佚名onymous

Whydidthememoryofthatdeadchildseekmeoutonthisbeautifulday?Tillthen，nointimationofsorrowhadcometomethroughthedazzlingrevelationsofasummerthatsang。

Ithaenedmanyyearsago。IhadjustarrivedinasmallvillageinManitoba，Canada，tofinishtheschoolyearasrelacementforateacherwhohadfallenillorsimly，forallIknew，becomediscouraged。

“Whenthetimecomesforyoutoalyforaermanentosition，”therincialofthenormalschoolhadtoldme，“Youllbeabletosaythatyouvehadexerience。”

AndsoIfoundmyselfinsringinthatveryoorvillage—justafewshacks，withnothingaroundbutsindlingsrucetrees。“Amonth，”Iaskedmyself，“willthatbelongenoughtobecomeattachedtothechildren?Willamonthbeworththeeffort?”

Perhasthesamecalculationwasinthemindsofthechildren，forIhadneverseenfacessodejected，soaatheticorerhassorrowful。Ihadhadsolittleexerience。Imyselfwashardlymorethanachild。

Nineoclockcame。Theroomwashotasanoven。SometimesinManitobaanincredibleheatsettlesinduringthefirstdaysofJune。

Scarcelyknowingwhereorhowtobegin，Ioenedtheattendancebookandcalledtheroll。ThenameswereforthemostartFrench，andtodaytheystillreturntomymemory，likethis，fornoreason:MadeleineBerube，JosehatBrisset，EmilienDumont，CecileLeine。。。

Butmostofthechildrenwhoroseandanswered“Present，mamzelle”，whentheirnameswerecalledhadtheslightlynarrowedeyes，warmcoloringandjet-blackhairthattoldofmetisblood。

Theywerebeautifulandexquisitelyolite;therewasreallynothingtoreroachthemforexcettheinconceivabledistancetheymaintainedbetweenthemselvesandme。Itcrushedme。“Isthiswhatchildrenarelike，then，”Iaskedmyselfwithanguish，“untouchable，barricadedinsomeregionwhereyoucantreachthem?”

IcametothenameYolandeChartrand。

Nooneanswered。Ireeatedthenameand，whentherewasstillnoanswer，Ilookeduatfacesthatseemedtomecomletelyindifferent。

Thenfromthebackoftheclassroom，abovethebuzzingofflies，aroseavoiceIcouldntlaceatfirst。“Shesdead，mamzelle。Shediedlastnight。”

Perhasevenmoredistressingthanthenewswasthecalm，leveltoneofthechildsvoice。

“Ah，”Isaid，lostforwords。

Welookedatoneanotherinsilenceforalongtime，thechildrenandI。NowIunderstoodthattheexressionintheireyesthatIhadtakenforindifferencewasaheavysadness。

“SinceYolande。。。wasyourschoolmate。。。wouldyoulike。。。afterschoolatfouroclock。。。forustogoandvisither?”

Onthesmall，muchtooseriousfacesthereaearedthetraceofsomesmiles，wary，stillsad，butsmilesjustthesame。

AtfirstastfourIfoundmostofthemwaitingformeatthedoor，agood20children，butmakingnomorenoisethaniftheywerebeingketinafterschool。Severalofthemwentaheadtoshowmetheway。Othersressedaroundmesoclosely。Icouldscarcelymove。Fiveorsixofthesmalleronestookmebythehandandulledmeforwardgentlyasiftheywereleadingablinderson。Theydidnottalk，merelyheldmeenclosedintheircircle。

Together，inthisway，wecametoawoodencabinstandinginisolationamongthinsrucetrees。Itsdoorwaswideoen，sowewereabletoseethedeadchildaloneintheroomfromquitefaroff。Shehadbeenlaidoutonroughboardssusendedbetweentwochairs。

Thearentshadundoubtedlydonealltheycouldfortheirchild。Theyhadcoveredherwithacleansheet。Hermother，robably，hadarrangedherhairinthetwoverytightbraidsthatframedthethinface。Butsomeressingneedhadsentthemaway:erhastheurchaseofacoffinintown，orafewmoreboardstomakeheronethemselves。

Thechildhadadelicatelittleface，verywasted，withtheseriousexressionIhadseenonthefacesofmostofthechildrenhere，asifthecaresoftheadultshadcrushedthemalltooearly。Shemighthavebeen10or11yearsold。

Thechildrenwerewatchingme。Irealizedtheynowexectedeverythingfromme，thoughIdidntknowmuchmorethanthey。ThenIhadasortofinsiration。

“DontyouthinkYolandewouldliketohavesomeonewithheralwaystillthetimecomestocommithertotheground?”

ThefacesofthechildrentoldmeIhadstrucktherightnote。

“Welltaketurnsthen，fourorfivearoundhereverytwohours，untilthefuneral。Wemustbecarefulnottoletthefliestouchherface。”

Theyagreedwithaglowintheirdarkeyes。Standingaroundme，theynowfeltatrustinmesocomlete，anditterrifiedme。

Inaclearingamongthesrucetreesashortdistanceaway，Inoticedabright-inkstainonthegroundwhosesourceIdidntyetknow。Thesunslantedonit，makingitflame，theonemomentinthisdaythathadbeentouchedbyacertaingrace。

“Whatsortofgirlwasshe?”Iasked。

Atfirstthechildrendidntunderstand。Thenaboyofaboutthesameagesaidwithtenderseriousness，“Shewassmart，Yolande。”

“Anddidshedowellinschool?”

“Shedidntcomeveryoftenthisyear。Shewasalwaysbeingabsent。”

“OurteacherbeforelastsaidYolandecouldhavedonewell。”

“WhatdidYolandedieof?”

“Tuberculosis，Madam，”theyreliedwithasinglevoice，asifthiswasthecustomarywayforchildrentodiearoundhere。

Theywereeagertotalkabouthernow。Ihadsucceededinoeningthelittledoorsdeewithinthemthatnooneerhashadevermuchwantedtoseeoened。Theytoldmemovingfactsaboutherbrieflife。“Onedayonherwayhomefromschool—itwasFebruary，”“no，”saidanother，inMarch—shehadlostherreaderandwetinconsolablyforweeks。Tostudyherlessonafterthat，shehadtoborrowabookfromoneoftheothers—andIsawonthefacesofsomeofthemthattheydgrudgedlendingtheirreadersandwouldalwaysregretthis。“Nothavingadressforherconfirmation，shehadleadedtillhermotherfinallymadeheronefromtheonlycurtaininthehouse—theonefromthisroom。。。abeautifullacecurtain，mamzelle。”

“AnddidYolandelookrettyinherlace-curtaindress?”Iasked。

Theyallnoddeddeely，intheireyesthememoryofaleasantimage。

Istudiedthesilentlittleface。Achildwhohadhadlovedbooks，solemnityanddecorousattire。ThenIglancedattheastonishingslashofinkinthemelancholylandscaeandrealizedthatitwasamassofwildroses。InJunetheyoeningreatsheetsalloverManitoba，growingfromtheoorestsoil。Ifeltsomeconsolation。

“LetsgoandicksomerosesforYolande。”

OnthechildrensfacesthereaearedthesameslowsmilesofgentlesadnessIhadseenwhenIsuggestedvisitingthebody。

Innotimeweweregatheringroses。Thechildrenwerenotyetcheerful，farfromthat，butIcouldhearthematleasttalkingtooneanother。Asortofrivalry，hadgriedthem。Eachviedtoseewhocouldickthemostrosesorthebrightest，thoseofadeeshadethatwasalmostred。

Fromtimetotime，onetuggedatmysleeve。“Mamzelle，seethelovelyoneIvefound!”

Onourreturnweulledthemgentlyaartandscatteredetalsoverthedeadchild。Soononlyherfaceemergedfromtheinkdrift。Then—howcouldthisbe?—itlookedalittlelessforlorn。

Thechildrenformedaringaroundtheirschoolmateandsaidofherwithoutthebittersadnessofthemorning，“Shemusthavegottoheavenbythistime。”

Or“Shemustbehaynow。”

Ilistenedtothem，alreadyconsolingthemselvesasbesttheycouldforbeingalive。。。

Butwhy，ohwhy，didthememoryofthatdeadchildseekmeouttodayintheverymidstofthesummerthatsang?

Wasitbroughttomejustnowbythewindwiththescentofroses?

AscentIhavenotmuchlikedsincethelongagoJunewhenIwenttothatoorestofvillages—toacquire，astheysay，exerience。

在这个美好的日子里，不知为什么，我又想起了那个死去的女孩。而此前，我一直沉浸在夏日璀璨的光辉和欢乐的海洋里，毫无任何悲伤的征兆。

事情发生在很多年前。那时，我刚到加拿大曼尼托巴的一个小村庄，那里的一个老师生病了，或许只是气馁了。我作为代课老师，要教完那个学年。

“当你申请到固定教师职位时，”师范学校的校长曾告诉我，“你就可以说有工作经验。”

所以，那年春天，我到了那个非常贫穷的小村庄——只有几间小木屋，周围除了细长的云杉树，什么都没有。“一个月，”我问自己，“能让孩子们喜欢上我吗？一个月，值得付出努力吗？”

也许孩子们的心里也在这样想，因为，我从来未见过这样沮丧、冷漠，或者说哀伤的面孔。我经历的太少了，几乎还只是个孩子。

九点钟，教室热得像个大烤箱。有时，曼尼托巴异常的燥热在六月初就会出现。

几乎不知道何时从哪里开始，我打开花名册，开始点名。那些名字大多是法文。奇怪的是，今天我居然还能记起来，例如：玛黛琳·贝鲁贝、约瑟法布里塞、艾蜜莲·杜蒙、塞西·勒宾……

但是，当点到他们的名字，一个个站起来答“到，老师”时，我看见多数孩子都是细小的眼睛、黝黑的皮肤、乌黑的头发，无一不在昭示着他们是有着黑人血统的混血儿。

这些孩子漂亮又很有礼貌，实在没有什么值得责备的地方，只是觉得他们在有意地疏远我，这令我很沮丧。“所有的孩子都这样吗？”我痛苦地反问自己，“就这样难以捉摸，把心灵封锁起来，让人无法触及吗？”

我点到“佑兰·夏特康”这个名字。

没人回答，我重复了一遍，还没人回答，我抬起头，扫视着那些看起来很冷漠的脸。

突然，从教室的后面传来一个声音，苍蝇的嗡嗡声使我不能立即找到说话人，“她死了，老师，昨晚死的。”

或许这孩子沉着平静的语调比这消息本身更可怕。

“啊……”我一时说不出话来。