The Party Wall Read online

  Biblioasis International Translation Series

  General Editor: Stephen Henighan

  Since 2007, the Biblioasis International Translation Series has been publishing exciting literature from Europe, Latin America, Africa and the minority languages of Canada. Committed to the idea that translations must come from the margins of linguistic cultures as well as from the power centres, the Biblioasis International Translation Series is dedicated to publishing world literature in English in Canada. The editors believe that translation is the lifeblood of literature, that a language that is not in touch with other linguistic traditions loses its creative vitality, and that the worldwide spread of English makes literary translation more urgent now than ever before.

  1. I Wrote Stone: The Selected Poetry of

  Ryszard Kapuściński (Poland)

  Translated by Diana Kuprel and Marek Kusiba

  2. Good Morning Comrades

  by Ondjaki (Angola)

  Translated by Stephen Henighan

  3. Kahn & Engelmann

  by Hans Eichner (Austria-Canada)

  Translated by Jean M. Snook

  4. Dance with Snakes

  by Horacio Castellanos Moya (El Salvador)

  Translated by Lee Paula Springer

  5. Black Alley

  by Mauricio Segura (Quebec)

  Translated by Dawn M. Cornelio

  6. The Accident

  by Mihail Sebastian (Romania)

  Translated by Stephen Henighan

  7. Love Poems

  by Jaime Sabines (Mexico)

  Translated by Colin Carberry

  8. The End of the Story

  by Liliana Heker (Argentina)

  Translated by Andrea G. Labinger

  9. The Tuner of Silences

  by Mia Couto (Mozambique)

  Translated by David Brookshaw

  10. For as Far as the Eye Can See

  by Robert Melançon (Quebec)

  Translated by Judith Cowan

  11. Eucalyptus

  by Mauricio Segura (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald Winkler

  12. Granma Nineteen and the Soviet’s Secret

  by Ondjaki (Angola)

  Translated by Stephen Henighan

  13. Montreal Before Spring

  by Robert Melançon (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald McGrath

  14. Pensativities: Essays and Provocations

  by Mia Couto (Mozambique)

  Translated by David Brookshaw

  15. Arvida

  by Samuel Archibald (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald Winkler

  16. The Orange Grove

  by Larry Tremblay (Quebec)

  Translated by Sheila Fischman

  17. The Party Wall

  by Catherine Leroux (Quebec)

  Translated by Lazer Lederhendler

  18. Black Bread

  by Emili Teixidor (Catalonia)

  Translated by Peter Bush

  CATHERINE LEROUX

  THE PARTY WALL

  translated from the french by

  LAZER LEDERHENDLER

  BIBLIOASIS

  WINDSOR, ONTARIO

  Originally published as Le mur mitoyen, Éditions Alto, Quebec City, Quebec, 2013.

  Copyright © Catherine Leroux, 2013

  Translation copyright © Lazer Lederhendler, 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  first edition

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Leroux, Catherine, 1979-

  [Mur mitoyen. English]

  The party wall / Catherine Leroux ; translated from the French by Lazer Lederhendler.

  (Biblioasis international translation series)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77196-076-2 (paperback).--ISBN 978-1-77196-077-9 (ebook)

  I. Lederhendler, Lazer, 1950-, translator II. Title. III. Title: Mur mitoyen.

  English. IV. Series: Biblioasis international translation series

  PS8623.E685M8713 2016 C843’.6 C2015-907395-2

  C2015-907396-0

  Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. Biblioasis also acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit. Biblioasis also acknowledges the financial support of the ­Government of Canada through the National Translation Program for Book Publishing, an initiative of the Roadmap for Canada’s Official Languages 2013–2018: Education, Immigration, Communities, for our translation activities.

  Edited by Stephen Henighan

  Copy-edited by Allana Amlin

  Cover designed by Kate Hargreaves

  Typeset by Chris Andrechek

  WEEDS

  (MONETTE AND ANGIE)

  The twisting wind wraps itself around Angie’s ankles, a ground-level wave that takes her by surprise. The wind, as a rule, does not linger at people’s feet. Except the strong, low wind produced by a passing train. As if to trip you up. She looks down to examine her shins, her knock-knees. The children she knows are simply thin, or else they are chubby, plump, fleshy. Angie is nine years old and as gnarled as a crone. She resembles the pine trees growing on mountaintops. The shape of her fingers and toes is complicated, and her elbows protrude from the middle of her spindly arms, two black pearls mounted on taut wires. She dreads the day her breasts will appear, convinced as she is that they will emerge, not like the pretty apples flaunted by the girls in junior high, but like two angular bumps, two angry fists pounding their way through her chest.

  Inside, Monette is still negotiating with her sandals. Though perfectly capable of putting them on, she takes an inordinate amount of time to fasten the straps because even the slightest misalignment of the Velcro strips is intolerable to her. She attaches them, detaches them, repositions the hook side over the loop side with the concentration of a Tibetan monk, inspects her work, finds it wanting, and starts over. Under the silky rays of the sun, Angie does not lose patience. While waiting for her little sister, she contemplates the languid swaying of the willow, their tree, the biggest one on the street.

  Mam told them, “It’s nice out. Go for a walk!” She will use the time to swab down the house, a house so old and memory-laden that cleaning it is well-nigh impossible. Still, come May, Mam scrubs everything, including the wooden floors made porous by the floodwaters and the windows turned chalky from being permanently fogged-up.

  Monette finally comes out into the bright daylight, blinks and wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. Though dazzled, she manages to find her sister’s hand. As usual, she twitches at the touch of the callused palm, which reminds her of the rough side of Velcro, but the next instant her own skin nestles in it as if it were the comforting cloth of an old woollen blanket. Together, they walk down the four cracked concrete steps. The crack in the second-to-last stair looks like a dragon. She avoids treading on it. The pavement leading to the sidewalk is also broken and has weeds sprouting in the gaps. Mam does not pull them out and has taught her daughters to respect t
hese humble shoots. “There’s no such thing as weeds. That’s just a name for some flowers thought up by racist gardeners.” Monette ruffles their petals with a caress.

  As always, the moment they reach the street they instantly leave behind the world of home. Yet no fence separates the front yard from the avenue. There is, however, an invisible barrier that makes it possible to be completely oblivious of what transpires on the other side and that hides the house from strangers, Angie hopes. Two boys go by dribbling a basketball. They wear loose-fitting t-shirts and their skin is coated with a fine mist. Their voices are loud and they spout obscenities. Angie covers her younger sister’s ears. Monette has heard far worse, but Angie believes in the gesture of covering her ears, in the intention behind it. Once they’ve let the teenagers pass, Angie motions with her chin in the direction they’re to walk: south. Before starting out, Monette looks down, examines her sandals, hesitating momentarily. Then she sets off, her pudgy little hand welded to her sister’s.

  The street is divided in such a lopsided way that it seems about to keel over, like a boat in which the passengers have all gathered on the same side. The houses on the eastern side are narrow and dilapidated, and the paint on most of them is peeling off in delicate white plumes; across the street, they are massive, stately, adorned with a complex arrangement of balconies and bay windows. Mam claims the railroad is the reason the east side of the block has such modest dwellings. No one well-off wants to move there, right beside the tracks. But surely, Angie says to herself, the residents across the way must also hear the whistle and the inhuman squealing of the train.

  As usual, Monette pulls Angie by the hand to cross the road and walk past the luxurious homes, but her sister rarely gives in. The small houses remind Angie of her own; she seems to know them by name, and their windows, though cracked, watch the girls benevolently as they go by. By staying on this side, Angie feels she is restoring balance and keeping the neighbourhood from capsizing.

  At the fifth intersection, the row of posh-looking residences tumbles over a wide cross street and gets dispersed in a middle-class district. The area, according to Mam, was developed years ago in the hope of attracting prosperous Black families. Today it’s almost deserted. Monette and Angie continue along a sparsely populated stretch of road riddled with vacant lots where the grasses reach dizzying heights and hide the crouching cats and opossums gnawing at their meagre prey.

  They walk past a wrecking yard; recognizing the place, Monette starts to hop up and down and sets the heavy braids Angie had plaited that very morning dancing around her head. They come to a shack painted pink that exudes a warm odour of manure. Monette’s hand grows damp with excitement; she gives her sister a pleading look that is answered with an approving nod, at which she loosens her grip. Monette dashes ahead.

  The enclosure looks empty, and Angie is afraid the child will throw a fit, but for now she shows no signs of discouragement. Monette resolutely tears little fistfuls of grass and dandelions out of the ditch and comes back to jiggle them between the slats in the fence while emitting sharp, amazingly precise sounds through her clumsy lips. A shape stirs in the shadows, and Angie’s heart inconspicuously leaps into her mouth. The swayback pony obediently steps forward. As always, Angie is overcome by a strange sensation at the sight of this horse, perpetually small, yet so old, so weary.

  The animal chews tamely on the proffered snack, then Angie lifts up Monette so she can stroke—ever so lightly—its peeled muzzle, its scrawny croup, its ragged coat. From the back of the pink shed, a man wearing a flawless moustache appears and, beaming with pride, greets them. Old Craig is fond of his filly.

  “What’s the horse’s name?”

  “She’s not a horse, she’s a pony. Her name is Belle,” Craig replies patiently.

  “How old is she?”

  “Thirty-nine years old.”

  Monette solemnly nods her head and stores the information in a place where it can slumber until something can make better sense of it. The old man enters the paddock and, pulling on the halter, leads the animal back toward the shed.

  “She has to rest now. She’s working this afternoon,” Craig says, pointing to the junk wagon that he has been driving through the streets of Savannah for decades.

  The little girl reluctantly lets the animal move away and returns to the sidewalk, where she once again takes her older sister’s callused hand. Angie and Belle resemble each other, but Monette does not understand why. Overhead, a military jet cuts through the sky and the droning of the cicadas. Having taken off from the nearby base, it streaks toward an unintelligible country where death is not content merely to lurk in the tall grass of vacant lots.

  NOTHING BUT THE FLESH

  (MADELEINE AND MADELEINE)

  The weeping willow stands far from the house and that’s good. Its long, groping roots are constantly hunting for water and digging down to icy depths in search of something to drink, tunnelling if need be through a house’s plumbing and stone foundations. Madeleine generally avoids the willow, especially since her husband was buried at the foot of the tree.

  The daffodils blossomed early and she has cut nine of them, one for each year since Micha died. This is the first time she’s thought fit to pick such cheerful flowers. Before, she would bring lilies and tulips. In their black hearts, tulips understand the gravity of grief, and the lilies’ heady fragrance speaks the language of the dead. The daffodils, with their double petals, their frills and sparkling colours say something quite different: “I no longer mourn for you,” and Madeleine confirms this out loud as she straddles the small springtime brook that splits the property in two. The truth is she stopped mourning years ago. But she has never dared to declare it to him so clearly.

  It was Micha who asked that his ashes be interred by the willow tree. He liked to go there for a smoke and some tranquility. Her husband was neither a gambler nor a philanderer; he never lied and hardly ever drank. But he bore a burden that had to be laid down from time to time the way one lays down arms or a dead weight. He would take this break at the foot of the willow, a cigarette between his lips, his eyes searching through the vaulted branches. Madeleine comes up to the willow and enters the precinct of the boughs as though setting foot in a temple.

  The stone that marks the place where the ashes are buried is as smooth as the day her son lifted it out of the sea. One of the last things they did together, as a family. That was before he became no more than a sail on the horizon. Madeleine mechanically runs her hand over the stone and places the daffodils beside it. For five minutes she remains silent with her eyes closed before heading back. She finds nothing to say to Micha on such occasions, which is odd because she talks to him constantly. People who hear her no doubt believe that Madeleine keeps up this conversation with the unseen to ward off her solitude. They are unaware that, even when her husband was alive, she never stopped speaking to him like this. From the very beginning of their marriage she had gotten into the habit of telling him certain things when he was not around.

  Back in the house, she opens the windows wide. The smell of gasoline comes out of nowhere. Sniffing the air absentmindedly, she consults a blue notebook containing sixty or so phone numbers. Madeleine dials the last one on the list, the number of a farm in Mississippi. But the voice that answers is not her son’s. “He left three days ago,” the person at the other end informs her in the lilting English that is scorned in the US but that Madeleine has always been fond of. She hangs up and puts a pencil stroke through the number. He’s moved again without warning. “Don’t worry, you’ll hear from him soon. It’s always like this, you know that,” she tells herself reassuringly.

  The young man crosses the misty village. The scent of hay at this hour is stronger than anything, but it will soon be supplanted by the smell of hot asphalt. Out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of what he needs. What he’s been looking for without knowing it, the thing that could save his life. H
is emaciated shadow leaves the road, followed by his tail, a slim braid almost a metre in length slipping out from his close-cropped hair. He’s wearing a khaki jacket, worn out jeans, and a battered pair of sneakers; a bag like an empty stomach is slung over his shoulder. The outfit of someone who is just passing through. His face is gaunt and yellowish. His hands are empty but they could have been carrying a heavy rock. Or a bone.

  He hunches his shoulders as he walks toward an old Chevrolet Monte Carlo. Squinting, he sees the car’s interior is overrun with tall grass. Just when he is about to give up, he realizes his mistake: the relatively clean windows have created the illusion that the vegetation growing all around has invaded the inside of the car. He runs his fingers over the pitted body, where the rust has traced the map of an elusive territory, possibly the Everglades or Baffin Island. Near the house, the owner of the car looks up from the huge mower blade he’s been polishing. One of those old men who stay strong as a draft horse to the very last, as anyone can tell just by looking at his hands laying the tools down on the porch like the fangs of an enormous dog letting go of its prey. He walks toward the visitor with a stooped yet steady gait. An honest man, the young man decides, true to his habit of sizing people up in a flash. He is rarely wrong.

  The old hand settles on the chrome next to the young.

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-three. Runs like she was ten years less. I’ve pampered her her whole life. But since there’s only me here now, I’m keeping just the other one,” the old man says, pointing to a grey pickup farther up the driveway.

  “How much are you asking?”

  “Five hundred.”

  The visitor opens the door and grimaces as he sits down in the driver’s seat. The old man hands him the key; the motor growls without putting up a fuss. The leather is torn here and there, the wing mirror is cracked and breaks up the sky on the passenger side. The young man pulls the hood release and steps out to inspect the motor. Then he shuts the massive lid, which drops down with a mighty thwack.