Impurity by Larry Tremblay (most interesting books to read .txt) 📕

“You want to humiliate me?”

“You fell in love with my sentences.”

Félix looks at Antoine as if seeing him for the first time. He wonders what’s hiding behind the smile that has just appeared on his face.

“I’m the one you love.”

“And you, who do you love? Get out of here.”

Antoine hesitates before confirming with the owner of the country house that he will rent it again. He’s afraid of being at loose ends, of mulling over memories in that big house in Saint-Armand. What will he do there without Alice? In Montréal, at least he can go out, take in a movie, check out a restaurant. Finally, he renews his rental but for a shorter stay. Instead of his usual month, he’ll spend two weeks there and use the time to prepare his courses for the coming school year, already approaching.

He arrives at the end of the afternoon. After getting groceries in the village, he goes for a swim in the pond behind the house. The August day is perfect. Lower humidity, a light breeze rustling the leaves of the aspens and a few birches that have made it through the winter. In this light the pond’s surface is gleaming like a mirror reflecting in reverse the infinite expanse of blue sky.

After his swim, he fixes himself a salad, opens a bottle of red wine, and spends the rest of the evening reading his newspapers. He has never slept alone in this house with its many curtainless windows. He was used to doing so in Montréal because Alice was often on the road, promoting her novels. He puts off getting into bed as long as he can. Around midnight, no longer able to read, he turns in. He can’t sleep either, though the wine has made him groggy. He listens to the sounds of nature. The crickets have begun their concert at the same time as the tree frogs. Sometimes he hears a strange growling, and wonders what animal is responsible. Large insects throw themselves onto the screen of the half-open window. The murmur of the stream that feeds the pond, winding down a pebbly slope, blends into the constant whispering of the leaves. The crack of a branch signals the furtive passing of a deer, a coyote, or even a bear. Are there any bears in the region? Posing the question, Antoine can’t remember if he locked the front door. His solitude weighs on him during this night filled with beasts going about their mysterious affairs, their lovemaking, hunting for survival. He regrets having rented the house. He’s not ready. He thinks of Alice. He feels her presence more strongly than in Montréal. She’s dead, her body has been reduced to a few ashes sitting in an urn chosen from a catalogue. Antoine is behaving as if his wife has become a gaze that he carries with him wherever he goes. It’s not a constant feeling. Sometimes several days in a row can pass without his thinking about her. Then his memory returns like a powerful wave he must fight off. And often the wave is infused with guilt. Because Antoine has a feeling that the pain induced by his wife’s death doesn’t make the grade. He thought that such a shock would destroy him, but he continues to breathe, to eat, to follow the daily news, even to desire another woman. In the bed where he is trying to sleep, Antoine finds only torment. He endows the dead with powers his reason denies, and asks himself whether Alice was witness to his pathetic attempt at seducing Claire Langlois. He tries to understand why he called the journalist back and agreed to the photo session that he now regrets. He turns over in his head the events of recent days. It’s not just a story of sexual desire. He wouldn’t have seen Claire Langlois again if Jonathan had not revealed his liaison with Frédéric Létourneau – eventually he persuades himself of that. He can’t bear the thought of Jonathan finding himself in bed with a man who could be his father. He feels betrayed, abandoned, replaced. He thought he could avenge his son by wanting to sleep with a woman who could be his daughter. It’s pathetic, infantile. The real problem is elsewhere.

The red wine’s heaviness has had its way with his questioning. He slips into sleep, his thoughts like portions of his dreams that magnify his discomfort. He’s awakened suddenly by an unusual noise. Something is clawing or scraping at the window opposite his bed. It seems to start at the floor and climb to the ceiling, giving onto the garden where clumps of daylilies grow in profusion. Antoine thinks a man is trying to get into his bedroom. He imagines a serial killer escaped from prison. Paralyzed in his bed, he dares not turn on the bedside lamp. After long minutes, he ends up reasoning with himself. Realizing that it must be an animal, he slowly approaches the window on all fours and finds himself face to face with a baby raccoon looking at him with its red eyes. The little animal is totally white.

“An albino raccoon!”

He turns on the light and waves his hands to drive it off. The raccoon continues its game. Antoine goes into the kitchen and drinks a glass of water. He’s fully awake and doesn’t want to return to the bedroom. He opens the refrigerator, cuts himself a piece of cheese, and goes to sit in the living room. He has brought along in his baggage Alice’s new novel, which Louis-Martin Vallières has just sent him. The padded envelope, not yet open, is in the pile of newspapers and books he’s deposited near the armchair where he likes to read.

He tears open the envelope, takes the book in his hands, opens it, and reads the dedication:

To Félix, with all my regrets.

Suddenly unsettled, Antoine puts the novel back in its envelope. He’ll wait for dawn before returning