Again the pope-rabbi, and again seated next to her! Claudia had thought she was dreaming.
In the end, because it was easier that way, she had accepted the small book of jokes on the theme of God that the pope-rabbi offered her. He’d read a few pages, smiling, and later burst out laughing. That’s when he turned to Claudia to tell her the joke. Claudia, unsure whether she got it, laughed out of politeness, but without really giving the impression that she’d understood.
Then, in a sudden generous impulse, the pope-rabbi had offered her the book.
Someone’s at the door. Hans recognizes the knock of his Spanish-speaking neighbour, the one who’s always asking to borrow matches. The first time he came, Hans gave him the only matches he had. The second time, a few days later, Hans told him he had none and the fellow had run off in embarrassment, only to return with a packet a few minutes later. Possibly he thought that no one could manage without matches. Through this relationship based on matches, the neighbour and Hans saw each other several times a week. It had become a game, an easy and innocent way to express their friendship, as a result of which Hans had developed the habit of maintaining a provision of matches.
Hans opens the door, steps over to a small cupboard to pick up a book of matches, returns to the half-open door. The neighbour points to the jigsaw puzzle, which needs only four or five pieces to be complete. Hans invites him to take a closer look. The young Hispanophone admires the work, passes a hand over the surface, and, indicating the few loose pieces, invites Hans to complete the puzzle in his presence. Hans does not react. The neighbour insists. Hans resists, shakes his head, and motions no with his hands. The neighbour eyes Hans for a moment, pretends to guess what he is up to, and finally laughs; tapping Hans on the shoulder in agreement, he takes the matches and goes. Alone again, Hans wonders what his neighbour could possibly have concluded.
The man who’d shown no sign of reading is seated with a cup of coffee in his hand.
“So what’s Moncton like?”
Terry and Carmen look at each other. Each can see in the other’s face the lack of ready-made descriptions. Finally, Terry laughs.
“It’s a fine place to look at when it snows. In the evenings.”
The man sitting opposite them traces a quick sketch in his mind.
“Lots of cities are beautiful if one doesn’t dwell on the details.”
Terry and Carmen think some more.
“There’s some streets have big houses and big trees.”
“At Christmastime, with the decorations and all, that helps.”
“Are the houses made of wood or stone?”
“Folks would say they’re wood, I suppose. We don’t really think of them that way. They’re just . . . houses, is all.”
Terry and Carmen try to think of something else to say, embarrassed at not being able to come up with much. Then Terry finds something he considers significant.
“There’s a whole lot of artists, though. Folks who paint, I mean.”
“Is that right?”
“They say the place’s special for that. . . . Not that I know much about it.”
“Special how?”
Terry and Carmen exchange another consultative gaze. Carmen tries her luck.
“I suppose it’s the colours. You might say they’re . . . well, big.”
“Big?”
“Yeah. Big. Thick.”
Terry feels there’s more to it.
“Not only that, mind you. There’s a whole lot. Artists, I mean. For a such a wee place.”
Carmen risks something more.
“Can’t say they’re all pretty, though.”
Terry is intrigued.
“And which of them is it you’re thinking of, then?”
“Well, the one over at the library, when you’re coming down the staircase.”
“Mmm . . .”
The memory of that particular painting propels Terry and Carmen into a moment of deathly silence, but they eventually resurface.
“There’s one of them, Yvon Gallant, who can paint anything.”
“That’s the truth. That fellow’s unbelievable. Not that it’s all perfect to begin with, but in the end, you can’t help liking it.”
“There’s another, Paul Bourque. You might say, he mixes things around. Won’t sell his stuff, though. Doesn’t want to. Which is why everyone wants to buy them. Pretty sharp, if you ask me.”
“And then there’s Roméo Savoie.”
“Hermé.”
“There’s a fellow does everything — writes, paints, makes movies, writes plays. Can’t think of anything he doesn’t do.”
“Those are just the ones best known. There’s a whole lot more.”
“Raymond Martin.”
“Raymond Martin, Nancy Morin, Guy Duguay — well, he’s dead.”
“There was Denise Daigle too.”
“Yup. Denise.”
“Francis Coutellier . . . Luc Charette . . .”
“Dyane Léger . . . And what’s the name of that other one, works next to Yvon in the other room?”
“Lionel Cormier.”
“And what about Alexandria?”
“Alexandria Eaton. English, that one. But she’s okay, just the same.”
“Jacques Arsenault.”
“Really, there’s a whole bunch of them.”
“Gilles LeBlanc’s not too shabby neither.”
“There’s always an opening going on somewhere, with wine and bits of food to eat as well. Anyone can go.”
“The more business-minded ones often have the smoked salmon.”
“Lots of them don’t have loads of money, but they get by just the same.”
The spontaneous enumeration amuses the man who’d shown no sign of reading.
“Have you bought paintings?”
“Yvon Gallant gave us one. A small one. That time we drove him to Halifax to see an exhibition. He doesn’t drive himself.”
“I’d like us to have one of Dyane Léger’s for our boy’s room. Or girl. We don’t know which yet.”
“There’s Francis Coutellier as well. His boats are pretty nice too.”
“You see, there again, it’s the colour.”
“There’s George Blanchette as well.”
“For the kid’s room?”
“Well, no. I mean, just to have.”
Hans inserts the last piece of the puzzle without ceremony. He hadn’t noticed, before fitting it in, that the shades on this last piece seem to represent a castle or a church. He bends down, examines it more closely. He can’t decide if it’s a detail intended by the artist or an effect resulting from the angle of the brush on the canvas.
Hans now begins to study the painting in search of other details that may have escaped him. He finds himself enjoying again those elements he had previously admired, and he discovers a few others that also please him. Later, he will continue to glance at the work from a distance while, sitting cross-legged on his bed, he has a bite to eat.
Claudia is cleaning up her desk, putting books and notebooks away, stacking those she will have to open before starting her courses again. She checks her watch, makes a phone call but does not leave a message on the answering machine. She washes up, redials the earlier number. Still no one. She dresses and goes out anyway.
The sun is shining and a warm wind is blowing on the avenue. Claudia lingers in front of a few shop win-dows, goes into a record store, buys something, comes out, walks some more, goes into a café, hails a waiter, sits, pulls a magazine out of her bag while she waits to be served.
“You’re a musician?”
“No, not at all.”
“Strange. I could have sworn.”
Claudia found it odd that during the return trip, the
pope-rabbi had asked her the same question as had the man who’d shown no sign of reading. She had no idea what it was in her appearance or attitude that would lead people to think she was a musician.
“You’re the second person to ask me that recently.”
“Your neck, your shoulders give that impression. Mainly your neck, I think. It seems as though music would pass through there. It’s a fine passage.”
With that, the pope-rabbi had fallen silent. Even though he maintained a kind of joviality in spite of everything, Claudia sensed he’d somehow changed in the past two weeks.
“My mother doesn’t love my father any more. She’s going to leave him. She’s thinking of coming to America.”
“It’s normal that she’d want to be closer to you. How about your father?”
“He’s sad, a little down.”
“He’ll get over it, although . . .”
Claudia waited a moment for the pope-rabbi to complete the sentence, but the end did not come.
The more time passes, the less I’m certain of what happened that day. I’m no longer sure what I was thinking when I saw that truck coming from the opposite direction. I remember it was a nice day, but something like an undertow seemed to be pulling down on the idyllic scene. I felt a need to spread myself thin over the surface of things, as though I were repulsed by my need to hold fast. But hold fast to what? In the name of what? I believe I might have thought about giving the wheel that fatal twist, but I also believe I was afraid I’d end up surviving and paralyzed. I wanted to clear my head, put some music on. I looked for Barencourt’s Orphaned Notes. The cassette wasn’t in its usual place. The truck was bearing down.
If I had my life to live over again, although . . .
“Well, weren’t you the brainy-sounding one, then.”
“I had to think up something to say, didn’t I? I never thought I knew so many artists.”
Carmen had been amused by Terry’s observations on Acadian art.
“No, truly. It sounded swell. Sometimes you really impress me.”
The man who’d shown no sign of reading returns from the washroom, sits, watches the countryside file past.
“It’s my first time in Lyons.”
They had decided to rent a car in Lyons and follow the river down to the Mediterranean. No one could say how long it would take. Certainly days, perhaps weeks.
Hans is busy photocopying the cover of the jigsaw puzzle’s box. It takes him several tries before he’s satisfied that he’s captured the colours as accurately as possible and the dimensions he wants. He pays the clerk, walks a few blocks, enters a supermarket, buys a box of clear plastic bags, the strong ones used for storing frozen foods.
Back in his room, Hans breaks the puzzle apart and pours the pieces into one of the bags. He is glad he bought the large size. He presses the zip-lock — he enjoys that sensation — then slips the bag, zip-lock end first, into a second identical bag, a precaution in case the first bag breaks open, allowing some pieces to escape. Satisfied with the result, and with the malleability of the package — the original puzzle box would have taken up too much room — he now cuts off the white edges of the best of the photocopies of the painting, slips it between the two layers of plastic, and seals the second bag. He takes a few moments to handle the reinforced package, which produces a pleasing sound. Finally, he tidies up and takes his suitcase out of the cupboard. He places the puzzle in the bottom and the rest of his things on top. In no time at all, though he has not hurried, his packing is done. Hans scribbles a few words on a piece of paper, which he leaves, along with some bills, on the table now cleared of the puzzle. He picks up his things, exits and locks the door of the room, deposits the key in a place previously designated by the owner — you can’t be too careful — and leaves the house.
“Some people toss their own bottle in the ocean. They send it out, and then one day it comes back to them. And it becomes their salvation.”
At first, Claudia didn’t understand what the pope-rabbi meant, especially since his pronouncement seemed to rise up like a pyramid in the midst of silence. She took the time to think before replying.
“You mean like Little Thumb in the fairy tale?”
“Yes, a little. But it’s less thought out, much more innocent. Little Thumb knew what he was doing, didn’t he?”
“Yes, I think so.”
The pope-rabbi thought awhile.
“No, I wouldn’t say that people do it on purpose, or that they even hold out much hope. But they do have some sort of idea in mind.”
The pope-rabbi didn’t seem to expect any reply.
“The earth spins on its axis; we tend to forget that. Perhaps it too ends up catching up to itself, meeting up with itself.”
Claudia certainly had nothing to add to that.
“The fact that I meet you again in this plane, for example. What pure chance, don’t you think? But then, what is chance?”
Coming out of the Lyons train station exit, Carmen pauses in front of the makeshift stand of a bearded man selling jewellery.
“They sure are pretty.”
“Must be awful expensive.”
Carmen points to one of the items.
“Look. That one’s like a delta. Wouldn’t that make a fine souvenir?”
Terry joins Carmen in admiring the quasi-triangular brooch with its five small, brilliant stones. Arriving on the scene, the man who’d shown no sign of reading also looks at the modest yet surprising display.
“These jewels are original, aren’t they?”
Terry asks the bearded man how much he wants for the brooch Carmen likes and calculates the price in dollars.
“Two hundred and fifty. That’s a bit steep.”
“Steep is right!”
The man who’d shown no sign of reading intervenes.
“If you’ll allow me, I’d like to buy it for you. As a kind of general gift, for the trip, for the baby . . .”
Carmen looks at Terry. Terry looks at the man.
“You’ve really no cause to be giving us a gift. You’re paying for plenty of things as it is.”
“But it would be my pleasure.”
The bearded man undoes the pin from the cloth of the display and shows how pretty it looks on Carmen’s coat.
“It suits you beautifully. Come on, I insist!”
The man who’d shown no sign of reading takes out his wallet to pay the peddler. He selects an additional pin, this one set with only one stone but skilfully displayed.
“And this one as well.”
“That one’s two thousand francs.”
The man who’d shown no sign of reading makes a rapid calculation and looks squarely at the peddler, who appears to find the situation very amusing.
“For the young lady, one thousand. For you, two thousand. . . . But they’re worth far more.”
Again, the man who’d shown no sign of reading looks the bearded man in the eye, to see if he’s telling the truth. He has the feeling that he is.
A young man joins Claudia in the café.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
He takes his coat off and sits down.
“You bought a record, I see.”
Claudia passes him the small bag. The young man opens it, looks at the contents.
“You know it?”
“No. It looked good.”
Claudia shrugs, adds in a cheerful voice: “I felt like trying.”
SUNDAY
Rest
THE WOMAN WHO smokes only in public slowly paces the length of the airport arrivals lounge. She got here very early, having no desire to do anything else. She thinks again about the phone call that came a few days ago.
“Gorky? Oh . . .”
A brief silence followed, then:
�
��But tell me, do people really want to read Gorky again?”
In this almost ordinary question she had recognized the candour and tender astonishment that this man experienced daily as he went about the activity — strange activity for him — of living, an occupation that he nonetheless assumed with a degree of constancy.
“Where are you?”
“In France. A little south of Lyons.”
The woman sensed he was telling the truth, though she had not expected such a frank reply.
For a moment, neither one could think what to say.
“Gorky. Well, well . . .”
Then she guessed.
“You’re coming home?”
“Yes. I’m coming home.”
It’s been days since I thought of you, my son, my wife — why do I persist in calling you that? — days since I thought of all of you on earth. I’m constantly drifting farther away, changing. Since I passed beyond the stage of light, I have felt myself dilating more and more, spreading more and more into the empty, moving heart of matter.
At times, though these sightings are increasingly rare, bits and pieces of your existence briefly reflect on my clouded consciousness. But I find it more and more difficult to answer you. I seem to have lost that ability somehow. I no longer have any position whatsoever. I am the inner lining of old thoughts. I can’t any more. I simply can’t. I just am.
“I can’t believe they’re real diamonds. Seems to me, makes no sense.”
“I know. It’s hard to believe.”
Carmen is sitting on the bed in their tiny room in Arles, looking at the brooch she holds between her fingers.
“Well, it’s a bit nerve-racking, isn’t it? I mean, what if we lost it?”
Terry looks out the window to think better. He realizes that it’s the first time he’s sensed Carmen so perturbed.
“Well, we can’t stop living, can we, on account of some bauble?”
“I know, but just think about it! Now we’ve got the thing, if we were to lose it . . .”
“They’re only diamonds. I mean, it’s not like they’re alive. They’re rocks. Dead things. It’s not as if you were to lose the baby.”
A Fine Passage Page 6
