A Song from Faraway Read online

  A

  SONG

  FROM

  FARAWAY

  ALSO BY DENI ELLIS BÉCHARD

  Fiction

  White

  Into the Sun

  Vandal Love

  Nonfiction

  My Favourite Crime: Essays and Journalism from Around the World Kuei, My Friend: A Conversation on Racism and Reconciliation Of Bonobos and Men: A Journey to the Heart of the Congo Cures for Hunger: A Memoir

  A

  SONG

  FROM

  FARAWAY

  A novel

  Deni Ellis Béchard

  MILKWEED EDITIONS

  © 2020, Text by Deni Ellis Béchard

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Milkweed Editions, 1011 Washington Avenue South, Suite 300, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55415.

  (800) 520-6455

  milkweed.org

  Published 2020 by Milkweed Editions

  Printed in Canada

  Cover design by Mary Austin Speaker

  Cover photograph by Kramer O’Neill

  20 21 22 23 24 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  Milkweed Editions, an independent nonprofit publisher, gratefully acknowledges sustaining support from the Alan B. Slifka Foundation and its president, Riva Ariella Ritvo-Slifka; the Ballard Spahr Foundation; Copper Nickel; the Jerome Foundation; the McKnight Foundation; the National Endowment for the Arts; the National Poetry Series; the Target Foundation; and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. Also, this activity is made possible by the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund. For a full listing of Milkweed Editions supporters, please visit milkweed.org.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Béchard, Deni Ellis, 1974- author.

  Title: A song from faraway : stories / Deni Ellis Béchard.

  Description: First edition. | Minneapolis, Minnesota : Milkweed Editions, 2020.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019041216 (print) | LCCN 2019041217 (ebook) | ISBN 9781571311351 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781571317216 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Masculinity--Fiction. | Identity (Psychology)--Fiction. | Fatherhood--Fiction. | War and society--Fiction. | Psychological fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR9199.4.B443 A6 2020 (print) | LCC PR9199.4.B443 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019041216

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019041217

  Milkweed Editions is committed to ecological stewardship. We strive to align our book production practices with this principle, and to reduce the impact of our operations in the environment. We are a member of the Green Press Initiative, a nonprofit coalition of publishers, manufacturers, and authors working to protect the world’s endangered forests and conserve natural resources. A Song from Faraway was printed on acid-free 100% postconsumer-waste paper by Friesens.

  Contents

  I (1992–2008) The United States Canada Iraq

  Kali Yuga

  The Boy and the Lioness

  II (1879–1945) Canada South Africa England The United States France

  A Song from Faraway

  The Glass Ladder

  III (1910–1982) France The United States Mexico

  Protest Song

  Killing the Man

  Acknowledgments

  A

  SONG

  FROM

  FARAWAY

  I

  (1992–2008)

  THE UNITED STATES

  CANADA

  IRAQ

  Kali Yuga

  The first time I met my half brother I was seventeen and he was fourteen. I had organized my assignments for the trip and jacketed my textbooks in butcher paper, but when I arrived at the airport in Virginia and saw the hale blue-jeaned boy and his mother, as thin and erratic as the menthol 100 she soon lit up, I knew I should have left my schoolwork behind.

  He caught me in a bear hug, his chin against my collar as if he were going to bite me. Not once that day did his mother address me directly. She spoke like a poet to the air, “Hot dogs on the table. Coke in the fridge.” The sky was haze and glare, humidity worse than the drizzle Vancouver’s writers so often elegize.

  That evening, as he took me to meet two of his friends, he told me that his mother had named him after the guy who owned Playboy magazine. He announced that he planned to one-up his namesake, the way a six-year-old might, dumb and proud, pointing at his chest with his thumb.

  We met his friends (two brothers with beards), and with them we wandered the lumpy terrain of an incipient subdivision, drank Busch (hidden suitably in the bushes), and visited an abandoned Ford Mustang whose tires and windows the duo had blasted with shotguns (the glass mixed with smashed Jack Daniel’s bottles, one black-and-white label stuck to a seat). I learned that the Mustang belonged to a family whose many generations sounded as if they were composed of violent brothers, all of whom resided in a single house. Hugh and the beards had some sort of feud with them, and as a result of it, we later fled a red monster truck on lifters (Confederate flag and devil cab lights and hee-hawing passengers). Hugh was the least fearful, standing in the middle of the road as he watched the truck race toward him, his eyes as wide as tunnels. Then he turned, mooned it, and darted into the trees, hooting and monkey-like as he hitched up his jeans.

  When he and I arrived back at his house, dawn was a faint, ugly elbow smear on the dark glass of his little town. I supposed I’d been treated as any visitor from afar, regaled by local tradition. I was three years older than Hugh, but next to him I felt young. I didn’t understand how our father could have produced two entirely different creatures nor why the second looked so much more like him.

  “I’m happy as shit to see you, Andy,” Hugh said and hugged me like a wrestler grapples.

  “It’s Andrew,” I corrected, not for the first time that night.

  “If you say so,” he told me. He then insisted that I sleep next to him, in his bed, his arm around me and his beer snores in my face.

  The second time we saw each other was at my father’s funeral, and it was, Hugh told me, his first trip out of Virginia. He was seventeen, close to graduating and wearing the shoulder-length hair and cropped beard of a country rock star. He’d flown to Vancouver for the death of a man he’d met twice and had paid his way with earnings from working construction, what his high school considered Life Credits and for which it let him out at noon.

  “I can’t believe it,” he told me, hunched as if to confide. “We were gonna travel the country when I finished school. We talked about it.”

  I glanced away, afraid he’d see his stupidity in my eyes. My father never followed through on his plans or promises. He could talk in a way to make anyone dream, on the rare occasion that he actually conceded to talking—usually after too many drinks. But he was always one novel revision away from having the time to do the things he’d promised. I’d learned this as a boy, though I said nothing to Hugh. I let him squeeze his tears and pay fealty to my mother’s mourning, which came from the bitterness of years spent waiting to inherit my father’s wealth. Hugh didn’t know this, and she received his gesture, not hugging him but extending her hand for him to touch, like a pope with a ring to be kissed.

  Afterward, I showed him my father’s basement study, rank with BO and two decades of bourbon fumes, cramped with a heaped escritoire and walls of sagging, overflowing bookshelves, the single high window heavily draped. At the cent
er of it all squatted the reading chair whose synthetic nap had been worn to a glassy sheen, its right arm flecked with the burn marks of fallen cigarette embers. I couldn’t bring myself to say that my father had had about as much impact on my life as a boarder would have. Instead, I described the three novels he’d published about being a draft dodger, doing my best to make him sound heroic.

  “Did he talk about me much?” Hugh asked.

  I cleared my throat. The air was thick and musty down there, and I had to clear my throat again. He knew nothing about our father and had no right to care. He stooped, as if the ceiling were too low, and held one arm across his chest, like a spent boxer waiting for the final punch.

  “He told me you were like him,” I said, lowering my eyes. In front of the chair was a greasy-looking patch of carpet where my father’s feet had rested. When he’d told me I had a half brother, I’d asked him how he could be sure Hugh was really his. “The boy’s my spitting image,” he’d said and then, when he saw my face, added, “Consider yourself lucky.”

  “Did he leave me anything?” Hugh asked.

  “This was his,” I told him. A leather jacket lay on the desk, so new it smelled of the tannery. My father had bought it a week ago, the cut immodestly fashionable, unlike anything he’d ever worn. It was the sort of jacket a poorly aging man might go for.

  Hugh clutched it, bunching up his shoulders and inhaling. He stared at the shelves, and the way he looked at them made me look too, at the crooked and piled-up spines in the faint, almost particulate light, each book thick with use and broken-backed.

  “Maybe,” he said, “maybe someday I could be a writer too.”

  I scrunched up my cheeks as if I might agree.

  That evening, I introduced Hugh to Nathalie, a love interest, my relationship with her having stalled during a month of platonic outings only to bloom suddenly in the warm climate of my father’s death, after a night when I broke down and cried. She brushed aside my discomfort with Hugh’s redneck bearing, telling me I should be proud that he looked up to me. We took him to Gastown, the Spaghetti Factory, and the comedy club, where he ignored the jokes and repeatedly asked Nathalie questions.

  “So you studied computers?”

  “I did my degree in programming.”

  “That’s not building them, is it?”

  “No, it’s putting the information in. If a computer were a robot, I’d be giving it its personality.”

  “You know how to do that?”

  “Actually, I did my undergraduate thesis in artificial intelligence, but no, I couldn’t program robotic AI without a team.”

  The comic was talking about staying with his fiancée’s parents and a toilet with no water in it—the sound the handle made when he hit it repeatedly—and I focused my surprise toward the stage, since I’d had no idea she was interested in artificial intelligence. I knew she’d come to the University of British Columbia from MIT to do graduate work in a lab developing internet gateways. She was telling Hugh about that now, and he kept saying, “I don’t get it.” So she spoke in his currency—Tron: Deadly Discs and The Terminator—and he nodded vigorously at her explanations of computers wiring the world together.

  “If your nervous system were the internet, this would be Virginia,” she told him and pinched one fingertip of his big hand where it lay limp on the table, abandoned by his overworked brain. “And this would be Vancouver,” she added, tweaking his earlobe. For the first time that day, he laughed, guffawing like an idiot. The comedian perked up, thinking he finally had an audience, but Hugh was staring at her, his eyes big and still—one-stop, one-size-fits-all sensory organs, doing the hearing and feeling, maybe even the thinking too.

  A few nights after Hugh’s return home, the phone rang. Nathalie answered.

  “It’s Hugh,” she told me, holding the mouthpiece to her patterned pajama breast.

  I fumbled the receiver to my ear.

  “Hugh,” I said. “What is it?”

  “I’m all fucked up, Andy. I’m all fucked up.”

  “Where are you?” I asked, as if he weren’t three thousand miles away. He must have punched the phone because the earpiece pulsed with a hard thump, and touch tones squealed.

  “Go to bed,” I told him.

  “Aw, fuck you,” he said and hung up.

  Nathalie was watching me.

  “Well, tarnation,” I told her, “that boy’s done gone off the deep end.”

  “He doesn’t talk like that,” she said.

  She pushed her hair back along her jaw and looked away, reaching to turn off the light.

  Nathalie must have made an impression: the next time I heard from Hugh was a few weeks later via the internet. He began writing frequent emails, and in them, he didn’t sound half so rustic, as if a computer transistor filtered out his roughness. He confessed that emails made him realize how bad his spoken English was—I mean, how do you write “a whole nother” and not sound stupid? He said he’d been reading Steinbeck and Thoreau, had tried Moby-Dick but was working on the earlier stuff, building my reading muscles for the big one. He mentioned no longer doing construction since he’d received his share of the inheritance. I stared at the email a long time, not sure why I was surprised that he’d received anything at all.

  As I got busier over the months that followed his visit, I answered Hugh’s emails less frequently. To his sprawling messages, I shot back replies that were basically apologies for not writing more. I finished my undergraduate degree early and launched into a master’s in comp lit, convinced I could finish within a year if I did my coursework and thesis simultaneously. All the while, I began to sense Nathalie becoming unfamiliar. We maintained our rituals of meals, movies, and occasional intercourse, but sometimes, when I looked up from my desk, I no longer recognized her. She was the only woman I’d slept with, six years older and so pale her mousy hair appeared shimmering and dark against her skin. She almost matched my height but was fine boned, her wrists like sticks and her extra weight conspicuous given the slightness of her frame. She appeared a well-fed waif and not the child of a Boston Brahmin financier and a Parisian mother.

  After first meeting Nathalie, I questioned her willingness to date an undergraduate, and she said that age and maturity didn’t necessarily coincide, and that, anyway, I was something of an old man.

  “Not quite as sexy as an old soul,” I told her.

  “No,” she agreed. “Anyway, you really like me.”

  As I embroiled myself in my thesis (“Silence and the Politics of the Dispossessed: Historicizing Dickens”) and subsisted on Chef Boyardee, peel-top ravioli, she took up kickboxing and burned off the last of what she called her baby fat. She tried to convince me to come to class with her, but I let my organizational tendencies get the best of me. I can still see myself gesturing vaguely as I explained to her that I wanted to finish academics, make the transition to the job world, and then get involved with hobbies and sports, but not do everything at once.

  The evening before my thesis was due, Nathalie and I were coming back from the bus stop, taking turns with the cage of the hamster she’d inherited from a friend who’d gone off to Bolivia. The poor little thing was crouched, watching its wheel spin with a ghostly motion from the momentum of Nathalie’s strides. We came around the corner and saw Hugh sitting on the bottom step of our porch.

  “Jesus,” I said, and before my eyes flashed the thesis pages my professors would scribble with incredulous red. He was already up and belted me with one of his regional hugs so popular in the World Wrestling Federation. He handled Nathalie more gingerly, as if she were pregnant, though he was just trying to get his arms around the cage.

  His hair was collar length and casually mussed, no longer a mullet. He looked more textured, more natural, and less purely redneck, though I couldn’t yet identify what had changed over the last—I tried to calculate the time—year and a half?

  He smiled as if he might yodel and said, “It’s just so good to see the two of you!” H
is constrained voice called to mind a 1950s housewife exclaiming Isn’t that swell! I considered that this discord might be the result of his inner redneck going head-to-head with his budding computer geek slash bookworm slash bohemian.

  As I invited him inside, I asked him about the knit friendship bracelet on his big, suntanned wrist and the copy of The Sun Also Rises in his knapsack pocket.

  “I mean,” I said, “how do those go over with the beards back home?”

  He shrugged. “It’s just stuff I got on the road.”

  Thence began the narrative that would last until after midnight, his way of speaking fluctuating, like a car radio caught between stations. His hillbilly rhythms verged upon taut, overdescriptive, even pedantic phrasing that caused him to slow, as a truck might, coming upon deep potholes. “An e-gre-gious wrong turn,” he said at one point and blinked, as if reassuring himself.

  All the same, he told his story with relish, conveying that he was doing the right thing, seeing the world in the footsteps of Kerouac and Miller and a few others I hadn’t read.

  “I’ve been as far south as the Panama Canal, and as far north as Kuujjuarapik, Québec, on the Hudson Bay. I haven’t been to Alaska yet, but I figure I’ll head up thataway after this little detour.” He elbowed me.

  Two pages of red ink, take one down, pass it around. My thesis concerns had become a song one sings driving long distances.

  Hugh went on to describe states he’d crossed, people he’d met, communes lived on, meals shared. It sounded like a coming-of-age set in the 1960s, clichéd in all its short-lived glory.

  “What’s the Arctic like?” Nathalie asked.

  “In northern Québec, you’re so close to the pole the earth is curved, like you’re standing on a hill wherever you go. Sometimes there’s a clear three hundred and sixty degrees of horizon and thick moss all over the ground. It’s like walking on a mattress. The rock shows through the moss here and there, and most of the stones have been rubbed and rounded by the glaciers. I spent a month on an island in James Bay, just beneath the Hudson Bay. I was living with this girl, Mélanie Boudreau from Montréal. She was up there studying bird migrations. She was all alone, and when she saw me in a canoe, she waved me over. She had black, black hair and the greenest eyes. Man, it was like something from The Odyssey. I got out of the canoe, and she asked me a bunch of questions in pretty bad English and then told me I should stay with her. So I did. I guess she thought God had sent her a man, except she was the most hardcore atheist I’ve ever met. We were like Adam and Eve on the northern edge of the earth. The coldest water ever. The sun was so bright and the air—it was thin and cool. Night hardly lasted an hour. And, man, those French girls, they really know what they want.”