants, along with a sharp pain in his left shoulder, which had been squashed against the floor. Roland’s head had been thrust backwards, his temple in the dust, and saliva trickled from his soft mouth and spread across the floor. His lethargy had already lasted a long time.

Although he did not immediately understand what had just happened to him, Roland went about standing up as soon as he had gathered himself together a little. With difficulty, he grabbed hold of a piece of furniture that was within reach and, moments later, he was standing. At this very moment, the blood cascaded back towards his brain, making him dizzy. Carefully, Roland walked to the bathroom to wash his face and put some order back into his ideas.

The cold water did him good. Calmer, although somewhat unsettled and rather unsteady, Roland remembered he had a son who, a short time ago, had been sleeping. He went to see how his baby was, and the peaceful look on his sleeping face made him feel better. Reassured, Roland went out of his son’s bedroom and into the living room, back where it had all begun. He dropped heavily into an armchair, took a deep breath, and looked around him. His eyes suddenly fell upon the stepladder in the middle of the room, giving rise to a feeling of disgust mixed with incomprehension. Without further delay, he reached out, picked up the receiver, and dialed from memory, turning the dial seven times to make the call.

It rang for a long time before Mathilde, his wife, picked up. Her husband often called her at work, so she wasn’t surprised to hear the sound of his voice. What he said, on the other hand, disconcerted her.

Confusedly, Roland related “the incident” to her. He had climbed up onto a stepladder, had felt unwell, had landed with a bump. Almost ashamed, he also admitted he had wet himself. Now he was feeling a little better, but he was still nauseous and, given his current state, he wasn’t sure he would be able to manage staying alone with Frédéric.

Mathilde, surprised and perplexed, nonetheless did not let fear get the better of her.

“Don’t worry, darling. It’s probably nothing serious,” she stammered in a tone she did her best to keep neutral. “I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there in a half hour. I love you.”

Roland hung up without a word, but felt comforted. Deep down, that was why he had phoned her: he had wanted to hear her say that he shouldn’t worry.

≈ ≈ ≈

III
When Mathilde closed the door to her apartment behind her, she made an effort to calmly take off her boots and coat before inching her way to the living room where her husband was waiting for her. She found Roland slumped on the sofa, arms lying on either side of his weak body, his head where his shoulders would normally have been, had he been sitting straight, his thighs going beyond the cushion supporting his butt, forming almost a right angle with his legs. His face bore the scars of a violent shock. Frédéric, now awake, was sitting on the floor not far from his father, surrounded by more toys than he needed to keep him amused. Roland had likely plied him with all kinds of distractions in the hope he would leave him alone until she arrived.

During the taxi ride home, Mathilde had felt more and more upset by what her husband had told her over the phone. And yet no clear thought had passed through her mind, as though her brain had been powerless to take in what had just happened.

Without hesitating, she went to sit down beside Roland on the sofa and gently asked him how he was feeling.

“Better,” he replied hoarsely. “But I still feel dizzy, and very tired.”

Mathilde did not want him to explain what had happened an hour earlier: that would have further exhausted him. Instead, she suggested he lie down while she made supper and phoned the clinic. Beset by apprehension, Roland kissed her affectionately, before standing up and leaving the room.

≈ ≈ ≈

IV
Roland and Mathilde arrived a little early for their appointment at the Ahunstic clinic, where Dr. Tessier saw them immediately. After greeting them warmly, the old doctor sat down behind a broad desk upon which his patient’s medical file already sat. He opened it distractedly.

“So, what’s the matter, Mr. Bernard?” he asked routinely, without pondering the meaning of his words.

Uneasy, Roland looked to the floor. He was being forced to revive, only a few hours later, a painful experience he would rather have kept quiet about or forgotten. And yet he had no choice but to hand over to the doctor the clues that would allow him to flush out the causes of his unexpected collapse, a collapse that remained incomprehensible and troubling.

Before long, Dr. Tessier frowned, but kept on taking notes. When his patient stopped talking, the doctor asked a series of questions about his general health. Roland replied laconically that he had never fallen like this before, that he wasn’t taking any medication, and that he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary over the past few days. All things considered, everything was fine.

Dr. Tessier had started to sound Roland’s chest as he asked his questions, and now he tested his visual and motor reflexes. Once he had finished, he went back to sit at his desk, scratching his chin.

“Everything appears to be normal,” he said, shaking his head. “I have trouble seeing why you might have lost consciousness… This unexpected loss of consciousness can likely be put down to overexertion or stress, although it may have been caused (the doctor stressed the word may) by an illness that cannot be detected by a basic medical examination. To be sure, we will need a blood sample, and analyzing it will take a few days. We’ll know more about what might have caused your episode after that. Until then: complete rest!”

Although he had a bad feeling in his heart of hearts, the doctor spoke frankly and objectively. He tried hard, however, to end on an optimistic note:

“Rest assured there is no reason to worry for the time being,” he said in a firm tone that sought to be reassuring. The doctor then signed him off on sick leave for one week, prescribed him tablets, and urged him to get some rest, to relax. He also asked that Mathilde stay with him over this period, until the next appointment.

His prescription in hand, Roland walked nonchalantly through the door of the doctor’s office, still shaken by this unbelievable day. Mathilde was about to do the same when the doctor, hurrying after her, took her by the arm.

“If ever your husband should lose consciousness again,” he said in a low voice, “don’t hesitate for a second: call an ambulance at once.” ≈

A Constellation of Stories

ambos — Fri, 15 Nov 2013 18:00:06 +0000

Stories about falling in love, about writers not writing, about everyone around us thinking we have great lives and the small things that eat away at us inside all the same. Stories about being surrounded by friends and family and still feeling empty and alone. Stories about learning how to live. About the things that really matter, the things that connect us to loved ones and that we’re too embarrassed to ever mention again. About loss. About mothers who seem distant as movie stars in their daughters’ eyes. Some have more plot than others. Some are so centered around an idea they’re more like an explanation or apology. All are monologues, unmistakably spoken, resolutely down to earth. And every single one of these 37 stories is beautiful. Simple and beautiful.

IN TRANSLATION

From Chaque automne j’ai envie de mourir

by Véronique Côté and Steve Gagnon
≈ translated by Peter McCambridge

CONSTELLATION

What’s really terrible is to think that things are going to stay this way forever.

Before, I never wanted to own a thing. I didn’t want to buy a single piece of furniture. I wanted to be able to leave on a whim, without having to explain myself, pack things away, organize everything. I didn’t want anything holding me back. It was all a bit extreme. Now I have furniture. Not much, but some all the same. I haven’t taken off all that often, either. I wanted to be able to leave – it’s not the same thing. Now I know that being able to drop everything and go is all in the mind; it’s rarely about furniture.

I’ve travelled a little. Like everyone, like lots of people my age, actually. I like it. Being uprooted from my life. Torn out. I love travelling alone and arriving someplace where nobody knows the first thing about me, someplace where I could be absolutely anyone, where I could be everything I am not here. I get weak at the knees whenever I arrive someplace and I think to myself: “Here, I could.” I could slip away to live here, leave everything, leave Quebec. What’s keeping me here, after all? People? Hmm. But what if I was tired of it all one day, if I was completely fed up, if things kept going round and round in circles for too long, if I was stuck in a corner, if there wasn’t anyone after all. Then I could go there. A little town in the south of Portugal. Sweep in like a witch, move in somewhere on the second floor, someplace where the windows would always be open. With an all-white bed in the middle of the room, my linen sheets, a wooden table, two chairs, and nothing else. Dresses, books, and pretty drapes. Get up early in the morning and go down to the port to buy fish. Get to know the fishermen a little. Ask how their wives are doing. Work mornings in a café run by my new French friends. Do my grammar exercises in my little Portuguese book, serve iced watermelon juice and Ginja, do the dishes outside, cook shellfish. Write in the afternoon, or give tourists a massage. It would be easy. Have a child with blue eyes, who speaks two or three languages and knows how to swim. Learn the names of the birds and plants over there. Celebrate Christmas.

Nobody would know a thing.

I have nothing to hide. It’s just that one day, without you knowing why, the people around you know who you are, or think they do. They’ve made up their minds, they think they’ve got you all figured out, they tell themselves that you’re complicated or naïve, that you’re always reading, that you’re not funny or have no patience, that you’re too kind and gullible, that you sleep around, that you don’t know what you want, that you want it all, that you don’t want enough, that you’re an opportunist or you’re not ambitious enough, that you’re moody or a scatterbrain, or a control freak, that you’re a hypochondriac, that you’re a feminist, that you’re motherly, that you’re jealous, that you’re poetic, and it’s true, or not, and it doesn’t really matter: the fact is you become what others think you are, and that’s what paints you into a corner, much more than any furniture.

That’s why I like travelling alone. Why I get a little weak at the knees at the thought of starting out all over again somewhere else and having a completely different life.

What’s really lovely, too, is when these dreams of another life come together, shining out in the dark like tiny beacons, like a constellation of all possible worlds. If where you are isn’t working any more, if this life doesn’t appeal to you any more, you can always come here; it’s bright here all the time. Whenever I close my eyes, I can see the light of those little glowing windows all over the world.

Tavira. That’s what the little village in Portugal is called, Tavira.

When I was small, I used to dream of moving house, changing schools, and being the new girl in class.

Now, sometimes I dream of the same thing. I dream of a place where no one knows me, where I would be brand new.

But.

Deep down, I dream even more of wanting to stay somewhere.

TONGUES

Childhood is a war that’s been lost. Lost, lost, lost. Lost over and over, lost forever.

In general, people, adults, pretend they don’t remember how brutal it all was. Makes them feel too uncomfortable. They’d rather not remember how bloody the battles really were. How low the lows could be. How cruel the other kids were.

Everything we build ourselves to get through later life is like a post-war lull. But if we fess up and say it, kids can be really nasty. No worse than us, but just as bad. If we remember how things really were, what really went on, it’s enough to take our breath away. It breaks us up into a thousand tiny little pieces, smashes our knees in. Until we can hardly stand.

Kids are brutal. Later on we teach them to pretend they aren’t so wild.

“Smile,” we tell them. “Say ‘Thank you,’” we tell them. “Stop pulling that little girl’s hair,” we tell them. “Don’t stick your tongue out,” we tell them. “My little angel,” we tell them. “Don’t stick your tongue out, my little angel. Smile.” Childhood is a war that’s been lost, for all eternity. That’s one of the few things I know.

I just had one mom and half a dad. My dad worked at Baie-James. My mom didn’t want to live up there. She was cold all the time, so we lived in Limoilou. It was freezing there, too, but I dunno, I think Mom would’ve died up there. Up in the tundra. When Dad came home on vacation, it was one big party. He had three weeks off for the whole year: two in summer, one at Christmas. The rest of the time, Mom and I got by OK. I would pretend not to hear her cry at night. And she would pretend not to cry. On Fridays she would put mascara on both of us. I wasn’t wild about it, but I’d let her do it because it cheered her up. She would do our makeup and buy a mille-feuille for us to share, like two dolls playing at having a tea party. Now I think back on it and it breaks my heart: my mom, just her and her daughter, every Friday night, all through her twenties, Mom as pretty as a princess with her mascara, as rare as a rare flower, pale as an orchid, Mom who would knit and work hard at the hospital like a good girl, Mom who taught me to behave myself, called me “my little angel.” Mom who would lower her eyes whenever she met a man. She was pretty as a starlet and she lived like a nun. My dad, too, he was good-looking. Good-looking like Marlon Brando. He just wasn’t there.

Anyway, I don’t know why I’m talking about all this. Because I felt lonely, I suppose. That’s a lie: I know exactly why. I felt so alone. And I was. Still am.

I had loads of friends, though. All boys, all neighbours. I was a real tomboy when I was a kid. Apart from the mascara on Friday nights with Mom, I didn’t do any girly stuff. I thought girls were annoying, I thought they were big babies, I thought they were soft. And scaredy cats.

I thought they were cry-babies. I preferred playing outside with my friends. We were always together. We did everything together, all the time. We rode around on our bikes every night from May to October, we went to the store to buy chips and pop. We hung out in the schoolyard, we played hockey, we swam at Alex or Marceau’s house, we stole carrots from Madame Bélanger’s garden behind our house. I was an only child. I had a mom in tears and a dad three weeks of the year, but they, they were my brothers. Alex, Oli, Champoux, Marceau, Ben Sirois. My brothers.

We had a hiding place beside the river. We were really close, it was really cool. But one time something happened. Something happened that made me lose all that. It was the end of school, I remember it really well. Three days to the end of Grade Five. One night in a little wood not far from where we lived, they stopped playing and tied me to a tree. I was bigger and stronger, but there were five of them, so they tied me up to a tree, really tight.

Then they all kissed me, hard, badly, roughly, one after the other. With their tongues. I fought like crazy. For nothing. It didn’t change a thing. It was wild. They were kids. Brutal. That night I hated my dad for being up north, I hated my mom for teaching me how to put on mascara instead of showing me how to fight, I hated being a girl. That night I hated everyone I loved most in the world. I cried. Like a girl.

After that came the longest summer of my life. I was big, then really all alone because I couldn’t ride bikes with my gang any more. There was no gang any more, I wasn’t their friend any more.

Childhood is the war you lose the day you lose your brothers. ≈

Running Freely

ambos — Wed, 30 Oct 2013 08:34:24 +0000

a review by Peter McCambridge

It is said that practicing parkour is basically about learning how to interact with the world around us. This is another way of saying that living parkour is primarily about learning to be authentically yourself.

Anyone approaching Vincent Thibault’s Parkour and the Art du déplacement expecting a how-to guide filled with fitness drills is in for a surprise. The book could also be called “The Art of Living,” focusing as it does on how to apply the philosophy behind parkour to everyday life. Peppered with inspirational quotes like “Think lightly of yourself and deeply about world affairs,” this is a workout for mind and well as body. As suggested by the subtitle – “Strength, Dignity, Community” – the parkour way of life is heavy on building values in the interest of all.

“In the same way that a bird cannot fly with only one wing, compassion, if it is not accompanied by wisdom, will be futile,” Thibault writes. “Conversely, a remarkable intelligence mired in self-centeredness can bring about horrors, as history has witnessed.”

“The parallel with parkour seems remote,” the author concedes, “but let’s dig a little deeper.”

And dig we do, for some 166 pages, as the author advises us to “cultivate a love of effort” and warns against “falling into monotony.” How? By going for a walk the next time we have a break at work, by opening our eyes, exploring our city and its parks, by touching things, living, and breathing.

This is a very much a book about expanding our horizons. Tall tales of superhuman feats, urban legends, advice on what to eat before and after training, sports injuries, and the like are left for others as Thibault shows us how to not just learn the discipline, but to live it. ≈

IN TRANSLATION

From Parkour and the Art du déplacement

by Vincent Thibault
≈ translated by Casey Roberts (Baraka Books, 2013)

The best action is not always the first right thing that comes to mind. In his book Budo Secrets, author, translator, teacher, and martial artist John Stevens tells an inspiring story about Jirokichi Yamada (1863-1931), who was a great fencer.

Yamada had received a great many documents on the arts of the sword from his teachers. Feeling as though it was his duty to preserve these veritable gems for future generations, he carefully stored them in a box that could be quickly moved in case of emergency.

The great Kanto earthquake took place on September 1, 1923, causing more than 100,000 fatalities and countless missing. The Kanto plain was devastated, and fires raged in the cities.

Yamada, meticulous though he was, was certainly not aware of such statistics. He took his precious box out of hiding and prepared to flee for safety.

Suddenly, he stopped and thought: “How will it look if people see a samurai running away to protect material possessions! It is foolish to save samurai documents while ignoring the samurai spirit to serve society.” He replaced the box and then ran out into the street to help pull people from the rubble and fight the fire.

This is sometimes where courage lies: in accepting the need to review our priorities, to take another look at our opinions. The extent of our courage – and many stories demonstrate this – is greatly increased by compassion. In return, genuine compassion, which is the desire to put an end to all suffering, gives a sense of purpose to the training and infuses the warrior with incredible energy. Solidarity and universal responsibility, strength and courage, selflessness and true happiness: in parkour, everything is related. But the powerful energy that is the result should be used wisely. ≈