That's how I was, today. And sick. Apparently a soup I made, hoping to eat healthy, had something in it that I was allergic to. Maybe broccoli or cauliflower? But I spent an hour in the bathroom dealing with it, and now I'm beat. So here's the rest of yesterday's chapter.
On and on my mind pinged, left and right and around and all over, until my thoughts settled on a book my older gentleman had brought me. The memory of it kindly emerged to calm my every thought down to one gentle memory.
It was an anthology of poetry. In French. The binding green and ornate with gold trim. Its edges worn and faded.
“I found it in a shop close to here,” he had said. “Just a couple blocks away, on rue D’Antoine.” Then as he handed it to me, he had asked, “Will you read to me this poem?”
Titled Demain, dès l’aube by Victor Hugo.
He carefully settled onto the chair, with myself at his knee. As his hand caressed the back of my neck, I read, softly, slowly, with tenderness...
Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.
Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.
Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.
Tomorrow, at dawn, as the countryside is bathed in light
Will I leave. Because I know you wait for me.
I will travel through the forest, I will go over the mountain.
I cannot remain away from you any longer.
I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts,
See nothing outside, hear no sound,
Alone, unknown, my back bent, my hands clasped,
Sad, and the day for me will be as night.
I will not gaze upon the gold of the falling evening,
Nor the sails in the distance receding towards Harfleur,
And when I arrive, I will place upon your grave
A bouquet of green holly...and of flowering heather.
When I was done, I could not think of what to say, to him. I had joined with a man lost in grief on a journey to the grave of his loved one, and I felt myself pacing him as he strode on and on. And my emotions was close to overwhelming.
No thanks came from me, except with my eyes holding tears. His smile revealed how deeply I had touched him. Then all he did was give me a gentle kiss on my forehead and caress his shivering fingers through my hair...and leave.
And I knew I would not see him, again.
Now looking back, with nothing to distract me except a city in slumber passing by, I understood that was the moment poetry had become my obsession. That gentle poem had spoken more deeply to me than any lesson or book or even friendship.
That is when I’d begun to seek a different way to life. Something to grasp onto beyond my day to day existence.
Rory, Luc, Eric, they were caught in a current of life that had become too easy and comfortable. Trey, Carlos and Tevean, I could now see they also were entwined in it. Their games. Their posturing. Their arguments. Relying more and more upon a chemical enhancement to keep from facing the truth of their existence. A truth that would eventually destroy them.
And I had to admit, I was so close to following them until this encounter with Reynard.
Even until now.
Because deep within, despite all evidence to the contrary, I had continued to hope my parents would grow to understand and accept me, and come to take me away. But Reynard had killed that belief.
In truth I suppose I should have thanked him. I might not have given up on that belief until I was already too far along the same path as the others.
Of course, that Path was still a possibility, for me. I already felt a growing need of something to fill the void that had borne its way into my heart. And to know my books...all of the poems that had brought me life and kept me on the proper path...they were back at that home, and I could not return for them. This hurt my heart even more, since some of them could not be replaced. Old editions. Out of print. Treasures with poems I had copied in careful hand into my journal.
Which was also there.
Perhaps what I was doing was a mistake. Perhaps I should return to the home and accept my punishment, then plan for a better organized way out. But my head had no control over my heart...or even my feet, and I could not bring enough thought forward to consider changing my direction.
I passed into a neighborhood of tight old apartments and new blocks, with more and more residence towers. Ahead, the lights of the city center grew brighter and brighter even as the night grew darker. Clouds boiled in, hinting at late snow. My legs and back were killing me, and I ached horribly, but still I walked.
Finally, I was entering the city center and an inter-city coach passed, headed the same direction as myself. I watched it continue a few blocks down then turn to the left. When I reached the same place, I found I was on an overpass at rue Berri. A few blocks down, a coach was turning into a side street, followed by another. Somehow, I had managed to find the Station Centrale d’Autobus Montréal.
Fifteen kilometers from the home, I later learned.
I entered the lobby, saw the time was just past two a-m, and noticed there would be a coach to leave for Toronto at six-thirty. I purchased a ticket, found the lavatory, washed my face in wonderfully steaming hot water, cleaned my jacket and jeans as best I could, and sat on a bench, my book open as if I were reading it, but thinking of nothing except that I was nothing. And on that early bus I left my home city.
Forever.
