Nikolski Read Online Free PDF Page B

contents of the envelope, especially the program directory, a thick atlas of the various trajectories that now offered themselves to him. He began by looking for the Diploma in Applied Nomadology or the B.A. in International Roaming, the only disciplines for which he felt he had some talent, but there was no mention of any such degrees. He would have to make do with whatever other options were available.
    Noah set about reading the directory from cover to cover, leaving nothing out, from Abstruse Sciences to Zenology, taking in Abyssometrics, Opinion Machining and Studies in Applied Mercantilism along the way. Overcome in short order by this soporific reading material, he keeled over with his face in the directory.
    He resurfaced an hour later, feeling nauseous. He looked about, hoping to recognize his surroundings.
    The kettle reflected a distorted image of his face. In the very centre of his forehead the cheap ink had stamped a puzzling word:
Archaeology.
    Noah shrugged his shoulders, and surmised that there was no denying the force of destiny.

    When Sarah finally emerges from her sleeping bag, the fog has lifted and Noah has prepared the breakfast table. They eat in silence, amid the herbicidal fumes rising from the drainage ditch. Noah takes a halfhearted bite out of his toast with honey and then leaves it practically untouched. Sarah is content with two scalding cups of tea.
    Breakfast ends abruptly. Sarah scoops up the jar of honey and the teapot and folds down the table as though she feels a sudden sense of urgency.
    While she organizes the departure, Noah checks his pack one last time; it contains the strict minimum, each item carefully considered. From the kitchen table, the Chipewyan ancestors follow the tiniest gesture with their usual incomprehension.
    Then, sitting on his bunk, Noah slowly scans the interior of the trailer in the hope of finding a detail that by some miracle may have escaped his attention over the last eighteen years. He finds nothing, and ends his stock-taking with a sigh.
    He tightens the straps on his pack, slings it over his shoulder and steps out of the trailer.
    Sarah is already sitting in the car, hands on the steering wheel, eyes on the road, in an attitude of both impatience and denial. Noah opens the other door and begins to get in, one foot in the car, the other on solid ground. He holds this position for several minutes without speaking, his gaze turned westward.
    “Should I drop you off at the Trans-Canada?” Sarah finally asks.
    Squinting, Noah contemplates tiny Route 627. Not much traffic in these parts, but what does it matter? There’s no hurry. Sarah reluctantly starts up
Grampa’s
engine. She listens to the low rumbling of the V-8, on the alert for any suspicious noises, while Noah searches for a memorable phrase to close this chapter of his life.
    Suddenly, Sarah reaches over to the glove compartment, punches it open and grabs the Book with No Face.
    “Don’t forget this.”
    Noah wavers for a moment, partially opens his pack and squeezes the old book between two sweaters. The binding is as brittle as bone and the old map of the Caribbean comes loose, orphaned in his hands.
    After this, everything happens very quickly: Sarah, without a word, hugs him with all her strength, and then boots him out of the car. Before he has time to add another word, she puts the car in gear and tears off in a clatter of gravel, with the passenger door still open.
    A minute later Noah finds himself alone on the side of the road, backpack agape, an old map of the Caribbean in his hand and a ball of asphalt in his stomach. He breathes deeply, folds the map and slips it into his shirt pocket. Then he adjusts his backpack and starts walking east, eyes squinting directly into the sun, which is still suspended on the horizon.
    A little farther along, three crows are pecking at the carcass of an animal. Noah shoos away the birds, which caw indignantly as they take flight, only to perch on the far