Against God by Patrick Senécal Read Free Book Online

response he doesn’t insist, thirteen hundred dollars, all on your
     credit card, you head out of the store with two full bags, one in each hand, the
     snow has stopped, you walk for some twenty minutes, you take an overpass, stop
     in the middle, set the bags down on the ground, lean over the railing, an
     expressway eight metres below, cars racing by, you pull out the first DVD, holdit over the drop and let go, it falls between two cars and
     is crushed in under a second, you pull out a second DVD that you throw, this
     time it bounces off the hood of a jeep, then a third DVD, a fourth, a fifth, you
     throw them all onto the expressway, one by one, some cars swerve, slam on the
     brakes, but that’s all, you still have a dozen movies left when a voice shouts
     at you, a pedestrian, a man in his fifties, outraged, he asks you what you think
     you’re doing, he tells you you could cause an accident, so you throw a DVD at
     him, the man jumps back, a look of stupefaction on his face, then you throw a
     second one, the man hurries off, yelling that you’re a nutcase, and you turn
     back to the railing and throw your last DVDs onto the expressway, increasingly
     feverish, you yank your wallet from your pocket, you pull out your local gym
     membership, you throw it into the void, then your other cards follow, business
     cards for your sports gear store, health insurance, social insurance, driver’s
     license, Petro-Points, Air Miles, you throw them all out except your bank card
     and your credit card, then you stumble upon two pictures, one of your wife and
     the other of your two children, you stare at them for a long, long time, you
     bite your lip, your eyes fill with tears, but you stretch your hand out toward
     the void, you spread your fingers and the two pictures flutter for a second
     before gliding down, like two dried leaves falling from a tree, but you don’t
     watch them fall to the ground, you turn on your heel and away, you walk
     aimlessly for a while, hunger has set in but you don’t think of eating, finally
     you sit on a snow-coveredbench, your hands in your coat
     pockets, you feel a piece of paper in your pocket and pull it out, that girl
     Mélanie’s address, you think, you stand, hail a passing taxi, give him the
     address, the taxi starts up, the driver is Haitian and in fine form, talking
     non-stop, commenting on the mild winter, forever smiling, you say nothing for a
     moment then you ask him in an expressionless voice how he can be in such good
     humour after what happened in his country of origin a month and a half ago, the
     Haitian’s serenity instantly evaporates, silence, uneasy glances at his rearview
     mirror, then his voice sounding
    - It’s . . . terrible what happened over there, I know, sir, but . . . What do
     you want me to do?
    pitiful, and you, hearing those words, you nod, you
    - You’re right there . . . Anyways, your indifference is probably the best way to
     tell him to bugger off . . .
    mutter slowly, and the driver, hearing you, asks who you mean, but you don’t
     answer, the driver says he has no idea what you’re talking about, insists he is
     not at all indifferent to the plight of his people, you just stare outside in
     silence, gently massaging your sore ribs, ten minutes, you’ve arrived, back in
     yesterday’s working-class neighbourhood, you recognize Le Losange two blocks
     away, you’re across from a five-storey building, a sign on the door reads
     “Apartments for Rent, Contact Suite 1,” you walk inside, a list of tenants with
     a mail slot by eachname, no buzzers, you go to the inside
     door and give a push, it isn’t locked, you check your piece of paper, go up
     three flights, door 7, you knock, no answer, you sit down on the floor for a
     minute then, you lean against the wall, you think, finally you get to your feet,
     take the stairs down, out on the sidewalk you look around, weary, worn-out, you
     read the sign on the door a second time,