The Death of Marlon Brando Page 2

  For example, he says couchette, bacul and caltron.[1] To say courir (to run), he says runner, as if it were a verb. He uses all kinds of French words and pretends that he’s super-duper, but he isn’t, really. In the beginning, the others would laugh when he said carrect. Not now. I’ll admit here that I’m the only one who appears to be surprised by this. However, I don’t speak. And so, correct or carrect, what does it matter?

  Again. What power does a child have when he says that someone’s too good? I think that he has none at all. At best, the child can trigger laughter and compliments about his wit for his age. At best, he can raise suspicions, but that people are quick to dismiss. What’s for sure is that the others around me don’t care to know any more than they need to. It would be too complicated, I think, or too much work. No time… It would be long and complicated and so they don’t bother.

  Furthermore, there’s a ready-made answer for these types of things. It’s an invented answer so that what I call “silencing”[2] reigns above all else. And this has happened since the beginning. I just know it. They’re going to say: “You spend all your time watching things…” and they then add, before saying: “I gotta get going” which is a key phrase: “Have ya replaced your pillow with a dictionary?”…and it won’t go any further then. At our place, everyone pretends it’s funny when I ask questions.

  I’d have liked to name it, but it didn’t work out. I’ve already tried to tell the whole story in my school composition; at home, too, that’s just the way it is. But I don’t have the words and so there’s nothing doing.

  The thing to do, just like today, is to let myself fall into the hay while he works away. Like this, diving or falling backwards. From the main beam, you jump into the pile twenty feet below. It’s dangerous. For me, it’s high up. There’s a risk of getting hurt and it’s a game.

  If I don’t speak, I’ve just explained the reason why. It seems to me that speaking doesn’t serve any purpose. What’s more, I think that speaking is the faculty of those who have nothing to say. “Silencing” comes from the verb “to silence,” and to this day, I have described the beast watching the wanderer and yet, nothing has happened.

  The other one was rubbing, swearing, singing tunes that he didn’t finish. I was sitting on the beam and I was watching him do it. I like staying still. I like watching others work at times. In this way, I think that you can figure out what’s going on in their heads. He was about to act up. He was about to do it; it was a sure thing, and he said:

  “Hey, thingamajig…”

  I waited. He said:

  “Got any li’l girls in yer class?”…then he answered his own question: “Yeah there’s some. I knew it.”

  I can guess where this is going. And as far as knowing whether someone is going to act up or not, I’m an expert. A clue? He always laughs a little bit just before. As if he were preparing the sentence in his head. He said: “Got any li’l girls in yer class?” I said: “Why?”…and he repeated his question once again.

  I said: “What class are you talking about? Last year’s or next year’s?” I change classes once a year. Between the two, there’s a long composition: it’s my vacation assignment. “I don’t know yet if there’ll be any girls in September…but yeah. I think so.”

  He said: “Ya like that, huh?”…and he was laughing and hiding behind his hand.

  I said: “What?” He didn’t answer. He was laughing, covering up his mouth with his hand and making a racket while dragging his feet on the ground and moving his arms, too. In order to keep himself company no doubt; because he was used to laughing by himself and because I wasn’t laughing.

  I jumped into the hay and I brushed myself off. There were thorns stuck in my sweater and I pulled them out, one by one. After, I walked to the garden to see if the carrots and the apples had grown any since yesterday. To get some air and calm down, too, because being with him makes me get all flustered. I don’t know why. And faced with this heartbeat that I don’t have words for, I end up asking myself a question: Will I feel something similar later? Or more simply: Do risks exist for big people, too? I don’t know. Today, I don’t think so. I’m structuring my summer vacation assignment like a war film. I walk towards the garden, which is behind our house and which, because of its geographical location no doubt, is reassuring or worrisome. It depends.

  A U.S. sergeant is going up the river in order to kill the colonel that Marlon Brando is playing. I make him the monster of my story.

  And in my composition, I write:

  The Ornithorhynchus is going up the river. But not in a canoe. It’s a monster that sweats, that smells badly and that hides. The monster’s odour bothers me. The beast makes itself look like a piece of wood. And the Abandoner and the Shadows don’t exist yet.

  I sat like a good little boy and was trying with the tip of my fingers to pull out the carrots that were ready to be eaten when he arrived behind my back. I’m not sure which, the surprise or the push, made me fall forward and crush several of them. I forgot about all that. Like a spring extending itself, my body slid out onto the vegetables. And right away, I thought of a fish. It was as if I’d run right into the glass walls of my bowl. He was there, now.

  Hypocritically, he’d shown up from behind my back and had slid his hand under my heels and my thighs. It didn’t hurt, but I was surprised at first. He said:

  “The li’l girls are gonna do that at school.” I didn’t say anything back. I wanted to say “no” and that they would never let themselves do things like that…but my tongue stayed stuck on my front palate and I sputtered something that didn’t mean anything. I tried to say that it was stupid, that nothing like that ever happened at our school …I couldn’t find the words; or rather yes, but these words didn’t want to come out. And after a few attempts, which all failed, I kept quiet. Knowing very well that when the words don’t come out, there’s nothing you can do about it.

  It was Saturday before noon and it was beautiful outside. The temperature was like that in lands far from the sea, a little dry, quite hot…still the month of August. He crouched down and started looking for carrots that were ready to be eaten.

  He’s the only big person that I know who does things that kids would think of doing. Suddenly, he starts looking for bigger and bigger buds, like you were doing a little while ago. And if it were not him, if it were not this innocent person who speaks poorly, who makes noises when eating and who spits on the ground, you could say to yourself while watching him that what you were doing just before was the most fabulous thing imaginable. For him, you’re a genius. The others say that he’s different; me, I’ve concluded that he follows children because he finds them weak and that he’s able to reason with them, as he’s lacking this faculty himself. There’s never been any doctor’s note on this. They find him funny. Me, I think he’s a beast. And I think that being a beast isn’t exactly funny. He’s a real beast who says dirty things; with whiskers, claws and false teeth. In some ways, he’s stayed a child still, too. And, it’s easy to see that he doesn’t like to just play with them and that he doesn’t like to just speak with them, as if, and exactly as if, the adults were in another world, separate from his. He thinks that he’s part of the animals’ and children’s world, that’s for sure. His words, his relationship with words, that’s where he trips up and loses his place… And, all things considered, it’s got to be a bit like a baby learning to walk. Like a one-year-old. The difference being that him, if he falls, he falls on others. And you, you’re the one that he’s going to wipe his bloodied mouth all over.

  When I went to see the apples on the old apple trees, I knew that he’d come. I saw him from beneath the tree branches walking between the vegetable furrows, making as if he was interested in the carrots that were big enough to eat, acting as only he knows how to act sometimes. As for me, I knew that he’d come towards the apple trees and sure enough, he came. He’s a pest, like a termite or louse that doesn’t let you go. He likes following you and staying close to you
. He doesn’t go to the city and everyone is always surprised to see that he has his own opinions, despite everything.

  “Do ya study the catechism?”…is what he asked me.

  Had to hear the sound of the letters. T…T…T…Phew! It seemed like a lot. The word catechism, too. For sure, my teacher at school from last year didn’t pronounce it like that. In a word that according to her had four syllables, he made it only two by emphasizing in a big way the first “t.” You could say that he takes certain liberties with words. His first syllable is exactly like the word “cat” in English. He asked me whether we studied the catechism and I said yes. I said that we had bible study at school and, as usual, I’m sure that I told him something that he already knew. He’s like that. He always asks the same questions and doesn’t want to let you get on your way. Because he’s got a goal, that’s for sure. And holding you back is one of his goals, I think. So, I said:

  “Yes, we study the catechism at school and it’s even one of the first subjects of the day. It’s part of almost every morning of any given week. We have our morality lesson for half an hour just before recess, which is before more practical subjects. Math, for example. However, one morning a week, we’ve got history and then another, geography.”

  He said: “Ya heard of the story of Adam an’ Eve an’ the apple tree. Have ya?…”

  “Have ya…Have ya, huh, huh…?” Phew, again… With each answer, he took the liberty of taking a bite of an apple and making a little screeching noise. The overflowing juice of the apple seemed to him to be like an affirmative answer and so he kept on going. Even if he doesn’t wipe his mouth and has a body that seems to sway when he puts on his boots, you can be sure that he knows how to make connections. Under the apple trees, he rehashes the story of Adam and Eve. Well done. As I was telling him about how subtle he was, he said:

  “It ain’t true, this story. It’s not true that Eve bit into an apple. All that’s a lyin’.”

  He knows how to make connections, that’s for sure. In his head, there is a whole series of old stories that he’s learned, I don’t know from where, and that he brings up from time to time when he’s alone with me. Most often, it’s the same stories and I think that he knows them by heart. I could’ve sworn that he was going to say: “It ain’t true what they tell ya at school”…and then he said:

  “It ain’t true what they’re tellin’ ya at school.” After, he added: “It’s all a lyin’. They’re takin’ ya for dummies. Me, I hardly even went to school in Ontario, an’ I know more than you all. Eve didn’t bite into an apple. Eve bit here, there.” He laughed and covered his mouth with his hand. He looked around in order to see if anybody was coming. After, he spat on the ground and then put his foot on it.

  What’s he going to come up with next? Before, he contented himself with words and now he’s going at it full force. Maybe he’s simply making fun of me? Maybe it’s because I’m young that he’s overdoing it? I left and went into the house where I knew that he could follow me, but where I also knew that he’d have to change topics.

  For some time now, I’ve noticed that he isn’t quite the same when there are people around. He says very little or nothing at all; he does favours and never, unless it’s absolutely necessary, deals with me directly. It’s weird. It’s like a game. I’ve noticed that he acts as if I don’t exist in front of the others. He, who when we’re alone, is always ready to ask questions and tell stories – I’ve often told him that he’d go to prison and I really believe it – but with others, he’s someone else. Almost good or indifferent. If he needs somebody to pass him the salt when he’s at the table, he’ll always ask someone else.

  In the kitchen, my mother said: “Your father’s gone. You look like you’re bored. Tomorrow, you can go into town with him. In the meantime, come help me fill the little cakes. You can eat some.”

  So I sat down without saying anything and I began to cut up the small balls of dough, which were still warm, into equal parts. On the radio they were saying that in California they had discovered a network of child-slaves brought in from Mexico. They put people in prison and other prisoners beat them. Because they had done things like that to children…And I thought that they were using me in this house, too. And she added:

  “When you’re done, you can go help him put the milk canisters on the small table. It’s going to be time for the truck in a little while. He likes it better when you go with him.”

  In my composition, with the help of a war film, I reinvent all the words that I can’t say. But because it’s only a child’s story, it isn’t taken seriously. It’s complicated. The film is long, and in my own story, everything has to happen in a weekend.

  Moreover, in my composition, I don’t dare write simple sentences because they say too much. I don’t dare write sentences like this one:

  He’s watching me. Well, I think that he’s watching me…as he looks at me and if I surprise him, he quickly turns his head. “To lie in wait,” and in my dictionary for this expression, it says: lie in wait for the enemy. As if there were a struggle, and as if somewhere, punches had been thrown that you can count.

  In my composition, word after word, sentence upon sentence and hidden by a fantastic story, I try to tell what’s happening to me in real life. It’s funny. You’d say that I want to speak, but at the same time that I’m afraid of being understood. I invent. I redistribute roles and I break down the plots. In the film, there’s a sergeant gone on a mission to kill the American colonel. Washington approves and the others are indifferent. In my composition, there’s the Ornithorhynchus, the Abandoner and the Shadows. In that order.

  It’s hunting time. It’s the jungle and there’s a river. And, in my story, the Ornithorhynchus is watching the wanderer.

  After dinner, I was given several tasks to do and I kept busy the whole time. It’s always like that on the farm. I know, as I’m used to it. There’s always something to do, someone to help out, a message to pass along…and when you are a child, they use you for things like that. So much so that I haven’t had time to read; my Petit Illustré dictionary stayed on the little table the whole day. I ran the whole afternoon and if the sun, which was beating down on the railway, made me think of summer, I knew that this really wasn’t the case anymore.

  The trails and the undergrowth were still moist and fresh like they’ll be until winter. And there’s a bitter odour that sticks to the earth and tries to make itself known. The sweet languishing of summer is followed and replaced by an indescribable taste of dead leaves, bark and brush. I don’t know why the seasons exist. And I don’t know why, already at the end of August, you can smell these smells even though they’re not real for another few weeks yet. In my dictionary, there’s no word to describe this experience.

  The days go by slowly and the season remains so uncertain that you no longer know who you can trust.

  In the afternoon, when I came back to Timothy-en-bas after having gone to get some string, the others had left and he was all alone in the barn. When he saw me, he began walking in circles, glancing up at me and laughing. He was going to act up, I knew it. He said:

  “They’re gonna come back. They left ya here to change the tractor battery because it was startin’ to skip. They didn’t want ya gettin’ in the way while they were workin’. Once it’s started, you gotta finish. Without that, we get all cruddy. The combine is ready. They said that ya had no business with ’em. They said that they hadda get goin’. Go get some water with the pail.”

  I sat down just beneath a hole in the roof, made by a tile that had been ripped off by the wind. The sun had halted there and the dust from the fields, full of mounds of oats, was being stirred up. Canadian geese, fifteen or so, squawked on the way by, and a sentence came to mind: “It’s the end, he said”…like that, for nothing and not too loudly, for me, without speaking for any real reason. To say nothing and maybe because it’s a game. All that came to me from a book.

  At school last year, before the June vacation, I mean
, our teacher read us a novel that was written by a woman who lived on a riverbank. Upon seeing geese go by, a man said: “It’s the end.” In the story, he was clearly only saying “it’s the end,” but for me, in my head, I recorded the words of the book. So much so that now when I see wild geese going by, I say this sentence: “It’s the end, he said.” This shows that the words are not mine, but from this man called Didace. It shows clearly that the sentence came from the story, which is not mine, but that of a woman who lived on the banks of a river.[3]

  Him, he said: “It’s a pack goin’ south with the li’l ones”…and he said again: “But, how old are ya, again?”

  And I wondered if my age had anything to do with these birds and their hatchlings.

  The geese, the first of the season, were flying overhead like an arrow just over the opening in the roof. When they got to the height of the sun, I lost them. Because of the sunlight, no doubt, which is brilliant, yellow and lively, forcing you to squint. Because of the distance perhaps, as the geese go far. And to do this, they have to fly high up. I rolled over, stretched out my whole body by putting my neck back, and my heart raced… But it was for nothing, as once the geese were gone, I was still the same.

  I’m a little skittish and seeing the geese fly by and flee towards the south worries me. In the summer on the farm, you don’t see many people and those that are around take up all the space.

  Sometimes, because of signs like the geese, I become aware of my fear, which must be just like Marlon Brando’s waiting for the U.S. sergeant. But not always, however. Most often, fear is deaf or invisible or hidden, and my hands stay in my pockets as if nothing was happening. Most often when I think about it, I forget. The most visible failure is words. I forget, I try to forget, I mean. Then, I continue my day like everyone continues their day: I get up and I walk.

  I sat up, took the pail, and went down to the spring, the source located several feet below the earth cut into big steps that we call Tim-en-bas. For this reason, we say that it’s hidden. Our spring goes to the bottom of the ravine, secret and fresh, and I think that it doesn’t like being bothered. Maybe this is why it’s capricious and that my father thinks it won’t flow anymore before long.