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"To Console Myself. I Imagine That the Bombs Have Fallen" 1989
- University of Ottawa Press
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Anne Dandurand Translated by Luise Von Flotow-Evans To CONSOLE MYSELF. I IMAGINE THAT THEBOMBS HAVE FALLEN Anne Dandurand was born in Montreal on November 19, 1953—"the same day television came to Montreal," as she says—the twin sister of the writer Claire De. She worked as a union organizer for La Federation des travailleurs du Quebec as well as for the Committee on the Status of Women from 1978 to 1981, and as a journalist from 1983 to 1987 for such magazines as Chatelaine, La Vie en rose,Quebec rock and Montreal cemois-ci. She has acted for television, cinema, and the stage. Her first book, co-authored with Claire De,was La Louve-garou, which was published in 1982. She then appeared solo with Voila c'est moi: c'est rien,j'angoisse, subtided journal imaginaire, in 1987. She has published two collections of stories: L 'Assassin de Mnterieur/Diables d'espoir (1988; Deathly Delights), and Petites amessous ultimatum (1991). She has also written three screenplays: Ruel-Malenfant (1980), Le reve assassin (1981), and (againwith Claire De) Rachel et Rejean inc.(1987). The followingstory, translated by Luise Von Flotow-Evans, appeared in the anthology Celebrating Canadian Women (1989), edited by Greta Nemiroff. "To Console Myself. I Imagine That The BombsHave Fallen" is reproduced from Celebrating Canadian Wom.en: Prose and Poetry by and about Canadian Women (Markham: Fitzhenry and Whiteside, 1989) and was originally published under the tide "Pour me consoler j'imagine que les bombes sont tombees" in Voila c'est moi: c'est rien, j'angoisse (Montreal: Triptyque, 1987). 382 ANNE DANDURAND To console myself. I imagine that the bombs have fallen. By chance three thousand people in the Metro have been spared. I imagine the chaos, the terror and, very quickly, the organization for survival. The beginning of the women survivors' great anger, which will last three thousand years. Establishment of a new order, an absolute matriarchy. Genetic manipulations, mutations, parthenogenesis— women have created a new race. Men now have ten arms around their bodies. They lose their memories every evening and only get them back in the morning: this keeps them confused and in a state of servitude. We women use telepathy to keep all knowledge strictly to ourselves. We now have cold blood, and our legs are joined under a layer of fine scales. No one has returned to the surface; in fact, no one remembers the colour of the sky. Over the centuries our territory has grown larger, its tunnels descending always farther. We use lead panels for reinforcement, which the men painstakingly engrave all day long. The age of a passage can be determined by the mosaic design on its walls. During the first millennium the women also developed a tree in their laboratories from which everyone draws their subsistence. It grows from the ceiling, and its fruits, at ground level, look like clusters of crystal glasses. Each one contains a liquid with a different colour and taste. Delights and poisons. Only the women can tell them apart, and we keep the secret well. A man is never sure of what a woman is offering him. It is morning. You are still asleep: your ten hands cover your face: I don't know your name, even if I have met you before. You wake up, panic-stricken like the others. Then you see me and you feel vaguely that I have to touch you. I run my hands through your hair, and your memory returns. Every morning it's the same: the men have to be touched by a woman to recover their identity. The ones who forget too often go crazy. To CONSOLE MYSELF 383 [3.229.122.112] Project MUSE (2024-03-19 09:54 GMT) But this morning, though I don't know you, you make me want to break the taboo. What if I took you on as a partner? What if we return together towards the light, the real light? There is still a bit of daring in the depths of your eyes, and didn't I see you drawing reminiscences of words on the slabs you were engraving? But your ancestors weren't capable of loving: so how would you have learned? And why should I risk losing the attachment I have to my sisters? After all, they're the ones who saved my life. No, it's goodbye forever then: if I return to fresh air, I'll go alone. 334 ANNE DANDURAND...