Crossing the Continent

by Michel Tremblay

  And there, while they all look on in commiseration, after such an amazing demonstration of kindness and generosity toward someone they hardly know, whose eleventh birthday they wanted to celebrate, a little late now but with such intensity it makes her shiver – not for long, a few quick seconds, it’s gone as soon as it starts – Rhéauna all at once, not knowing where it comes from – feels happy. It’s as violent as it is brief. It’s complete, round, warm. She would like to hug them all one after another and ask them to forgive her for not being able to appreciate this wonderful party that was put on just for her as if she deserved it. She would kiss them all on both cheeks, even Uncle Rosaire who nodded off as soon as he’d downed his three pieces of cake. She would tell them she’ll never forget them, that later on, when she’s grown, when she has children, she will describe with tears in her eyes this extraordinary evening, she would tell Bebette that the festivities will always be some of the most beautiful in her life, but she knows that’s impossible because of her shyness and only whispers a little, “Thanks so much for everything,” before she gets up from the table.

  Only Bebette is aware that she’s upset.

  Late that night, her great-aunt Bebette sat on the edge of Nana’s bed and took her hand. She talked to her looking down, as if she had reason to reproach herself.

  “I hope you understand that there wasn’t time to get presents. If we’d known I’d’ve covered you in gifts, you’d have had all kinds of lovely surprises, but as it was last-minute …”

  Tell her it doesn’t matter, that the party was enough, that anyway she didn’t ask for so much; make her understand that their generosity touched her, that it will be a bright spot in her memory … But nothing comes, she sits there motionless, her hand imprisoned in Bebette’s, unable to express her gratitude. She can’t understand why. If her grandmother were beside her she would throw her arms around her, embrace her. She would describe the party in detail as if she hadn’t been there, make comments on each of the guests … But she doesn’t actually know them, for her they are a kind of multiple assembly of individual elements that don’t have a personality of their own. She has made the acquaintance, in a perfunctory way, of just three: aunt Bebette, uncle Rosaire and cousin Ozéa, the others are costumed characters burdened with unbelievable names who’ve passed in her field of vision without leaving a trace: they sang, they ate, they laughed, they bellowed “Happy Birthday” in unison, and then they went home. That’s all. She knows, though, that the women worked all day for her, that they baked, grilled, roasted, decorated, but not one came over and talked with her. They gravitated around Bebette, their mother or grandmother or mother-in-law without paying much attention to the person being feted, and all Rhéauna could say was that they’d been very generous. Even that, she couldn’t express.

  Her aunt pulls the covers up to her chin. She could have been about to kiss her. No, she, too, holds herself back.

  “Try to sleep now, you’ve got a long day tomorrow … Saperlipopette, practically eighteen hours on the train! All by yourself! You leave early tomorrow morning and you get to Ottawa late tomorrow night … I talked to Ti-Lou, she said she’ll arrange to meet you at the train station … And she’d better or she’ll have to deal with me! But she’s never been all that dependable, she’s somebody that could send a taxi for you … Now I know she’s my sister’s daughter, but I tell you she’s something else … Be careful around her, Nana, don’t believe everything she tells you, she’ll often talk nonsense. She’s what they call a loose woman, your grandmother must’ve told you, and those women are dangerous … If we’d been able to avoid having you stop there we’d’ve done it, but going directly from Winnipeg to Montreal would’ve been too long, we didn’t want you to spend a night on the train … And we don’t know anybody in Toronto, we haven’t got any family there, so who would have looked after you if we’d decided to have you spend the night there? Nobody in our family likes Toronto, so we avoid it as much as we can … But here I am talking away, I’m keeping you awake … I’ll fix up some leftovers from tonight for the train … You’ll be having two meals and their food probably isn’t very good … Now go to sleep, sweetheart.”

  A hand brushes her forehead, then the light goes out and the bedroom door closes. It’s very dark, she’s not quite sure now which way is up and which way is down, she feels as if she’s floating. Her grandmother would say that she’s too tired to sleep. She has to, though, she needs a good night’s sleep, but bits of the evening come back to her, images that are blurred because there is so much movement, strong odours of stodgy food and overheated bodies, a whirlwind of powerful sensations that make her feel as if she’s flying above her bed.

  Eventually she falls asleep, thinking about the archangels that inhabited her dream between Regina and Winnipeg.

  The sun has barely risen when they arrive at the station.

  This time they’re alone – no nervous relatives, no mad race across the waiting room. Rhéauna even has to drag her suitcase while her aunt struggles with the big bag of food she has brought. Bebette tugs Rhéauna with her other hand as if she fears losing her in the crowd that’s as dense and hysterical as the one the day before, despite the early hour. They are shoved with no apology, criticized repeatedly for being in the way or not moving fast enough. Bebette lets out two or three well-placed saperlipopettes and, each time, a path opens before them as if by magic.

  “Your grandmother told me there’s someone who’s supposed to look after you on the train …”

  “Yes, on the train from Regina his name was Jacques and he was really nice …”

  “Maybe he’ll be on this train, too …”

  “I don’t think so … He was just going to Montreal, then he was leaving again for Vancouver … He does that twice a week during his summer holidays. And I guess that will be his last trip this year … If we meet him he’ll be heading the other direction … In the train that’s going west.”

  The locomotive is already sending off its plume of smoke, the motor growls, some white vapour escapes from between the wheels of the cars with their doors open.

  “Look, there it is, your car … You’re lucky, it’s a new one … Where are you supposed to be meeting that man?”

  “I don’t know, it must be in the car … Jacques was waiting for me right at the door, at the top of the steps …”

  “If you ask me it isn’t normal to trust your children to strangers like that … Anyway, I hope he’s different from the fellows my husband worked with on the job sites all his life … I’m telling you, I wouldn’t have trusted my daughter to those men … Actually I never trusted my daughters to anyone, I wouldn’t let them travel, they had enough of their father always being away and I’m glad!”

  “It’s their job to look after children who are travelling alone, ma tante … or, well, it’s part of their job …”

  “I’m sure it is, but I hope they investigate those men before they hire them! With all the raging lunatics on the loose …”

  “He was a student, he’s going to be a doctor … Don’t worry, ma tante.”

  “Students can be crazy, too, you know! If I never worried in my life, little girl, I wouldn’t have got where I am today!”

  Suddenly she spots someone she knows farther along the platform, sets her bag of food next to her great-niece and runs over.

  “Stay there, I won’t be long …”

  Rhéauna, worn out, sits on her suitcase and takes a look in the bag. It smells good – roast pork and ham. And mustard. When she got up an hour earlier, she wasn’t hungry; but now she would like to plunge her hand into the heap of food and take out a sandwich without crusts, the soft part all moist. Pork or ham, it doesn’t matter, she loves them both. She has to wait till noon, though, or be all alone in the car without her dragon-aunt to make her stop eating.

  Bebette has just approached a very tall and very slender lady dressed in black who seems to be about to board the train, too. She is standing straight and looks seve
re, hands folded on her stomach. From a distance, she doesn’t look relaxed. Something like a Régina from Manitoba, but much taller. All that Rhéauna hopes is that she won’t have to take this long journey in the company of so sad a person ... The hat of the lady in question, battling crows above a foaming nest of tulle, bears some resemblance to Bebette’s; they must go to the same hatter. Rhéauna knows they’re talking about her because both are looking in her direction. Gesticulating. She has the feeling that she’s going to have not one but two guardians during her trip between Winnipeg and Toronto, then Toronto and Ottawa.

  The two women approach. Bebette looks relieved; Rhéauna tells herself that she has guessed correctly. Her aunt dusts her off almost from head to toe, then introduces her as if she were the dirtiest little girl in town even though everything she has on is brand new. “Rhéauna, this is Madame Robillard. Madame Isola Robillard. She’s a friend of mine. And she’s agreed to look after you during the trip …”

  “But, ma tante, there’s somebody who is supposed to do that!”

  “Two are better than one, saperlipopette … Especially when you know one of them …”

  Madame Isola Robillard smiles at her. It’s a lovely smile, a little cold maybe but not without kindness. Still, Rhéauna hopes that the woman won’t monopolize her during the journey … She wants to read, to eat at her own rhythm, to sleep if she feels like it; she has no intention of rhyming off her pedigree to a stranger she’ll never see again, just to pass the time.

  “Are you going to Ottawa, too?”

  The woman leans over to her – in fact, she bends double – though Rhéauna isn’t all that small. And she talks as if she were dealing with a four-year-old. Rhéauna thinks to herself, “It’s going to be a long trip!”

  “No, just to Toronto. I’m going to meet my son. He’s a doctor.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No, no, not at all! Aren’t you funny! I’m going for a visit because I haven’t seen him for a long time. Since he can’t travel because of the operations he does every day, I’m the one who goes to see him.”

  She straightens up, looks at Bebette.

  “I’m not wild about Toronto but what can I do? It’s the price I have to pay to see my boy!”

  Bebette grabs her niece’s suitcase and the bag of food.

  “All right, time to board the train, it’s about to start. You can tell each other everything during the trip. Now don’t ask so many questions, Nana! Madame Robillard is kind enough to look after you but you mustn’t bother her! Understand? The journey will take all day and maybe she wants to rest …”

  Isola Robillard lays her hand on Bebette’s arm.

  “I’ve just got up, Madame Roy, I definitely don’t need any more rest.”

  Rhéauna thinks that Madame Isola Robillard must like nothing so much as to be asked about her son and all his works, and decides to avoid the subject as much as she can.

  Bebette pushes Rhéauna onto the small metal staircase, climbs up behind her.

  “I’m going to get you settled … We’ll try to find a quiet spot …”

  A corpulent, red-faced young man appears and Rhéauna realizes that he is her new Jacques. But he doesn’t speak a word of French and her English, while passable, won’t let her keep up a real conversation. So she’ll have to fall back on Madame Isola Robillard if she needs anything. And no doubt put up until the bitter end with her praise of her doctor son in Toronto.

  As for Bebette, even though she speaks with an accent you could cut with a knife, she’ll be able to make herself understood by Devon, another weird name, and the directions she gives him about Rhéauna are precise, long and detailed.

  He tries to protest – is he telling her that he knows his job and to mind her own business? – she won’t let herself be impressed and talks non-stop for a good five minutes. She even found a way to pronounce saperlipopette as if it were an English word, which sounds perfectly ludicrous; nevertheless, she scatters it through her advice and warnings.

  Just as the doors are about to close, Bebette makes a move that amazes Rhéauna. The train whistle has already been sounded two or three times, the ritual All aboard! has already rung out several times, too, Devon pushes Bebette toward the door, telling her she’ll break her neck if she waits too long before jumping off the train when with no warning, the old lady throws herself at her great-niece, takes her in her arms, hugs her tight and kisses the top of her head.

  “Bye, bye, sweetheart! Take care of yourself! Pay attention to your cousin Ti-Lou and don’t let your mother push you around!

  Fat tears run down her cheeks while she plasters two huge, noisy, fat kisses on Rhéauna.

  “The Roys have done their best for you, saperlipopette, now it’s time for you to look after your own self … You can do it … Yes, you can …”

  The car begins to move, Bebette hurries down the steps, turns around and waves, looking grim.

  Isola Robillard rubs her earlobe after taking off a mock-diamond rhinestone pendant earring.

  “That woman is very high-strung.”

  Rhéauna replies:

  “She’s my grandfather’s sister! And yesterday she gave me a birthday party even though my birthday isn’t for a week!”

  “That’s what I said! She’s high-strung!”

  The exchange ends there.

  Which doesn’t mean that Madame Robillard is silent. One-way conversations don’t seem to bother her and, if Rhéauna had been stunned by her great-aunt’s monologue during supper, Madame Robillard’s has her rooted to the spot. It’s an unending stream of pointless words, an inexhaustible and incredibly stupid logorrhea of hackneyed clichés repeated to infinity. She talks as she takes off her hat and gloves, as she positions her sharp backside on the straw seat, as she smoothes the pleats in her long black skirt, as she opens a small suitcase that holds her cosmetics and her medicines – she claims to be sick, rolling her large, protruding eyes – and when she blows her nose. Even that doesn’t stop her from talking.

  Bebette should have warned her that she’d be coping with a blabbermouth!

  She carries on of course about her devotion to her only son, about the sacrifices she has accepted to bring him where he is today – one of the biggest hospitals in Toronto. She also talks about her boy’s wife who’s not worthy of him and doesn’t know how to manage him – Isola’s own words – about the children she hasn’t given him, depriving her of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. What use is old age, will you tell me, without grandchildren! Then she tackles the subject of the many charitable causes on whose behalf she has exerted herself for years now and that are very lucky to have her because without her … She talks about people Rhéauna has never met as if they were acquaintances she’d seen the day before or about whom she was dying to have some news. In the first half-hour of the journey, while the train is slowly leaving Winnipeg and its suburbs, Madame Robillard refers to dozens of people by their first names, never explaining who they are, no doubt taking it for granted that everyone knows the same people she does and that Rhéauna will be able to sort them out.

  Not once does she ask the little girl how she feels, if she wants anything to drink or eat, if she needs to go to the bathroom, what she thinks of being required to join her mother in Montreal, an unknown and dangerous city. The only time she refers to it in fact is for a long-winded anecdote several decades old about a visit she and her son Denis had paid to that dreadful place in mid–heat wave that ends with an unusually violent diatribe, a sentence without appeal:

  “You think it’s hot out west in the summer? If you want to know what a real heat wave is, little girl, just try Montreal in July. True, you’ll be there next July … Anyway, you’ll see for yourself that I’m right! It’s worse than hot, it’s sticky! Myself, I wouldn’t live there for all the gold in the world. Especially not in summer! We’re lucky here in Saint-Boniface and we don’t even know it. That’s what I tell them all the time but I don’t think anybody listens to me. Though I�
�m not stingy with my advice! But no, they behave as if they don’t hear me. Everyone! Even my own son!”

  Rhéauna stopped listening to her a while ago. She is resting her head on the window and looking outside, trying to mix Madame Robillard’s voice with the sound – clackety-clack, clackety-clack, clackety-clack – produced when the wheels of the train rub against the metal rails. Another repetitious motif.

  The landscape that unfurls before her eyes is as repetitious as Madame Robillard’s soliloquy or the sound of the train. Rhéauna wonders when she will leave behind these tunnels with no exit. She won’t get to Toronto until suppertime and to Ottawa very late at night. Is Madame Robillard going to talk like that all the way to Toronto? And never stop?

  Fields, more fields, fields with no end. Is Canada nothing but an enormous field of grain? With no horizon? She has been promised a mountain in Montreal, but Montreal will turn out to be nothing but a field of wheat like the others, a super-size Sainte-Maria-de-Saskatchewan church with a mountain in the middle to make it a little different? Lost in the plains? Can you hear the corn grow in Montreal?

  Devon has come to see her several times but she doesn’t understand a thing he says and merely nods. Like an idiot. Isola Robillard has offered to translate; Rhéauna turned her down, claiming to understand perfectly well everything Devon says to her.

  Her first meal on the train – wolfed down in third gear when they were crossing a fairly large town whose name she couldn’t see – is accompanied by disjointed comments from the old biddy who skips from one subject to another without even seeming to notice. To fill the time, thinks Rhéauna, or because she can’t stand silence. Rhéauna could plug her ears but she won’t; she knows that would be impolite. And so she lets Madame Isola Robillard gab away all she wants while she tries to focus her attention on what’s going on outside. Which turns out to be harder than she’d have thought. After all, some of the stories are very sad, some fates frankly tragic, that’s all very interesting, she can’t deny – diseases horrible and violent, incredible accidents, zany separations – and above all, she doesn’t believe that one person on her own could know so many unfortunate destinies. In the end, her accumulation of insoluble calamities and irreversible catastrophes bores her to tears.