The Hockey Sweater and Other Stories Read Online Free Page B

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    â€˜After this,’ I said, ‘I can never believe in the Catholic religion again.’
    The tears in my eyes had not yet dried when I arrived at our house. They’d found the message explaining my departure.
    â€˜Back from Rome already, son? Is it a real pretty town?’ my father asked, holding back his laughter.
    How did I find the strength not to burst out sobbing? I didn’t have the strength to accept reality.
    â€˜Lapin and I, we went to Rome,’ I declared, shouting at my incredulous parents.
    A few days later they found in the mail a letter decorated with a magnificent stamp from Rome. They recognized my painstaking handwriting immediately. ‘Rome is the most beautiful city in the whole world.’

The Month of the Dead

    W HERE ARE THE GHOSTS of yesteryear? Without them we can never know the depth of the night.
    Every evening just before sunset, the undertaker used to cross the village slowly, very slowly, in the long black embalmer’s car he used to transport the dead to the church and then to the graveyard.
    â€˜Looking for your next customer, Monsieur Cassidy?’
    â€˜That’s what Albert said last year and he isn’t with us any more,’ the undertaker replied.
    Monsieur Cassidy, imperturbable, always looked as though he were leading a funeral procession. We didn’t dare come close to his car for we were certain this man maintained mysterious relationships beyond the grave. He was a man, we thought, who must be as happy in November as we were in June.
    November was the month of the dead. On the second day of the month we little boys and girls, one behind the other in order of height, would follow our teacher, a nun transformed by the wind from the mountain into a bird with broad black wings; her veil and her robe would snap in the cold air and it seemed to us that some malevolent forcewanted to pluck her from the earth. We followed her into the graveyard. In no other circumstances would we have dared cross through the iron fence that surrounded it. We hardly dared set foot on the ground beneath which the dead were sleeping. With short, cautious steps we followed the great black bird who marked out a path among the epitaphs and tombstones. We walked so lightly our shoes scarcely bent the yellow grass. We feared the accident that had befallen the village drunkard.
    Believing in his drunken state that he was going into the auberge, the drunkard had walked into the graveyard one November night, cursing and blaspheming. God wanted to punish him. He guided the man towards an old grave whose cover had rotted. The drunkard’s foot sank into it, the dead man grabbed his ankle and took the drunkard’s toes between his pointed teeth. The drunkard was so afraid that night, he stopped drinking!
    Everyone knew this story, which our parents had told us, and that was why we walked so lightly in the graveyard.
    We returned every evening in November, to pray for the dead. The church was just beside the graveyard; we would run back home, often with our eyes shut. Once night had fallen, the village belonged to the dead. We couldn’t doubt it and you’d have thought the same if you’d heard the story of Madame Zanna: she was trembling and pale as she told it to my father.
    One night Madame Zanna heard a noise above her head, in the ceiling. She awakened her husband and they turned on the lights. Nothing. But the noise didn’t stop. It sounded like a dog gnawing on a bone. They didn’t have a dog. ‘It’s the month of the dead,’ the husband thought suddenly.They leaped out of bed and, suffocating with fear, they prayed for the souls of the dead. Gradually the noise diminished, then stopped completely. They were so afraid they couldn’t get back to sleep. Trembling with cold and fear, they waited for the day. Light chases ghosts away. When it was noon Madame Zanna and her husband, armed with rosaries and holy water and