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

dark island in the hardened snow. The smell is awful, a combination of gasoline and burned food. He makes out, amid the remains, a boot, a belt buckle, and above all, the head separated from the body. A partly melted can lies nearby. His friend’s mouth is wide open, as if loosing a scream into the world. Philippe got it all wrong, right to the end. His immolation inspires in Vincent only disgust. He takes the monk’s photograph out of his pocket and throws it onto the fire. He’s waiting for it to curl up and disappear before he leaves the spot. It doesn’t burn. Using a small branch, he buries the photo beneath the still-smoking embers.

He finds, intact, Philippe’s heart.

THE END

Antoine closes A Pure Heart with a taste of bile in his mouth. He has read it in one sitting. No matter how many times he tells himself that it’s just a novel, his unease grows. His wife spent two years writing a story in which she portrays him, in the character of Vincent, as an unscrupulous manipulator. He wonders what she was trying to tell him with this. If Alice were still alive, what would her answer be?

That night, he dreams about the monk Thích Quảng Đức, about his face, so impassive despite the fire consuming him. He wakes in a panic when he sees, amid the flames, the smiling face of his wife.

Claire Langlois’s article appears the next day. It’s on the front page of a cultural section previewing the season’s new books: two whole pages on Alice Livingston and her final novel. The photos take up most of the article. The first, the most important, shows Alice with her arms around Jonathan. A few lines are devoted to the young actor’s current success. Jonathan expressed his boundless admiration for his mother, and the deep sorrow caused by her sudden death: “It’s a shock that has radically changed me and made me a better man – and also a better actor.” Claire Langlois had never told Antoine that she was also interviewing his son. And Jonathan never mentioned it. Antoine blames Jonathan for having authorized the publication of this photo. He’d taken it himself, a year before Alice’s accident. He remembers it well: it was the last time they were all together.

A photo of Alice’s office accompanies a brief sidebar: “Alice Livingston called her work space her ‘aquarium.’ She referred to herself as an ‘authorfish,’ and liked to say that she didn’t write, but made bubbles.” Antoine doesn’t remember having revealed those details to the journalist, and concludes that she got them from Jonathan. Again, he’s annoyed with his son.

The main part of the article is on the following page. Claire Langlois also met Alice’s publisher. She quotes long excerpts from their interview. Louis-Martin Vallières describes the career of his favourite author, makes connections between her various novels, draws out themes, and finishes with A Pure Heart.

“It’s a special case, and marks a departure from the books that came before. An incisive novel, metaphorical, largely autobiographical, requiring the author to work on herself, to delve into her past, to surpass herself. A novel about the purity of love when it’s as young as the dawn. Alice Livingston’s death makes this posthumous work a true testament.”

A photo of Louis-Martin shows him in front of a bookstore window, Alice’s book in his hands. He’s smiling.

At the bottom of the page, a fourth and last photo, smaller than the others: Antoine looks so ridiculous that he hardly recognizes himself. He is standing stiff as a post, his fists clenched, face rigid, dressed like a corpse. Behind him, the dark, tormented rectangle of The Blot, the impressive canvas in front of which he posed.

“Antoine Ste-Marie, Alice Livingston’s husband.”

It’s the only mention of him in the entire article. Claire Langlois kept nothing of their interview. Antoine goes to get a butcher knife out of the kitchen, and slashes wide strips in the painting he can no longer bear.

Louis-Martin Vallières greets Antoine with an enormous coffee in one hand and a half-eaten croissant in the other. He’s a dynamic man in his early forties. His worktable is buried under files, books, manuscripts. Author photos adorn the walls. His publishing house, founded fifteen years earlier with only three employees, is still modest, but prosperous. Alice Livingston merits the largest photo, strategically hung. Hers is the first smile Antoine sees on entering the office. Without replying to the publisher’s greeting, Antoine launches his first question:

“Did Alice ever talk to you about this Félix, to whom she dedicated her novel?”

Louis-Martin gestures for him to sit down, but Antoine keeps going.

“How do you explain that this Félix Maltais killed himself last month in the same way as Philippe in her novel?”

“Who told you that this Félix Maltais is the same man to whom Alice dedicated her novel?”

“I just know it, that’s all.”

The publisher, visibly embarrassed, is searching for words.

“Antoine, take a minute to sit down and calm yourself.”

“It’s clear that there’s a link between this man’s suicide and Alice.”

“It’s only a novel.”

“I don’t think so. I’m not leaving here till you tell me the truth. Félix Maltais must have read Alice’s manuscript. That many similarities can’t be just a coincidence. Answer me, I’m sure you know something.”

Louis-Martin pauses, breathes deeply.

“This is rather awkward. Awkward for me. But I assure you, this man’s suicide has nothing to do with your wife’s novel. Something bothered me about the end of A Pure Heart. In the version Alice gave me before she died, Philippe absolutely didn’t burn himself to death. He entered a religious order and devoted his life to prayer. I found that end disappointing. And then in July, as you might imagine, I learned on television about Félix Maltais’s suicide. I confess it now, yes, Alice had spoken about him. And so I made the connection. He’d left this photo of the Buddhist monk in his car before immolating himself. The