Vandal Love Read online

  Acclaim for D.Y. Béchard’s

  VANDAL LOVE

  “D.Y. Béchard surpasses Kerouac in his consciousness of the French as part of a larger people, how their struggle is socially and politically situated rather than strictly personal.… Vandal Love seems like a trans-generational On the Road.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “Vandal Love is a point of reference for authors who set out to tackle the challenges of writing a multigenerational story.… The effect is near seamless, the unfolding of events written with surgical precision.”

  —Vancouver Sun

  “One part Jack Kerouac, one part William Faulkner, D.Y. Béchard has shaped Vandal Love into a heartfelt and sweeping narrative.… A searching and mystical novel imbued with sensitivity and grace, it has thrust Béchard centre stage as an up-and-coming literary contender and a new voice to be reckoned with.”

  —The Hour (Montreal)

  “Béchard’s writing at its strongest flows in sonorous passages, it evokes memorable landscapes, natural and urban, and examines the enduring qualities of a family separated by both time and distance.… [It] contains echoes of the magic realism of the South American master Gabriel García Márquez or, closer to home, the tall tales of western Canadian literary heavyweight Robert Kroetsch.”

  —Winnipeg Free Press

  “Béchard is an ambitious and skillful storyteller. His specialty is finding words to describe longing.… [Vandal Love is] about blood: what our veins inherit, and how it both holds and haunts us.”

  —The Georgia Straight

  “The author weaves his lyrical and image-rich prose through the pages of Vandal Love with the audacity of a virtuoso.… Béchard seems poised to walk among the giants of the Canadian literary scene.”

  —Now (Toronto)

  “Béchard’s improvised, riff-heavy narrative resembles Salman Rushdie more than Gabriel García Márquez, as it plays with the idea of exile as both a genetic inheritance and a spiritual purgatory.”

  —National Post

  “A lyrical, generational story of a family haunted by God who is not above, but is nature.… Reminiscent of Proulx and Doctorow in both sweep and grace of prose, it is hard to believe that Vandal Love, so elegant and accomplished, is only Béchard’s first novel.”

  —Dagoberto Gilb, author of The Magic of Blood and Woodcuts of Women

  “Beautifully evokes that eternal theme of the outsider, the outcast, the freak, in the search to find a place, albeit more of the soul than of the corporeal, that can be called home.”

  —Quill & Quire

  “A layered contemporary fairytale, mesmerizing and powerful.… a moving novel about universal longings.”

  —Montréal Review of Books

  BOOK ONE

  Part One

  Québec

  1946–1961

  Even when Jude was a boy, his arms and legs bulged, his neck corded, his muscled gut humped beneath his chest. On the steep fields above the road, above the river so wide they called it la mer, he worked in clothes the colour of dirt, harder and faster than his uncles, though when he paused from digging, he stood awkwardly, uneasy with inaction. By the age of fifteen, he rarely stopped. He sat and ate in the same motion. He undressed and stretched on his bed and slept. Hardship had given his face the uneven angles of an old apple pressed in among others in a cellar crate. He’d never closed his eyes to wonder at what couldn’t be seen.

  That autumn ended a dry summer. Foliage was dull, like rusted machinery on the hills. Potato harvest had him carving furrows in chill earth. He could never have imagined that a decade later villagers would still discuss the days that led to his disappearance. Or that some nights, watching TV, they would dream his fierce height and red hair, as if they might see him on a Hollywood street.

  Of the nineteen Hervé children, he should have been the most content to stay. His grandfather, Hervé Hervé, had raised him, and together they’d fished paternal waters with the sregularity of Mass. The Hervés had owned those first rough mountain farms since before the Seven Years War, and when Capt. George Scott burned the French homes, they didn’t flee to France. Nor did they relocate for the convenience of a telegraph line and a doctor when Jersey merchants built company villages. But for all their strength the family had developed an unusual trait. Children were born alternately brutes or runts, as if the womb had been exhausted. It was clockwork, enormous child then changeling. Villagers saw and feared this as if through some faint ancient recollection of stories that predated Christianity. They feared even the little ones, frail, scurrying beneath those hulking siblings.

  Though half his children were runts as if by biblical curse, Hervé Hervé remained proud. Strong beyond his years, he brought up even the last of his sons to fish and work the fields at a time when cod stocks were failing and farmland returning to forest. He’d grown up during the worst years of the emigration south and had seen too much change to trust it, the poverty, the wealth of war and again the poverty until he’d become as hard as the country that had been fled by hundreds of thousands so that it was him his children now fled. In fights, men broke knuckles on his face, his wide, almost Indian features expressionless, his weather-browned skin ignoring whatever bruise. He took his sons hunting hours through the drifts. He never used a compass, and once, when geologists and surveyors sent inland by the province disappeared, he retrieved them. In 1904, walking a dark road, he heard a shot from the woods and a bullet grazed his eye. No one believed it was an accident. If anything, his remaining eye became more intent, imprinted in memories and imaginations. Some claimed he measured the distance to the sea by tasting snow.

  In his first marriage he fathered three boys and three girls. Of those sons, two were keepers—he spoke of his children, if at all, in the language of a fisherman. He bred his wife hard, and when she foundered in childbed, he replaced her with Georgianne, a sturdier woman of no small religious bent who gave him eleven more. Jude was the illegitimate son of a brutish Scots-American tourist and Agnès, Georgianne’s fourteen-year-old daughter, who, intent on not giving birth, pummelled her belly, threw herself down hills and stairs, plunged into icy water and hurtled against low branches so that to the villagers she looked like a sideshow tough training for a bareknuckle fight. The pregnancy held and Jude was born with a flat nose and the glassy gaze of a punch-drunk fighter. But he wasn’t born alone. He came into the world with a tiny twin sister, in his arms, it was told, as though he expected further violence.

  All were surprised to see a keeper and a runt together, as if he should have emerged with a bag of gnawed bones. Villagers who knew the family accounts believed the Hervé curse was the result of some past perversion or sin. When winter or sickness came, the runts were the first to go, abused or disregarded by the giants. Oddly, though, with the years, it became apparent that Jude adored his quivering sister. He grew fast and started walking so young the villagers doubted his age, and whenever Isa-Marie, still in diapers, began to cry, he leaned against her cradle like a greaser on his Chevy. No two children could grow to be more different, Isa-Marie often at church, the pages of her school books crammed with magazine clippings of popes or saints, Jude eager for work, slogging up to the fields each spring just to see the sodden furrows set against the sky, the huge vents of mud.

  Of Agnès no memory would remain, only a photo, a handsome girl, eyelashes dark and long, lips pushed out to greet the world’s pleasures. She’d fed them bitter milk for three months as outside spring lit winter’s crevices, the sky bright as a movie screen, the first tourist cars hanging streamers of dust. That July she disappeared, only the orphaned twins and Jude’s name to remember her by. The tourist father had been called Jude, she’d told them. As for Isa-Marie, the grandmother had named her for a long-dead
sister, some Isabelle from another life.

  Hervé Hervé was sixty-six that year, late to be a father again. On the day of Jude’s birth he’d recognized the child as one of his own. He’d taken the silent newborn wrapped in a sheet to the salt-pitted scales, in the full April winds off the St. Lawrence, and reckoned his weight to a penny. By the time Jude was seven, Hervé Hervé was casting bets as to what he could pick up: crates of cod, a rusted foremast in the rocks. At his grandfather’s command, Jude stripped to chickenflesh and yellowed briefs. The crates went up, the mast wobbled and rose. Hervé Hervé gathered change, fragrant cigarettes brought by a sailor, a dollar pinned beneath a rock against the wind. Off a ways Moise Maheur watched with his own son, an angular boy with a protruding chin and squinty eyes, five years Jude’s elder, about the same height. Hervé Hervé put his pipe in a pocket, lit a cigarette, froze each man with his one eye and proposed a second bet. It was a June day, wind lifting spray off shallow breakers as the crowd stood in the cool light and watched. The Maheur boy threw punches as if they were stones. Jude’s came straight from the chin. The men shook their heads and looked away. Hervé Hervé counted up, gave Jude a penny for good measure.

  Jude grew within the time capsule of this affection, an odd tableau for the fifties: the swarthy grandfather with his pagan eye, and his atavistic protégé, fighting, stripped to the waist, coarse reddened skin like a wet shirt against muscle. Hervé Hervé decided to train him, told him to split wood, more than they could need or sell. Run, he shouted, pointing to the mountain. Each morning he gave him a jar of raw, fresh milk despite the disapproval of his wife, and Jude, stomach burbling, followed along to be weighed in.

  For the people of the village, the fights were less amusing each year as small, plum-coloured bruises became missing teeth, black eyes, great cancerous swellings on the faces of their sons. Soon people were saying, Doesn’t he know those times are over? Does he think this can go on forever? Jude’s birth had coincided with the end of the war, and only a few years afterwards, electricity had reached the village. Power lines stretched over the mountains and above the potato fields so that, hoeing, they could feel the thrum in their bones. Salesmen soon arrived with new contraptions, and children crowded to inspect the fluffy contents of a vacuum bag or to let the metal wand make hickeys on their arms. There was something innocent, light about the age, the future destined to be better.

  When Jude and Isa-Marie were ten, their grandmother, shocking village and curé alike, claimed that the ghost of her son had visited, some long-lost favourite of hers who’d fled west and never returned. In her stolid way she’d said that out there in the vast, English-speaking world she had other grandchildren that needed saving. Though Hervé Hervé tried to curb this madness, she left in the night with only her knitting and egg money, as well as some baby clothes and hand-me-downs, and was never seen again. The betrayal enraged Hervé Hervé, his bouts of drinking more violent, his sons and daughters less inhibited. Jude’s grandmother, medieval in her devotion, had run the house firmly, and without her there was no one to save them from their appetites.

  Soon even the youngest of Jude’s aunts and uncles were gone, fled or married. The house became dirty. Clothes went unmended. While Jude and Hervé Hervé worked, Isa-Marie studied or read or clipped up discarded church magazines and taped the holy images to her wall: missionary priests, saintly house pets, jungle savages who’d joined the clergy, the scars of piercings still visible on their round, beatific faces. From time to time two married aunts came by, gossiped in the kitchen, cleaned and left bowls of fried eggs, bacon and potato that Jude and Hervé Hervé ate cold for breakfast, lunch and dinner. That spring another aunt moved in with her four children after her husband wrecked his rig on the north coast and was crushed by logs. The house became almost normal, hot meals, scents of baking, diversity of tastes. Even Isa-Marie ventured from her room to help, Jude hulking along at her side, learning to pin diapers and powder bottoms. In those years he became kinder, made an effort to piece letters together at school, eyes bobbing in his head as he tried to figure out where to put his hands on the book. He learned to write his name, and under Isa-Marie’s supervision, wrote it often. In summer there were flowers on the table, berries picked and made into pies. During a February blizzard Isa-Marie gave out Valentines, each a paper heart glued with clippings of bleeding Jesuses, praying Virgins and women’s pumps from the Eaton’s catalogue. But Hervé Hervé’s drinking increased. By autumn the aunt had moved out with her children. The other two resumed their visits: fried papery eggs, carbonized bacon. They smoked in the kitchen and told stories: fathers in drunken threesomes with teenaged daughters, a pregnant woman who accidentally swallowed bleach and gave birth to an albino.

  Isa-Marie returned to the silence of her room. Flowers dried on the table, stems rotting in brackish water. Jude watched his aunts from the doorway. He recalled the wild, innocent laughter of children. Before that, what? An old woman with a jaw like a log splitter, the way she’d held his collar as she scrubbed at his face. His only memory of maternal love.

  Shortly after Jude turned fifteen, Hervé Hervé started taking him to travelling fairs, pitting him against grown men on sawdust stages after the shows had closed. Locals who recalled the towering, wide-jawed Scots-American tourist believed Jude was a fine fusion. Even as a toddler, he couldn’t be knocked down, simply rebounding like an inflatable doll with weighted feet. Hervé Hervé had trained him well. He bet heavily, treated Jude’s cuts with whisky, swigged and counselled in technique, to work the lower ribs and solar plexus. Jude’s only hint of softness was full, feathery lashes he’d inherited from his mother, out of place on his red fighter’s face though he was never mocked. He already weighed two hundred and twenty pounds.

  Though Jude did his grandfather’s bidding, fought well and never lost, his greatest love remained his sister. Ever since he’d been a toddler, he’d watched over her. If she was teased or berated, he was immediately there, strutting and bobbing, his punch-drunk face bleary with that unblinking, walleyed look. Only his aunts’ talk of her frailty alarmed him, the way they clucked their tongues when she left the room. She often had colds and fevers, and she’d remained small, a pale girl with green doe eyes and tentative gestures. In church she prayed with her shoulders pulled forward so that she looked to be hugging herself, and often she sat in the sun, appearing asleep, or else she put her blankets on the floor, in the warm light beneath her window. The aunts commented that it was in her blood, that unlike Jude she’d inherited from her tourist father a southern predisposition. She wouldn’t make it here, they said. There was a country for everything.

  One afternoon, through the dark boxed rooms of the house, Jude overheard his aunts discussing the days when children were given away. They recalled how a man with too many mouths to feed might hand one off to a neighbour with a barren wife. Families who needed a girl in the kitchen or a boy to learn a craft would go to another suffering from abundance. Sometimes there were loans, agreements that the child would return when his oldest siblings moved out. Or there were flat-out trades for a garden cart or a saw. The aunts recalled those that Hervé Hervé had given away, a Jean-Felix, a Marie-Ange. It had once been a common enough practice in the peninsula, somewhat outdated when Hervé Hervé, ashamed of the runts, had taken it up. The aunts laughed. He’d bought men drinks and lied about ages, saying a six-year-old was four. Everyone had known that he gave away lemons.

  Gradually, fear took control of Jude’s simple mind, and he became certain that while he was working the fields or gutting fish, his grandfather would hand Isa-Marie off like a bag of potatoes. Though their long hours of labour were conducted in silence, at times, when Hervé Hervé drank, he spoke a little and Jude listened as best he could. Hervé Hervé mumbled about Les États, about sons who’d left with the thousands of others seeking a better life and the daughters who’d been stolen by tourists. Même ta mère, he told Jude. He spat and cursed the foreigners who took everything, the fish from th
e St. Lawrence, the village girls. Jude had heard some talk about tourists, that to keep them coming, shops had hired women to wear old bonnets and dresses, and to bring looms or spinning wheels down from their attics and set them into motion. Men were even employed to cure cod in public displays as it had been done for centuries. But Jude never considered that the silly, rich tourists could constitute another threat to Isa-Marie, that one might stop and toss her in the trunk of his car like a flat tire.

  Now, as he worked, he considered the strangeness of the years, how he’d once been with her often, walking her to school or to church with their grandmother. He’d carried Isa-Marie on his shoulders, or clumped along behind her. But then he’d quit school to work. He’d stopped going to church, and she’d continued. With his grandfather, in the boat, on the slow rise and fall of swells, or cleaning fish, his scale-encrusted shirt like armour, he wondered where she was, what she did alone. When he saw her, they no longer touched. Evenings he sat at her bedside and gazed at her with his dumb, broken features, and she at him with her delicate pretty face. They had little games. She brushed her hair behind her ear, shrugged and smiled so that it fell forward again, ducked her head and brushed it back. He watched, and after sitting awhile, shifty with unspent energy, made a passable smile. He looked at his red hands curved halfway to fists, the veins between the knuckles, the nails the shape and colour of the tabs on soda cans. He often noticed her fingers on the Bible. Outside wind shook the leaves. Clothes moved in pantomime on the line. She watched him. He believed she was destined for something great.

  That year, Isa-Marie was becoming a woman at last. She didn’t have the rearing, dishevelled sex-appeal, the galloping bosoms of other girls, but frailty and lack of appetite gave her a slight, fragile beauty. Her shy manner, the way she peeked at the world past sweeping hair, incited in men a desire to embrace her gently, as if she were a childhood teddy, and simultaneously to ply the plush, stretch her limbs, toss her stuffings into the air. By becoming a woman she sanctioned the pedophile in sailor and school superintendent alike.