Read Online Charlie Johnson in the Flames by Michael Ignatieff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Ignatieff
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out of his field of vision, like the time they had made that sunny afternoon climb up the switchbacks of Mount Assiniboine, half of it with her on his back. She didnât remember the top, the view that made you want to cue âOde to Joyâ at about 1,000 decibels, and she didnât remember being carried or how good it felt to be together. Her one memory, she said, had been of that squirrel stealing a nut from her pack during the picnic. What picnic? What squirrel? Heâd been sitting beside her and he never even saw it. Charlie knew that it was stupid to fret about this kind of thing, but he couldnât help it. The whole point of a family was encapsulated in âDo you remember that time when?â In the good old days, he could do that with his own parents. Frank and Mika always gamely joined in, adding embroidery of their own to the tapestry of recollection they made together, though now he had to wonder whether they were humouring him, their one and only. Charlie, thinking like a father now, asked himself what common family memory actually was, what it was that they had been creating together all those years, he, Elizabeth and Annie.
The good thing about Jacek was that you could sit in silence for long periods of time, each of you thinking these kinds of thoughts.
âYouâll have to go home,â Jacek said.
âIâm not ready,â Charlie replied.
âShe sounds bad,â Jacek observed, noncommittally. It was never his style to tell Charlie what to do. But it was clear that he thought Charlieâs habit of endless deferral was beginning to catch up with him.
âSheâs fine,â Charlie said, and he meant it. Whatever else was true, Elizabeth would be fine without him.
Magda brought up some soup on a tray. Jacek pulled up a chair and they were going to feed him, but Charlie said he wanted to do it himself. So he tried. The soup didnât always get down his throat, but it felt good to be trying. They sat and watched him.
âWhatâs your secret?â he said finally, looking at them both, the way they sat there, so companionably together.
âHe is away a lot,â Magda said and smiled. âAnd we are two hours from the city,â Jacek added, pleased that his wife was not going to tell Charlie anything. Jacek went out and came back with a bottle of Wyborowa. âTo hell with the doctor,â he said, and they passed it around. Charlie liked the way she drank, looking at him as it went down.
He stayed for another four days. He got better and was able to do up his buttons and dress himself and go downstairs, past Magda, working at the kitchen table, out into the yard, feeling the cold run through him. He spent hours in Jacekâs workshop, watching him take an old camera apart and clean it, piece by piece, with a set of fine brushes and a jet air blower that made a sharp dry hiss. The paraffin heater between them made them drowsy, and so did the work. Charlie just watched, and Jacek would hold a piece up to the light and clean it and assemble all the pieces on a white linen cloth. He took two cameras apart down to their optics, and then assembled them again. It was quiet in the workshop, and sometimes Jacek wouldnât talk for an hour at a time, and Charlie would sit there and feel the silence as a kind of monastery where he was safe from harm.
Twice a day, they went out and fed the pigs, although Charlie couldnât carry the feed pails so he mostly sluiced out the shit with a hose and leaned over the pens and watched the big ones grunt and feed and the little ones nuzzle and suck. Jacek said that in his experience pigs were the least disappointing creatures he had ever known. They made him a little money too, and when Magda pulled the big ham off the larder beam and cut Charlie a slice, he thought this was the life. Except, of course, that it wasnât. It was theirs.
They had meals in the evenings, and Charlie ran the root
The good thing about Jacek was that you could sit in silence for long periods of time, each of you thinking these kinds of thoughts.
âYouâll have to go home,â Jacek said.
âIâm not ready,â Charlie replied.
âShe sounds bad,â Jacek observed, noncommittally. It was never his style to tell Charlie what to do. But it was clear that he thought Charlieâs habit of endless deferral was beginning to catch up with him.
âSheâs fine,â Charlie said, and he meant it. Whatever else was true, Elizabeth would be fine without him.
Magda brought up some soup on a tray. Jacek pulled up a chair and they were going to feed him, but Charlie said he wanted to do it himself. So he tried. The soup didnât always get down his throat, but it felt good to be trying. They sat and watched him.
âWhatâs your secret?â he said finally, looking at them both, the way they sat there, so companionably together.
âHe is away a lot,â Magda said and smiled. âAnd we are two hours from the city,â Jacek added, pleased that his wife was not going to tell Charlie anything. Jacek went out and came back with a bottle of Wyborowa. âTo hell with the doctor,â he said, and they passed it around. Charlie liked the way she drank, looking at him as it went down.
He stayed for another four days. He got better and was able to do up his buttons and dress himself and go downstairs, past Magda, working at the kitchen table, out into the yard, feeling the cold run through him. He spent hours in Jacekâs workshop, watching him take an old camera apart and clean it, piece by piece, with a set of fine brushes and a jet air blower that made a sharp dry hiss. The paraffin heater between them made them drowsy, and so did the work. Charlie just watched, and Jacek would hold a piece up to the light and clean it and assemble all the pieces on a white linen cloth. He took two cameras apart down to their optics, and then assembled them again. It was quiet in the workshop, and sometimes Jacek wouldnât talk for an hour at a time, and Charlie would sit there and feel the silence as a kind of monastery where he was safe from harm.
Twice a day, they went out and fed the pigs, although Charlie couldnât carry the feed pails so he mostly sluiced out the shit with a hose and leaned over the pens and watched the big ones grunt and feed and the little ones nuzzle and suck. Jacek said that in his experience pigs were the least disappointing creatures he had ever known. They made him a little money too, and when Magda pulled the big ham off the larder beam and cut Charlie a slice, he thought this was the life. Except, of course, that it wasnât. It was theirs.
They had meals in the evenings, and Charlie ran the root
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