A Knife in the Sky by Marie-Célie Agnant

Author:Marie-Célie Agnant [Agnant, Marie-Célie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inanna Publications
Published: 2022-08-21T11:00:00+00:00

* * *

Charlot called today. His daughters are refusing to talk to him, and he blames me for his children’s attitude. He is their father, after all, he claims; they owe him respect. “Respect is not a duty,” Sonia replied, “respect is earned.” I stayed out of it. For a moment, as the children bickered like they used to, everything was fine and only remnants of fear lingered in my exhausted mind.

A fleeting, possible happiness. I stay to watch, in the evening, as the children play cards or dominoes, hiding in the bedroom. It’s as though we were waiting for the wind of woe to change its course, to leave us be, to let our family live out its story outside of this nightmare. Sometimes I look in the mirror, my face wizened and washed out, and I don’t recognize myself. My hair has gone white so quickly. Every night I dream the same dream, a portent of some calamity I can’t see. I’m rambling; I’m obsessed by this dream. It’s always the same, the same series of scenes in the same order.

First, childhood. I’m about ten years old. I’m lying up on the gallery, reading. I read everything, I love books. A jaundiced old woman emerges behind me. I don’t know who she is, I can’t quite make out her features, they are constantly changing. Instinctively, I put the book away, and then I shove my hands in my mouth, which bulges like a balloon. My fingers hurt, but I don’t really understand why. Do my fingers know what’s coming, do they sense the butchers’ wrath? Words tumble from the old woman’s mouth like sleet. Razor-edged words. That’s enough reading! We need you in the kitchen! Her stare is relentless, her eyes tarnished by something unfulfilled. She glares daggers at me, and they pierce me to the marrow. The woman is yellow, she sputters, suffocating under the weight of her indignation. Mika has committed a book! she shouts, spinning around like a top. Words slip between her lips, she spits them out, hunching her shoulders and wincing from the effort. She curls her lip to reveal her incisors, like a dog. She whistles, grinding her molars, and brings her hand to her chest. In her poisonous voice, she warbles, In the beginning, she used to write furtively, in the middle of the night, by candlelight. Her voice is bile and rage. She lifts an emaciated finger like a blade and points to me. As soon as she knew how to put the words together, she started to lie, she lies like she breathes, and over the years, she began to invent stories by the thousands, tall tales, lies. We thought one day she would come to reason, that these delusions would vanish in time. Alas, no. She is so stubborn.

A man starts to speak. I don’t know him. He pretends to be my husband, I don’t know. He could be my father, a cousin, an uncle, or a neighbour.

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