Augustino and the Choir of Destruction by Marie-Claire Blais Read Free Book Online

him, for all at once, Vincent was the bird flying around, trapped in a prison of cables in Madrid, a pair of bees, flies or horse-flies, Daniel had seen them so often, their eggs frozen in their first winter, Daniel had lied to Vincent once again, he thought, never telling him what had to be said, and what Chuan and Mère were saying about Caroline, that, yes, if she’s not here with us tonight, it’s because someone won’t let her out, because she must be kept inside that residence, what residence Mère called out to Chuan as she disappeared, there was so much for her to do with the friends and husband and son who were looking for her, and Mère stubbornly went on, what sort of residence, a residence for women artists of her ability and social class, idle chatter and slander, Mère thought, none of it could be true, nasty gossip, leave me alone, that was what Marie Curie insisted on, a bit of peace, and said Caroline, I’ve got my hat and gloves, I want to go out, they’ve invited me to dinner, but a voice came back, no Ma’am, you’re not going out tonight, it’s her, I know it, my black governess, Caroline thought, she’s got back into this house I used to live in with my mother when I was small, though that was in Louisiana, not here in New England, Charly my chauffeur is waiting for me in the car, or rather the car I gave her, and all the gifts I have given people, all those presents are lost to me now, Caroline thought, for she felt she could no longer run her own life as she used to, what was she doing in a house she was told she could not leave, but a voice — she recognized it from the warm, melodious timbre as Harriet the black governess’ — kept saying to her, Ma’am, if we pull up your armchair, you can see the bay and hear chickadees singing in the pine trees, but what’s the point if I can’t go out and play with my cousin or take my pony out past the dunes, said Caroline, Beauty he was called, do you remember, Harriet, my father and grandfather were wonderful sailors, and we always lived near the sea, I’m sure that’s why I’m here by the ocean now, dear, exactly where are we, can you tell me, the walls weren’t this high before, and I could play with my cousin, although my upbringing was always too rigorous, in the morning when my mother welcomed her lovers, everything was forbidden me, that’s when my cousin and I used to wander off with the pony among the dunes, Beauty, that’s what our pony was called, Caroline knew she was repeating the same long sentence whose words eventually faded towards the end, a vague, nebulous sentence, occasionally lit by memories and vivid, elusive images, but it had to be enunciated right to the end, this sentence hammering the brain and the heart, Charly, where is Charly, I really don’t like those young people she hangs around with, Madam, please do not use that name, the voice said, my name is not Harriet, I am Miss Désirée, I do remember you, why are you always contradicting me, Caroline said, irritated all of a sudden, I knew you long ago, remember Mississippi, my photographs of the South are famous, remember that mother with two children, that was you, Harriet, erect and so proud with your children, almost a haughty expression, and that’s how I photographed you, a poor but majestic woman standing on that veranda with rotted boards, and that other photograph, who could forget that, our shame it was, a restaurant façade with words written in wood and stone: whites only here, reserved for whites, a black passer-by wearing a cap is reading this, remember Harriet, I took that photo myself, how strangely numb I felt, as though I were making a film, photographing without feeling anything, sometimes these poor people, with broken bottles placed in the spindly branches of trees to ward off evil spirits, spelled out on the roofs of their huts, where will you spend eternity,