Behind the Eyes We Meet

By Mélissa Verreault

Behind The Eyes We Meet is a larger-than-life story that comes in three packages. A lighthearted opening flirts with chick lit before giving way to grim tales of a Russian P.O.W. camp on World War II’s Eastern Front, concluding with a fresh, philosophical perspective on life.

Verreault uses long-lost family letters, poetry, screenwriting techniques, and more to explore a fascination for Italy, history, and humanity at large in this powerful first novel.

This is a lively and intelligent exploration of intertwined destinies and, as hinted at by the choice of title, a realization that we shouldn’t judge a stranger until we’ve walked a mile in their shoes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baraka Books
• Release date: Oct 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781771861205

Mélissa Verreault

Mélissa Verreault was born in 1983. She has a master’s degree in translation from Université Laval in Quebec City and lives in Lévis with her Italian husband and their triplets. She has published three novels in French, all with La Peuplade: Voyage Léger (Prix France-Québec finalist, 2012), L’angoisse du poisson rouge (Prix des libraires du Québec finalist, 2015), and Les voies de la disparition (2016), as well as a collection of short stories. Behind The Eyes We Meet is the English translation of L’angoisse du poisson rouge, her first novel to be translated.

Book preview

Prologue

The letters of the alphabet

or what you should know

to learn the rest

Gaiato, July 10, 1946

My dearest Luisa,

I’ve been at the sanatorium for just two days but I miss you already. What are you doing? I can picture you getting up in the morning, drinking your coffee, slipping on your pretty black dress, and going to work. I’m jealous of the customers you serve espresso to, the men waiting for their cold beer and panino1. Here they make us drink lots of water and eat our vegetables. The fresh country air will help me recover, of that I’m certain. But the wind blowing across the mountain will never replace you by my side.

Write to me. Soon.

Your Sergio

Carpi, July 23, 1946

Sergio,

I miss you too. But the days are so full, I don’t have much time to think about it. Apart from work at the bar, I’m very busy with the household chores. I must help my mother take care of Irio, Carla, and Giovanna. My father and brother spend their days in the fields. In the evenings they need rest and good food: meat, pasta, polenta. I prepare the meals when I come home in the evening so that everything is ready for the next day. I’m not very fond of cooking, as you know. Sometimes I think I should have gone to the city, to Bologna or Modena, to study at university. I don’t know what I would have studied or where I would have found the money. Besides, I’m not that smart. I didn’t have high marks in college. So maybe it’s better this way. Life as it is, now. And it will be even more complete once you return. On that day, I will make you a cake—your favourite kind, the one with the almonds—even though you know I’m not fond of cooking. For you, it won’t be a chore.

Get well, get well soon,

Luisa

Gaiato, August 6, 1946

Luisa mia,

I was so delighted to receive your letter that I worked myself into a coughing fit that lasted nearly an hour! I believe Doctor Franzoni was right: I would not have survived if I hadn’t come here. Though it is difficult for me to admit, it was necessary. Otherwise, I would have ended up like my poor sister Irene. I hope they will find a cure for tuberculosis one day. It’s hard to believe that she is gone. So young. She was engaged to be married to Bruno Sogari at the end of the summer. I think you know him. I would have liked to take you to the wedding on my arm. Would you have said yes? The marriage will never take place now. But promise me there will be other occasions to celebrate.

If you remember, slip something of yours into the next envelope you send. So I can have something that smells of you.

Sergio

Carpi, August 30, 1946

Dear Sergio,

Please forgive me for not writing more often. The post can sometimes take weeks to reach me. And in the evenings I don’t always have the energy to sit down to write. My eyelids droop the moment I sit at the table and pick up a pencil. My days never end, I tell you. And I don’t want to write just anything. I want to choose the right words. You deserve that. I may not be very good at composing rhymes, but I know how to say what I think. I hope this pleases you. Sometimes, I admit, I should learn to bite my tongue, but the temptation is hard to resist. Yesterday, I made one of my customers at the bar angry; he claimed he ordered a panino with prosciutto cotto but I brought him a panino with prosciutto crudo. I told him to go cook the prosciutto himself. He didn’t find this very funny, and left without paying. Luckily my boss, Cavicchini, did not find out. I cannot lose this job. We need the money. I hope that one day our country will recover from this war that has sucked us dry, and that the future holds more fortunate times, nights without fear. Sometimes I can still hear the bombers overhead. In those moments, I wish you were here, just to hold my hand.

Are you taking good care of yourself? That is the only thing that matters right now.

Luisa

Gaiato, September 12, 1946

My beautiful Luisa,

I imagined you scolding that angry customer and it made me smile. You have quite a character. I like that. We must not let others walk all over us, otherwise we will get taken advantage of. I’m not always good at standing up for myself, so you will have to teach me.

I have been here two months now. I feel better, but it appears a full recovery will take a long time. The doctors say I may be here another two or three years. I hope they’re wrong. At the same time, I know I should make the most of it. This is an opportunity to rest and regain my strength, to sleep all the hours that I didn’t sleep during the war. That’s what we do here. We sleep, eat, read, listen to the radio, take walks—short ones, so as not to tire ourselves out—, write to those who keep in touch, think, and hope that no one will forget us. Many things can happen in three years. Will you still be there, waiting for me, after all these months of absence? Please say yes! My lungs are already weak, and I do not think I could survive if my heart were injured too.

I think of you night and day,

Sergio

Carpi, September 28, 1946

Sergio,

If you only knew how little you have to worry. I promise to wait for you. I’m not interested in other boys. They talk only of football and money. They expect their wives to bear them ten children and still have the energy to make porchetta2 and risotto for supper. You know, I have a dream of opening a shop together when you return. You spoke of wanting to start a business. I’d like to take that leap with you. I do not wish to remain an employee my whole life. And I have no intention of being a housewife. You’re not upset I hope?

You never mentioned the lock of hair I slipped into the last envelope I sent. Did you receive it? I cut my hair short. It isn’t very pretty, so I’ve decided to let my hair grow until you return. And however long it grows by the time you come back will be the length I keep forever. So if you return tomorrow, I’ll look like a crazy poodle for the rest of my life. No matter; at least you will be there, by my side.

With love,

Luisa

Gaiato, October 15, 1946

Sweet Luisa,

Of course I received your lock of hair. It is wrapped carefully in a handkerchief that I carry with me at all times. I am certain that your short hair does not look as awful as you say. You have such a pretty face, it would be difficult to detract from its beauty.

Yesterday I underwent pneumothorax treatment, which I receive every two weeks. I will likely need this therapy for several more years. They insert a giant needle between my ribs and drain the air from my bad lung. In this way the lung is decompressed and is forced to rest. I feel better for a time, but then the coughing starts up again worse than ever. I hope they find another treatment for tuberculosis soon, for this is not without its risks. But luckily for me, so far it has worked.

I hope I have not disgusted you with my medical explanations. It isn’t very pretty to look at, I admit. But it seems this is my cross to bear if I wish to see you again some day.

A thousand kisses,

Sergio

---

1. Sandwich

2. Meat from a suckling pig roasted whole in the oven or on a spit

PART I

The Flight of the Goldfish

Secret Passages

nicole took the bus to the emergency room. Yvon, her husband, was away on a business trip to the United States and had taken the car. Calling an ambulance would have been ridiculous, though she could have borrowed a car, or, even better, asked for a ride to the hospital so she wouldn’t need to get behind the wheel. But she wasn’t sure that her neighbour Suzanne had forgiven her for accidentally snipping her rosebush as she trimmed the cedar hedge that separated their yards, so she didn’t dare disturb her. She boarded a bus, one of the Autocars des Chutes that was heading to the hospital, and tried to pretend her clothes weren’t sopping wet. Tried to convince herself that her water hadn’t broken and that she wasn’t in labour.

She was only twenty-seven weeks pregnant.

The other passengers looked at her with curiosity, but no one offered to help her. Nicole was in so much pain she couldn’t find a comfortable position. The contractions were unbearable—like some maniac was attempting to tear out her kidneys and sell them on the black market. She clenched her jaw and exhaled loudly, trying her best to hold back her cries, but the pain was too intense. She let out an occasional yelp, which provided temporary relief, and fought to pull herself together between contractions, smiling in an attempt to deny the inevitable. Having the baby now was out of the question. She wasn’t ready. The nursery still hadn’t been painted.

When she reached the hospital lobby, she collapsed on the floor. Two nurses ran to her side and helped her to her feet.

I’ll call the obstetrician right away, one said.

There’s really no need, Nicole objected. They’re false contractions. They’ll pass.

I’m no expert, but by the look on your face I’d bet you’re at least five centimetres dilated.

The obstetrician on duty quickly examined the patient and told staff to prepare for surgery. The nurse wasn’t far off: Nicole’s cervix was completely effaced and she was only two centimetres away from being fully dilated. She would need an emergency Caesarian section.

A Caesarian! Nicole exclaimed. What for? I’m a big girl—I can push.

I’m not doubting your ability, ma’am. But a vaginal delivery would put your babies’ lives in danger.

"Lives? What do you mean, lives?"

You didn’t know? You’re carrying twins. And unfortunately, they’re breech. It’s normal for this stage of the pregnancy. They haven’t had time to flip.

Nicole had only had one ultrasound, a few weeks before, and at no time did anyone mention she was carrying not one, but two babies. In 1983, ultrasound technology was still new and the tools weren’t always accurate. In truth, the second baby was quite the trickster; it hid behind the first, shielded from the light and out of sight. It was shy. Or rather, she was shy. Though her heart was set on having a boy since life is easier for men, Nicole was about to give birth to two little girls.

Nicole’s stomach was sliced open like a cheap steak. A sixteen-centimetre incision—long enough to feed an entire family. In less time than it takes to cry Scalpel! the two babies had been pulled out of her abdomen. They were whisked away to the neonatal unit, no one bothering with introductions—Nicole, meet Baby No. 1. Baby No. 1, meet your mother. Repeat for Baby No. 2.

The new mother was placed under observation while the numbness wore off. When the effects of the epidural began to wane, Nicole started to shiver. Her whole body was wracked with uncontrollable convulsions.

It’s normal, the nursed assured her. It may take an hour or two, but it will stop after that.

Despite the encouragement of the nursing staff, Nicole was naturally pessimistic. She was starting to come around to the idea that she would spend the rest of her days shaking uncontrollably. But she still hadn’t begun to consider what her life would be like now that she was the mother of twins.

She named them Emmanuelle and Gabrielle, without bothering to ask Yvon. That would teach him for never being there when she needed him.

After two hours in recovery, Nicole was allowed to go visit her babies.

Manue and Gaby—she’d already shortened both names—had been placed in incubators and looked like two tiny astronauts in orbit. Wires poked out from every direction, and a tube had been inserted into their lungs to help them breathe. Nicole wouldn’t be able to hold her children in her arms until the tube came out. All she could do was place her hand on her daughters’ miniature bodies so they could feel her presence. She wasn’t allowed to caress, cradle, or kiss them. It was too dangerous.

Nicole would remain convinced that too much love was detrimental to children. This would later turn her into a cold and distant mother, one from whom it was difficult to squeeze out an I love you.

Nicole was discharged and allowed to go home and rest. She spent long hours watching over her daughters, travelling back and forth to the hospital each day. Often, a doctor or nurse would have to remind her that she had to eat, too, and would urge her to get some air and grab a sandwich. Nicole came to know every hallway that connected the cafeteria to the neonatal unit, and eventually discovered a shortcut that delivered her right to the bedside of her child-soldiers, as she called them. It was her secret passage.

The days passed, and Emmanuelle began to stabilize. They removed the tube, and her mother could finally hold her. Gabrielle’s condition, however, did not improve. The prognosis was grim. Because Gaby had been born prematurely, Nicole was told there was a chance her daughter would suffer from all kinds of complications. Cerebral palsy, developmental disorders, respiratory problems, vision loss: the health issues were as numerous as they were frightening.

In the end, Gabrielle would not have to face any of them. She died quietly, her life cut short after only two weeks, leaving her mother without words to express her grief and her sister utterly alone.

Yvon would never know there had been two babies. When he returned from his trip sixteen days after he’d set out, Gabrielle had been cremated and Nicole thought it best not to mention her.

It would be her little secret.

Featherbrains

the pigeon stood there, eyes closed, praying that the cars would not run him over, appealing to the bird gods to spare him the terrible fate of ending his days beneath the wheels of an automobile. He hugged his wings to his plump breast, shaking like a maple leaf with a Canadian winter around the corner. One question ran through his mind: how the hell did I end up here?

He had set out to cross D’Iberville while the light was still green for the traffic along Rachel. He’d casually walked onto the hot asphalt, stopping here and there to peck at discarded French fries and grains of sand that oddly resembled discarded French fries. Without warning, the light changed colour. Commuters heading east to west on two and four wheels froze, except for one idiot who was in such a hurry that he ran the red light with no regard for the lives he was putting in danger. For a brief moment, cars in both directions came to a standstill. Nothing moved. Not even the scraps of paper and plastic the wind had playfully sent drifting up from the recycling bins of environmentally-conscious citizens. It was deadly silent, like a scene out of a spaghetti western, right before the duel between a foolhardy cowboy and a bloodthirsty Indian.

It was at this exact moment the pigeon realized he was done for.

When he got to the yellow line, he realized he would not have time to reach the opposite shore of asphalt before traffic started up again. So he opted for what he believed to be the most sensible solution: to freeze, hold his breath, and think happy thoughts. He focused all of his pigeon attention on imaginary crumbs of bread—dry, crunchy bits strewn awkwardly about by some depressed old biddy.

Astride her bicycle, Emmanuelle looked on with concern. The poor pigeon! What the hell was it doing in the middle of the road? Why didn’t it fly away? The cars swerved slightly, trying to avoid it without slowing down. No one dared honk, for fear of scaring the bird and making the situation worse.

In an I’m-an-adult-but-not-quite-now moment, Emmanuelle prayed that the creature wouldn’t be steamrolled by one of those damned SUVs—nothing more pointless, she thought, than those supposed utility vehicles.

From the opposite side of the bicycle path, a good- looking blond guy was also watching the pigeon anxiously. He, too, was hoping it would escape the mess unscathed. Just then, a sports car with tinted windows passed within a hair’s breadth of flattening the bird. Emmanuelle clutched her handlebars so tightly that her knuckles turned white and the blond looked away, not wanting to witness the carnage. By a stroke of luck, the bird was unharmed. The man raised his gaze to meet Emmanuelle’s, and the two exchanged a knowing glance. She wrinkled her nose as if to say, If this pigeon ends up toast in front of us, I think I’m going to puke up my shish-taouk. He answered with an awkward wink.

Unfortunately, no amount of wishful thinking could save the pigeon from a gruesome end: a minivan accelerated as the light turned yellow and ran right over it in a burst of wanton speed. The bird’s guts spilled onto the ground. Pieces of its brain lay a few centimetres from the blond man’s bicycle, as its owner looked on with disgust. A drop of purple blood had landed on his $9.99 summer plaid, bought on sale at Simons. Emmanuelle gaped at him, stunned, then turned to the grisly corpse; her eyes swung back to the boy, then once again to the butchered remains of the featherbrained bird. Overcome with emotion, she froze.

When she didn’t move fast enough for the serious athletes behind her, the enraged cyclists began to overtake her, shouting insults as they passed. Insensitive jerks. They gave no thought to the pigeon, or what remained of it. They rolled over its splattered entrails without wondering whether it had suffered or gone quickly enough to avoid a painful death.

The blond crossed D’Iberville and stopped near Emmanuelle The Traumatized.

Gross, right? he said, trying for empathy.

Seriously, she answered.

"The most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. Well, that and Saw 4."

You’ve got blood on your shirt.

I know, it sucks. I just bought it.

Both stopped, as if realizing the conversation was already too long for people who didn’t know each other. Emmanuelle thought of her mother, who liked to remind her daughter never to talk to strangers—especially while she was travelling outside of Canada. Nicole thought her xenophobic joke was funny. Her daughter knew she was only half joking and that her mother had a hard time with anything beyond her own reality. She silently told her mother off and continued the conversation.

I know a trick for getting stains out.

Oh yeah? What?

Do you have any baking soda at home?

I’m not big on baking, so no.

I’ve got some. I’m on Dézéry, not too far from here. If you have time to stop by, I could fix you up.

OK, but… aren’t you on your way somewhere?

Yeah, of course, but… it couldn’t have been that important since I can’t remember where exactly.

Hah, you’re funny!

Oh, right. I was going to grab a bottle of wine from the SAQ.

The one on Rachel?

Yup.

Well you passed it.

You’re right.

Are you sure you’re OK?

Yeah, yeah. Just a little out of it. From the pigeon.

But the pigeon got hit after you’d already passed the SAQ…

Right. Whatever. Are you coming over?

OK. We’ll stop and get your wine on the way.

Rosé. I only drink rosé.

Rosé it is, then!

Emmanuelle turned her bicycle around and started to head east. The blond pedalled behind her, checking out her ass. It had to be the adrenaline rush from the accident he’d just witnessed; his libido was through the roof.

Aromatic Bichon

what’s your name, by the way?

Manue. You?

David Thibault. But you can call me Dave.

Her full name was Emmanuelle, but for Dave she would just stay Manue. Less strings attached. Usually, she hated people who tried to seem cool by using an English-sounding version of their name. She’d make an exception for the blond with the turquoise eyes. He was cute and they’d been through a lot together after all. Plus, she hadn’t gotten laid in a long time.

Can I pour you a glass of Bichon Louvet?

Go for it!

In the end, they’d had to stop at Loblaws and get supermarket wine since they’d arrived two minutes too late in front of the SAQ in the Angus shopping complex. The name Bichon Louvet had made them laugh, so they’d grabbed the bottle without considering whether its contents were more fruity and laid-back or aromatic and seductive.

Shit, I’m out of clean glasses.

No worries, we’ll drink from the bottle.

Manue couldn’t find the corkscrew, so she improvised using a hammer, nail, and rubber glove. The pieces of cork floating in the wine looked like little lifeboats carrying the shipwrecked to shore.

You’ve got a nice place.

It’s a disaster.

No, it’s like barrack style.

You mean Baroque?

Yeah, Baroque. Like the opera.

You like opera?

"Hell no. But my