Back at the house, he doesn’t bother to unpack his suitcase. He immediately immerses himself in A Pure Heart.
At the very moment when, in the Chicago Stadium, Jim Pappin is sending the puck that will garner his team a first win in this seven-game series into Ken Dryden’s net, the village of Saint-Jean-Vianney is in part disappearing into the Saguenay’s icy waters. It’s about eleven o’clock when some forty houses and their occupants are swept away by a mudslide.
A few days later, sports commentators note that the overtime period in the Canadiens–Blackhawks game saved lives. Many television viewers delayed going to bed so they could watch the end of the game. They had a better chance of quickly fleeing their houses than did those sleeping peacefully in their beds.
That night Laure, her mother, and grandmother, who have no great passion for hockey, go to bed very early. Jolted awake by a cracking sound, Laure tries unsuccessfully to turn on her bedside lamp. There are cries of terror in the black night. Women scream, children cry, dogs bark. Then an infernal din rises up from the earth. The whole village is plunged into darkness. Panicking, Laure gets up, calls her mother. Her bedroom window shatters. A piece of glass strikes her and gashes her eye. She screams in fright. It’s the punishment, she’s certain. Philippe was right. God is punishing her. Through the blood veiling her eyes, she makes out the silhouette of her mother, who is coming toward her, a candle in her hand. When mother and daughter meet, part of the roof caves in. The house walls shudder, then collapse. The grandmother dies instantly, crushed in her bed by a beam come loose from the ceiling. Laure and her mother don’t have such luck. They are swallowed up alive by icy mud that, like death itself, pours in from every direction. Laure, with her last breath, pronounces Philippe’s name. In just a few seconds, the house slides into a clay crater, where it disappears, engulfed.
At the same time, Philippe is leaving the Let’s Talk Business tavern. He heads quickly toward the Saguenay. A frigid wind is churning the river’s dark waters, swollen by the melting snow. He walks with hands clenched inside the pockets of his coat. He keeps his eyes on the river’s powerful current, lit sporadically by a pale moon. He can’t calm his anger, or check his inner torment. The constant rumbling of the Saguenay seems to feed his rage. Vincent’s words torment him. Philippe raises his head and screams into the night sky: “I wish she’d die!”
His heart will repeat that sentence until dawn.
* * *
Three days after the mudslide, Rachel hands an envelope to her brother, who is back from college.
“Where’s it from?”
“I don’t know. I found it in the mailbox. There’s no stamp, just your name.”
Vincent opens it. There’s a photo inside. He recognizes it. He has seen it in Philippe’s room, above his bed.
“You know who sent you that?”
“I have an idea.”
“Who?”
“Rachel, you’re too curious. Anything new on Saint-Jean-Vianney?”
“Same news as yesterday.”
* * *
Since the announcement of the catastrophe, Vincent has been spending his days in front of the television. The scope of the disaster fascinates him. He tells whoever will listen that he knows one of the victims. He could have been with her at the time of the tragedy. He explains to his girlfriend, Simone, that since she’s dead, he has felt a kind of love for Laure.
“It’s as if I loved her retroactively.”
“Have you seen Philippe? He must be devastated.”
“He sent me this photo today.”
“What is it?”
“A monk who set himself on fire during the Vietnam War. What do you think?”
“That you should go and see him.”
“I’m not sure he wants to see me.”
“Then why did he take the trouble to send you that?”
“I’ll go tomorrow.”
“Go to see him now.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Don’t be naive, did you look at that photo? It’s an ominous message.”
“You’re right.”
“Here, take him back his picture.”
At once, Vincent goes to the student residence. Knocks several times at Philippe’s door. No reply. He turns the knob; the door’s not locked. He goes in. The room is bathed in shimmering light. A host of lit candles are spread across the floor, the bookcase shelves, the chest of drawers near the bed. A tall wax candle is set on the worktable, near which Vincent recognizes the little metal box where Philippe keeps Laure’s letters. He picks it up. The metal is warm. Inside, the remains of burned paper. He goes to the bathroom. Knocks on the door several times.
“Philippe, are you there?”
He opens the door a crack, takes a worried look inside, Philippe isn’t there. Turning around, his eyes are drawn to something. He goes to the window and sees something that glows between the stones of the cemetery bordering the college. He runs out of the room.
When he gets there, he can’t locate the spot that he saw from the window. The cemetery is full of dense shadows, but he is quickly guided by an acrid smell that leads him to a little mound bordered by scrawny trees. A few tombstones are scattered where a last patch of snow is resisting the spring. It’s then that he sees it. All that’s left of Philippe is a heap of burned flesh. The blaze has created a
