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Retelling Chapter One
by Morgan Chojnacki
An excerpt from the novel.
Montreal. 1991.
The door opens. She looks up; heart thumps. A figure fills the door frame, bulky across the shoulders. Noise tumbles out. A cough. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t…I needed some air. Mind the company?” Sonia squints up at him, nibbles her lip, at once aware of the size of the balcony, wide enough to fit three people comfortably. She shakes her head. He lets the door go, and it slaps the noise back from where it comes.
He moves to the side opposite her. She notices the fullness of his lips, his broad hands. His hair clipped above the ears, soft at the edges. Warmth jets through her. He clears his throat, smiles. I should have worn my blue shirt! she thinks. Smoothing a strand of hair behind an ear, she lets the rest fall on the other cheek.
She meets his gaze. It steadies her. “So, ah, what’s your name?” I’m such an idiot! He reaches out a hand to her. “Michael.” Her hand, a block of ice, moves into his. “I’m Sonia.” His palm is dry and warm.
Taking her hand back, she curses her own sweaty palm, shoves it into her jeans pocket. “So, who d’you know here?” Oh great. Subtle.
He knows Henri from work. Both software engineers for a company downtown. He’s new to Montreal, arrived six months ago straight from the Prairies. When she asks him if he likes the city, he grimaces, then chuckles. “I love it sometimes, hate it at others. Turned right on a red the other week, and got stopped by a cop who got mad when I couldn’t speak French. He gave me a hard time. And a big ticket.” He watches her.
She nods. “I’ve heard stories like that from other non-French speakers. I don’t know what that’s like because je parle français comme l’anglais.” Her cheeks heat up. “Do you speak any French at all?”
He scratches his neck and says, “An pe-tit peu. Uh. Comm-ent ça va. Mon nom est Michael. Quelle hu-rr?”
“Quelle heure est t’il!” She chuckles. “I think you have to work on your accent.”
“Yeah,” he laughs.
The end of his laughter meets hers. The shotglass cold in her hand. Her head is hot.
“Would you…?” he starts. His right hand disappears under his cardigan, reappears with a flask. He removes the cap, raises it, “…want to drink to something?” His voice neutral, a contrast to his face.
She pours herself a shot of vodka, eyes dancing.
“To…” she says, “balconies at night.”
“Cheers,” he says.
Sonia looks at her glass, raises it. The motion connects them. “L’Chayim,” comes out of her. He closes his eyes. She tips the glass and lets cold liquid hit the back of her throat.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“What?”
“La ka-yim.”
“L’Chayim?” Sonia stares at him., “You’ve never heard it!?” The wind catches her and she shivers. “No, but…” He shifts his weight, looks down. “You’re welcome to borrow this.”
“Thanks, but…”
“I don’t get cold easily. Really it’s no big deal for me and it doesn’t, you know, mean anything.”
“Well,” she bites her lip. “Okay sure.”
He shrugs out of his cardigan, hands it to her. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she feels the grip of winter loosen its hold.
He looks back up at her, eyes sparkling with black light. “So, no. No. I’ve never heard of it.”
Shaking her head, she says “I’ve never met anyone who didn’t know what it meant.”
“What does it mean?”
“‘To life!’” she yelps an octave lower than her speaking voice, and stamps her foot. He twitches. “Sorry,” prickling heat burns her face. “Have you ever seen Fiddler on the Roof?”
He shakes his head.
“What language is it?”
“It’s an English-language film.”
“No, I mean Lakayem.”
“Oh. Hebrew.”
“You’re Jewish?” His voice opens.
“Yeah,” her eyes flicker to his face. “I’m part Polish but Jewish too half-Jewish actually.”
“Oh.” He takes another sip. “I’m German. By descent. Canadian mostly.” Raises it towards her. “Want some? It’s scotch.”
“Nah. No thanks. Sometimes I like it. But I prefer vodka. Grew up on it.” He laughs, and she joins him.
“I mean at special occasions. I didn’t drink it as a kid. D’you like vodka?”
“Not really,” he says. Sonia feels winter’s air brush her face. “But I could learn…”
Vancouver. 1997.
Sonia pulls Warring Fictions out of its slot on the shelf beside her. Picks up a pen and flips the book to yesterday’s translation.
The book says, “En 1942, les Nazis réussissent à persuader le roi et la reine de Belgique…”
Maybe a little exercise to warm up the languages of her pen. Sonia bends over an empty page, strokes scratching the edges of her hearing.
1942—
Dad was a boy of 9. Placed in one of the hômes. For orphans. Except no one really knew if he was or not. News was sporadic and unreliable. He kept hoping. In the meantime, he remembered his duty, impressed upon him by his mother. “Protège ton frère. Guarde-le toujours avec toi. Tu comprends, mon petit?” Dad looked up and nodded; a steely look for a 9-year-old. A hug. Then his mother turned. He watched her walk back through the gate. Felt a tug from his brother at his side. Within a few months, he would be orphaned. Would learn that only three years later.
Sonia bites her lip, taps the eraser against her cheek, muttering, “Just warming up.” Bends over the paper, crosses her ankles.
1972—
Sitting in Dr. Archambault’s office, waiting for Dad. Josh and I. Dad looks at Josh and says, “Look after you sister.” Looks at him for long seconds. Josh knows that look, stares back. Reaches out to hold my hand. “Yes, Dad. Of course.” Dad smoothes back Josh’s hair and cheeks, kisses his forehead, turns to ruffle my hair. I hate that and shrink back. A scowl flashes across his face.
“Mr. Sjenkowic? Le docteur est prêt,” says the receptionist. He straightens up, tugs on his blazer. I reach up to tug too. He squeezes my hand, pushes it away. The woman sitting opposite me rests her eyes on his waist then travels up to the nape of his neck. As Dad turns around, I see his eyes dart to the woman’s face. My free hand curls into a fist and I want to go and punch her in the nose. Punch him.
“It’s okay, Sunny,” says Josh. He squeezes my hand. My legs dangle from the chair. I swing them and growl. Josh looks at me. I slam my feet under my chair, and it goes BOOM. My heart is pounding. Everyone stops their reading and turns to stare. I smirk.
Sonia looks up, rubs her jaw. Georgie stretches, and she reaches out to scratch him, feline muscles under fur. The bright green of leaves flutter on the tree out the window, wrap themselves in shadows shed by others above.
A thought emerges from behind her. Why do I love him? How does he hold me? “Oh,” and she flinches, notices Georgie, licking his paws, reaching for an ear, rubbing, down and across his face and whiskers.
She once wanted to be a cat. A big cat. Back in grade 6, Mr. Mirelli asked her and eager classmates,
“What would you like to be?” Sonia’s breath stopped and her limbs started to ache with wanting, just this one time to be first. She knew the answer. Had always known it.
Mr. Mirelli surveyed the room, eyes crinkling as his mouth turned up. His gaze slowed near the window seats, resting on the student in front of Sonia. Her heart flopped. Then his eyes shifted to her. “Sonia, why don’t you tell us. What you would like to be?” His voice warm.
Sonia grinned, felt the earth rush open with spring. “A panther,” she said, sure that everyone else was about to say the same thing, happy in her heart that she got to be the first. She saw Mr. Mirelli’s eyebrows, thick dark brushes, shoot up. He smiled a look. Sonia heard giggles, snuffling, from behind.
“Oh,” said the teacher. “Well.” More cackling from the back rows, then a guffaw. “Now, class, Jennifer. That’s a fine thing. A fine answer. A panther.”
Oh no, Sonia blushed. No. She knew her face was now red as the beets her grandmother cooked. Wished to be one at that exact moment, deep in the ground.
“I’m writing all the answers for the class to see. Sonia wants to be a panther,” and he turned his back and started making chalk marks on the board, the word white against the deepest dark. “Everyone gets to want something different.”
Heat prickled Sonia’s lids and she squirmed in her seat. Her mouth dried up. She looked down at her hands. Sweaty. Started picking at the skin around her nails. She needed to go to the washroom.
“Irene, what about you?” Mr. Mirelli turned around.
“A nurse,” chirped the voice.
Sonia started praying to her desk, the chair she was sitting on, that a large hole would open beneath her and swallow her up, seal her off from the pointing fingers she could feel aimed right at her but did not see.
“A lawyer,” called another.
“A teacher,” said someone else.
Author Bio
Morgan Chojnacki (TWS 2001) lives and works in Vancouver. This excerpt from Retelling Chapter One first appeared in emerge Anthology. Her work has been published in the The Capilano Review, Stories from the Button Jar, and PORTFOLIO milieu 2004. She continues to write.
