Bilingual Being Read Free Page B

francophone teen neighbour at our new suburban home who happened onto a preschool girl preconditioned by her pre-existing family drama – just another boy on a lucky street, I guess – with whom I played far too easily (and often) the games of «docteur» and «marié.» In turn, their eyeballs, noses, and hands would partly fuse in the odd record I’ve kept inside myself all these years, blurring the vestiges of some ghost(s) who took illicit photographs in at least two locations. And a few bit players who may or may not have participated, each in their own way, perhaps just by looking.
    It’ll turn out that I’m correct about many things. But I’m completely wrong about the first offender, the primary cause. Over the years, a ménagerie of potential perpetrators will offer itself for consideration: employees of my father’s, other neighbours, family friends. But never this elder – never him. I could sense his powerful presence, but I couldn’t materialize it in the least. Like a black hole, it was evident only because of a devastating emptiness, an inexplicable absence in my mental layout. He took me on one-way journeys: odd trajectories going into things but never coming out. I imagine he started small, with a touch. Then, with years ahead of him, he intensified slowly and prudently. So I got used to him when I didn’t even have any words at all – not one. And then he taught me so well to keep quiet about it that I didn’t even speak of it to myself. “Recovered memories,” they call them. Trouble is, I never knew they were lost.
    It is 1961 or ’62. Turning left through the huge, carved doors to the grate that guards the balcony, the Elder grabs a skeleton key from the ring on the long string tied to his pants. His left hand holds my right, tight. We turnleft, south, walk a bit. I think: «Ça encore? Pas ça encore.» [This again? Not this again.] Then up some stairs, turn north, up a few more, reach another door, and walk directly east across the dark polished wood floor. I see the golden top of the altar on my left, way down on the main floor, and the big organ next to me on my right, that disgusting metal monster. Small brown birds live in the rafters further on the right, just before the squat brown door at the southeast corner. «Viens-t-en, ma belle.» We open that little door and walk into the bell tower. I get to try to reach for the wide horsetail with my fingers. I look up at the huge brown-black bell, and down into the well of darkness. Through the arches, I see blue sky, some bigger white birds flying by. A coat’s on the ground now. «Tiens. Assis-toi.» [Here. Sit down.] Scratchy wool on bare legs. A little brown glass bottle, like dark caramel. Pressed-in sides make it flat, a black cap. It’s a picnic in the sky. I think, this is what it feels like to be a princess.
    The record stops.
    It’s 1964 or ’65. A cousin my age who’s an altar boy prepares for mass. I see him fussing about with the vestments as we exchange a look of recognition – a “You too?” or “You – here?” Inmates crossing paths. But holding the Elder’s hand, I walk right past him in my shiny black shoes, through the sacristy, to the door that opens onto the rectory at the back. We walk up the stairs at the northwest corner, then down a long white hallway lined with lots of square windows on the left, facing north, every few steps. I see the tops of trees, the grey sky. There are doors up and down the right side. When we reach one near the end, we knock softly. «Ah, bonjour, ma belle.» «Bonjour, mon père.» I curtsy. It’s a narrow room, not well lit. A desk and chair are to the right, and a bed is to the left. There’s a white wall ahead with a picture of Jesus, and a blackish rosary on the same nail. The Elder and I sit on the bed. The Priest sits on the chair and offers us