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

I didn’t know we were those evil spirits, it was a way of calling up the dead to help them, strange isn’t it, where will you spend eternity like a preacher’s threatening finger, the sky seemed close, the plaintive wind whipping into the glass bottles like gunshots, it seemed, how sharp it sounded, I remember, far better to feel nothing, believe me, Harriet, especially when I took pictures of the gazelle-hunt in the desert from my first husband’s convertible, that was certainly sobering, killing them while the car tore through whirlwinds of sand, it’s always been wiser to numb oneself, we weren’t alone in this grotesque appetite for hunting, I remember the cruel falconers in the desert with their trained birds, eagles tracking the buzzards or perhaps some sand-coloured bird behind the odd bush, unless the eagles and falcons cut its throat first, the falconers killed it amid strident cries, and I still hear their shrillness like the sound of bullets, go falcons, kill, kill, and we ate the bird, which tasted like pheasant, wild turkey, falconers who could not eat the meat themselves because it was on offering to Allah the merciful, the compassionate, I heard them praying and offering the slit throat of their prey to the falcons and eagles they prized so highly and raised on the taste of blood, possibly they would one day cut our throats as well, and we expecting none of this, once more by Mère’s side in her red dress with ruffles, Chuan was not reassuring, if Caroline has to be confined to the house, she said, you can well imagine, my dear, that it for her own good, so she can detox, what are you talking about, Mère replied, well, you have guessed that our dear friend has been addicted to morphine more and more each day, the stillest waters run deepest, you know, the more quiet and respectable one seems outwardly . . . Chuan’s attention swiftly turned to her husband who was speaking very loudly, and she reddened with distress, oh my poor husband is making his speech, I warned him to steer away from certain topics, to lighten up, still Olivier’s voice seem to redouble in volume, we are toys in the hands of religious hypocrites who want to tell us what to do, he was saying, beware of those who cling to a land of redemption and oppress us with their prophecies and biblical presages, they build in the desert where a bloodbath is sure to follow, beware these messianic madmen, we are no longer ruled by reason, God, why doesn’t he shut up, Chuan said, wait, this arrow will come back at us, Olivier continued to those who were still listening scattered around the pool, only Mélanie seemed to be listening with an air of utter gravity, she knew the retired senator’s oratory fire when addressing a crowd, and wasn’t there some truth to it when he said we are no longer guided by reason, and what might that mean for the future of her children, she wondered, beside herself at the thought it might be true, were we nothing more than playthings in the hands of madmen, was this our ludicrous fate, was that it for us, to be falcons so falconers could revel in our decay, Caroline thought, imperiously she had demanded that her armchair be moved near the window with the angora cat she never let go of in her lap, the cat Charly had given her, my Charly, one day at a bullfight I filmed in detail at Lima the delirious, enthusiastic shouts of the bloodthirsty spectators burned on my temples, women, men, the killing of the bulls, and this is us . . . as corruptible as the animal hanging on to life amid their cries and their joy, and that image, fixed forever, of three horses in harness and ten men, workers recruited at the last minute, dragging the defeated bull from his dusty arena with ropes, as they will remove me one day, head dragging on the ground, last-minute hires with their lifting gear, and I won’t want to go, the laughter and shouting were contagious, the dance of the bull