The Death of Marlon Brando Read online

  He said: “Give me a paw, my love. There…that’s it…again a paw…” and he kept touching the animal all over, letting his hand slide on its back, then towards the rump, then returned to it for no reason in order to pat the mare on the forehead. Like he wanted to reassure it, and then, he kept on doing it.

  I was standing up, about ten feet from him. I knew that he was talking to the animal, but I didn’t understand what he was saying. Maybe I wasn’t really listening, hearing? There was the sound of the wind in the dry leaves and it was making a distracting rustle. As for him, I could hear him complaining, and it was like a chant. I couldn’t make out the words. I didn’t know anymore if they were words.

  There’s certainly always a rhythm that is produced when a hand goes back and forth and that becomes softer with each passing. But, I can say that it wasn’t quite like that, then.

  Him, with his fingers that are usually numb, he managed to create some sort of harmony between man and beast. Until then, this ability was entirely unsuspected on my behalf and was ignored by the others, too, I think.

  When a body moves, you can always feel a little dance or a beat in the air, but the relationship between the monster and the beast wasn’t of that order.

  In my composition, I didn’t say that, in a certain way, the monster must have known the power of words. I couldn’t say that either and that because he was a beast, he was attracted to animals’ bodies. I had to content myself with writing words that are spoken.

  And the more things move along, the more I realize that in my composition I didn’t write what was important.

  The mare was moving more and as I was standing just next to it, I could hear them breathing, her and him, when all of a sudden and in a loud voice, he said: “It’s ready, ya can climb up.” I no longer knew whether I was supposed to accept this, like the horse earlier, or flee by running away as the horse hadn’t done.

  Because the stirrup was high, he gave me a hand up. In the saddle, I felt at ease. He said: “Do ya want me to hold the halter at first?” I said no. I said: “Let me do it…” and, like in the movies, I gave a little kick of my heels while, and precisely while, I was pulling back on the reins. The horse turned around on the spot and we started off. A fine and light rain started to fall.

  When did it begin? Was it the first day of baling hay when, because of a broken piece of the scythe-bailer,[12] we had to go together to find another part at our neighbour’s place?… Or that morning, when sowing the seeds in the garden? That morning when he said that the radishes would become as big as balls and the broad beans would look like my privates, and that when adolescence came about, I’d be dirty and smell bad like potatoes rotting away in the furrows since last year? I don’t know anymore.

  How was I to know and be precise with life, when you can’t be, even when writing a composition? The day of the scythe-bailer and the race to the neighbour’s place doesn’t mean a thing. He was definitely talking non-stop about “his photas” and the apartment that he’d have…but it seems to me that my uneasiness doesn’t date back to that time. And when we were sowing the garden, I was already afraid of him and knew already that I shouldn’t trust him.

  To this question “When did it all begin?” I should answer that it all dates back to before the summer, near Easter or even further back, near Christmas…to the time when I surprised him drinking in the bed of the old Ford, for example.

  I remember that after lunch, my father sent me to get something from the stable when I noticed prints in the snow near the truck. I knew that it was him and I opened the door. I’ve already said that he was the only big person who acted like a kid. That day, he’d hidden himself in the box with some alcohol. After, he lay down flat out on the wooden truck bed and kept drinking with his tuque and mittens on.

  He said: “Hey, thingamajig…” And when he says “Hey, thingamajig,” I don’t answer right away and wait for the rest. Even if it takes a while sometimes. Even if he looks at me with his eyes turned up.

  He said: “Don’t be goin’ tellin’ nobody nothin’. It’s nothin’ but a bottle of liquor. Do ya want any?” and I hadn’t moved or said anything. He kept on talking while letting the alcohol flow down his frozen chin.

  He said: “Who is it that’s the cleanest between a man an’ a woman?” I wanted to say a woman, but he didn’t give me the time to respond and then added: “A woman’s all bloody.” I didn’t say anything. He had a few more swigs and wanted to break a bit of ice with his boot and said: “Yer heartless, you. Come sits here in the bed. It’s Chrissmis! Here…take some, a mouthful. It’s good. Yer freezin’ there, but ya won’t be after. I bought it myself…” and, as I wasn’t saying anything back, he continued on to another subject in order to get me.

  I swear he’s cunning. I’ve already said that his tactic is to lay it on thick. Another one of his favourite strategies is to jump from one subject to another when you’re being quiet. He hopes that in this way he’ll breach your silence and impose himself. That’s the way things go.

  He was stretched out on the frozen piece of plywood on a cold winter’s and I tried to forget this.

  Does my nightmare date back to this moment? This is a question I can’t answer. My composition shows the slow procession of the Ornithorhynchus on the river; but when did it all really start? Is it the day that my father said that I was supposed to help him with his chores, or before when he was new at our place and he let me see the fabulous objects that he had in his bags? I can’t answer this because, for the moment, I don’t have an answer to give. And I ask questions because in order to understand, I owe it to myself to go back there. Sometimes, it seems to me that the monster is so crafty.

  He even found a technique. Or a means. Just to make sure he bugs me…and to make himself happy. He invented a word, too, a new one, derived from the verb sentir – meaning to sense, smell and feel. I’ve already said that he takes shortcuts with words, that one there. He says:

  “Let me scents ya…” and my story this morning becomes truly intolerable because he wants me to put my hands in my underwear and show them to him after. He says:

  “Let me scents ya a bit…” and then he added: “It’s not a big deal; I won’t touch,” as if he imagined that touching was the only thing that counted. It was like he was thinking that he could do anything if he doesn’t touch or if he isn’t touched. He’s a big mongoloid and his words are monstrous. His hands are dirty and his eyes are ugly. What’s more, he’s always behind my back, like I said. I repeat: he speaks poorly and smells bad. I think that there aren’t enough subtleties in my dictionary to describe this stinky monster that won’t let me be.

  Also, in my composition, he didn’t say: “Come… After it’ll be too late. Come… Don’t be goin’ tellin’ nobody nothin’. Come…let me scents ya…”

  In my composition, he didn’t say: “A mare, it’s like a woman… Look. It’s soft an’ clean. Ya’d say that it has toilet paper…has candies…”

  He couldn’t say either: “Come… Don’t be goin’ tellin’ nobody nothin’” and in my composition he didn’t add: “…but I’m bad off here. This ain’t my place here in the treeless fields…then sometimes, I wanna drown myself…”

  Yet, he threw his head back, making gurgling sounds with the rainwater, for real, and then after, the slobber ran down his chin. He was making noise, a ruckus, with his arms and his feet…and it was time for his act. He kept saying: “I wanna drown myself.” No more seriously though than if “drown” had been something else, as he was always taking liberties with words.

  In my composition, I watched him do it without saying a thing. He was gurgling but wasn’t saying “scents ya” and wasn’t saying “drown.”

  We say “in the heart of the summer” and the summers at our place are hot and dry and the dirt trails become crevassed sometimes. In autumn, because of the rain on the clay, it becomes like, and exactly like, a muddy watershed that runs between the grass. So, you never know when you’ll be able to use the
road. Because a horse in the mud is a horse in the snow. It worries you and it slides. And in the stacks of hay, the enemy could hide standing up.

  Moreover, my father’s land is a capharnaum [13] of sorts, if you see what I mean, and want to know. And because of all its nooks and crannies, you never really know for sure which way will be the shortest, or which way will be the most practical for the Ford truck or the tractor. On certain days of the year, it really is the Abandoner’s country. There’s a sort of inherent mystery to the land itself, this land that the family has owned for four generations and that it roams all over in all directions, and every day. It makes up a patchwork of ill-assorted meadows and enclosed bits. It’s a corner of the country where you’ve got to expect anything and everything.

  When I went by “the barn at Timothy” thinking that I was far in front of him, I was surprised to find him there, leaning up against the wall which faces downward, and so well hidden that I stumbled upon him all of sudden. I just came across him like that, and when he grabbed the halter solidly and held the horse back, I couldn’t find anything else to say but:

  “How did you manage to get here? How did you manage to get here?”

  The Abandoner’s country… Sometimes, I happen to have doubts about all this. What I mean is that I happen to doubt that all this really exists. Like this valley, with its land, rising on each side of a road that snakes its way along like a river in the bottom of a ravine. Lands and farms… One of the richest is the Abandoner’s, with its fine house and buildings. With its monster, its Shadows and its Cake Eater. I happen to think that all this exists only in my head. On my body, there’s no trace whatsoever. And in my composition, around the words, an emptiness has set in.

  As if I was seeing nothing at all.

  As if I was hearing nothing at all.

  Or as if, by keeping quiet all the time, a hole has been hollowed out.

  He wants me to hold his hand. I say no. He says:

  “Just a li’l…” He says:

  “Not for a long time.” He says:

  “Again…it’s not a big deal.” And I don’t say anything back. I lower my head and I hide my hands.

  Sometimes when he’s tired and we have to get to the farm from the top of the field, he asks:

  “Gimme yer hand, will ya?” and me, I say no. I run, I take off on the side paths and abandon the trail then and there. I’ve got to.

  Yet sure enough, he finds a technique. Or a means. In order to bug me, that’s for sure, and to make himself happy, too. He invented a word once again and it’s a word that comes from the verb gratter, meaning to scratch or itch. I’ve already said that when he’s with me, he takes liberties with words. He dares – covering his mouth with his hand because it embarrasses him a little – he dares say to me: “Come gratch me,” and makes a gesture with his hand that leaves no doubt with respect to where this verb comes from; a verb not present in my Petit Larousse.

  He says: “Come gratch me,” and establishes a whole program of activities that provided the supposed sensation.

  He says: “When ya ride a bike, it gratches.” He says: “Saddlin’ up, too, is for gratchin’…an’ wearin’ underwear that’s too tight…it’s all the same thin’…” and I notice that he covers his mouth with his hand when he says this.

  He laughs, acts like an idiot, fools around but, rest assured, he’s not entirely unaware of what he’s doing. That’s what he does, sure enough. I know that he wouldn’t dare say it if anybody else were there. In front of the others, he says yes or carrect. He says “kay” or “right away”; he crawls, he says: “Yes, right away” and then tries to blend in, in order to better sneak about, that’s for sure. And maybe, too, like with simple gestures, in order to establish his power over me.

  In my composition, I wrote:

  “The more we move along, the more I realize that the Ornithorhynchus becomes visible when swimming in the river. His teeth, his whole muzzle…and his colour, too, make it so that it’s now impossible to mix up the monster with a chunk of wood.”

  I’m the wanderer.

  After, I added:

  A monster is on the lookout, spies, gurgles and then jumps on his prey when the time comes. But, I didn’t go any further.

  The horse, since it was a horse that was going to its death, let itself be mastered right away and even when I told it to turn around with my heels and start running with the movement of my wrist…regardless of the direction. The horse was done, and my attempts remained fruitless.

  He said: “It won’t last long. Come down from there” …and the nature of the light, almost right away, began to change.

  He added: “We’re gonna put the mare in the shelter.”

  I didn’t want to get down, but a horse is not a fence handrail. He was holding it by the bridle, made it go around the mounds of oats and then brought it into the barn. And I felt ridiculous for letting myself get fooled so easily.

  He said: “Look…it’s gettin’ wet right now. It’s dangerous in the hills when it’s muddy. The cheval [14] can slide on ya, then crush yer leg. Not long ago, it happened to a guy’n the village. Hadda cut his leg off. It’s true what I’m tellin’ ya there. Just ask yer father an’ see…” I just want to point out that he has a whole set of abracadabra stories to make you shiver, as if his goal or his pleasure in life was to scare others. And, it was him; he was the one who told me to watch my back. Sometimes with me, he manages to succeed and sometimes he runs into a wall. I’ve learned in time that his success has coincided most often with the attention that I give him or when I listen to him. More and more, I force myself to not even hear what he says…and even, if for the most part, they’re only grunts, slobberings and burps.

  When he spits, and he happens to do this often, I try not to look at the green and slimy gob of spit spread all over the dry clay or in the wet grass in the morning. I also try to forget that he goes to the bathroom outside, and that just before, he gets rhubarb leaves to use. I try to forget all this; that he’s always hot, with pools of sweat everywhere, that his dentures are not washed and that his eyes are turned up. That’s the Ornithorhynchus; the monster that knows how to sneak about and dig things up.

  He said: “Come down from the mare.”

  He said: “You’d say that ya wanna do her all by yerself.”

  But I didn’t get down. I have to say that I wanted to continue on my way, and that I didn’t know where to go anymore.

  I said: “It isn’t raining anymore now. I’m sure that there hasn’t been enough time for the land to get soaked through. We should go right away. If the rain starts up again, the trails will be muddy later on, for sure.” But he didn’t answer me.

  Slowly, like in a ceremonial ritual, he went around the mare that I was sitting on and stopped behind, straight in a line with me and the beast.

  I said: “Well, I’m going down right away. For me, it’s not getting wet that fast…it’ll be worse soon, for sure…” And as I was turning around with the horse, he was still standing behind blocking the door and said: “Wait, it shouldn’t be long.”

  I said: “You never know how long it’s going to last.”

  He said: “At the house, they won’t be happy if ya go down all by yer lonesome in a rainstorm. Yer too young to go horse ridin’ when it gets wet. Yer father won’t find it carrect. Wait a li’l bit, still. It’s gonna pass.”

  I said: “Shove over, I’m going down all the same…” and that’s when he said: “If ya continue to do what ya want, yer gonna make the mare lose its foal. Yer always harming us. Yer father said so…‘We don’t want any trouble here.’”

  He always has witnesses in his corner and I’ve noticed that it works with me. He imprisons me. A spider, a net… Often, it’s like a drowning, too. Or better still, getting bogged down in the mud and water. Or better yet, it’s a suction that attracts you and prevents you from walking and working and, in the end, brings you down.

  How much time do I still have to wait? In my composition, in ord
er to speak about childhood and boats, I said: “The short reach of my long arms prevents me from grasping the world…” but nothing more.

  In my composition, I always have to dress and distort people and cover up the facts. Without this, there could be grave consequences.

  He continues to invent words – scents, gratch – but he doesn’t stop there. He invents gestures, too. Sometimes, for nothing and without us even talking, he shows me the end of his finger and laughs. After, he’ll move on to something else, it depends. But the important thing is that he’s trying to give me a sign and let me know what he’s interested in.

  In my composition, I wrote:

  The Ornithorhynchus makes noise with his paws on the river. The wanderer turns his head and he knows that he’s there.

  But I didn’t write:

  Could it be that one of the combat tactics is to make others feel, sense, or smell his presence? Might it be that in war, that the only words worth anything are to hide, to be on the lookout, to spy?

  He’s watching me. And he wants me to know he’s watching me. Behind a door, or when we’re alone near the stable. If he doesn’t have the time for storytelling, he shows me his finger. Like that sergeant with the colonel in the film, he doesn’t want me to forget he’s there.

  It’s incredible just how loud the noise is from raindrops falling on a rusty tin roof.

  He was standing in front of the door, and even if he’d let go of the mare, the rain, which had started again, dissuaded me from leaving. Because of the rainstorm the weather was cooler, and again, because of the rainstorm, a half-light had settled in. There, right between the ploughing equipment that wouldn’t get moved until next summer. It was there, too, on the remaining bit of hay that was shrivelling up in the humidity of an autumn that hadn’t yet happened.

  Him, he was going counter-clockwise and me, I was still up on the horse’s back, observing him from the corner of my eye. I saw him line himself up with it and come back from behind; I also saw him make a straight line with me and the mare. I heard him laugh and breathe deeply. I waited for him to speak and he said: