Last Days of Montreal

by John Brooke

  Claudia wondered if she would snap at Harvey. And if she would’ve snapped at Last Days.

  A week later Claudia told Last Days that Harvey had not really returned to America.

  She told him the Airstream was over by Jarry Park.

  She told him what was really happening, and Last Days disappeared for good. Gone.

  Gone like a body over the side of a bridge and through the bottom of Claudia’s heart.

  Claudia defended Last Days, but she chose Harvey instead.

  4.

  Claudia, back at the table again, compares realities:

  Harvey has money in the bank.

  “American money,” notes Sophia.

  Last Days doesn’t have a dime.

  Harvey has a silver Airstream trailer hooked to a big blue car.

  Last Days travels in a chair.

  Poor Last Days, he wheeled away out the lane, head bowed, as if studying a question…

  Sophia says, “Please, Claudia — Last Days isn’t real.”

  She tries to smile. Sophia is trying to help her. She answers, “Yes, yes…”

  Claudia can’t help thinking it’s inevitable she will snap at Harvey. Mama’s given up snapping at Pa; but look at Aunt Marisa with Pacci or Sophia with Jean-François; look at that Geneviève. Inevitability makes Claudia worry. Yes, she knows this debilitating notion is one that comes from Pa. But wasn’t it inevitable that Last Days would find her? Last Days saved her life! It was inevitable that he would want more of her life. It wasn’t just inevitable, it was logical. And he told her, You’re perfect for this place! For more than two years it was the last thing she wanted and the only thing she could think of: You’re goddamn Miss Montreal!…Would she snap at a man like that?

  She pleads with Sophia, “What about my fate?” Not what I should be, but what I’m meant to be.

  Fate? Sophia frowns. She knows where that came from too. She says, “Just be logical and life will take care of the rest.”

  With Last Days out of the picture, Claudia’s life feels random, fragmentary, like glittering spots of light through the leaves. Wistful…fateful? Claudia looks out at the lane. “The poplars were never as difficult as this.”

  Mama stops breathing and looks away.

  Sophia smacks the table. “Please, Claudia, stop it or there’s just no point!”

  “I know, but — ” Pa’s notions only bring her trouble; but…

  They fall quiet. They listen to their men.

  The voice of Jean-François is whiny, on edge. He is telling Harvey the same thing he tells Sophia every week: that he knows Pa is out to get him and it’s all because of his political beliefs. Harvey cannot respond because he doesn’t understand a word of it and J-F will not speak English; although he can, of course he can, but he’s not being rude, it’s a point of principle, you see? It’s very fundamental.

  Harvey talks about hanging a door. He know lots about it — at least as much as J-F knows about politics; and about baseball, and his belief in communication; although he says it’s verging on political, how he has tried to be a voice in America but it raises certain problems and it’s why he may stay on in Montreal. Harvey’s voice is deep and ponderous. He tries for the odd joke, but with J-F it’s to no avail.

  Sophia smiles. She says they’re learning to communicate. She says it’s never easy for men.

  Claudia can still hear Last Days’ wild laughter soaring high above the wind.

  5.

  What exactly does it mean: Harvey on Sunday, out there on the porch?

  Sophia says, “Harvey is a family man, Claudia.”

  Well, yes, Harvey has a family somewhere in America. But Harvey is divorced.

  Now Mama speaks, “He could be part of our family. He understands what a man’s supposed to do.”

  Sophia and Claudia know this is a reference to the failure who is Pa.

  But what would her mama say if it was Last Days out there on the porch with his beer?

  Mama should thank Last Days! Does she know how Last Days faced up to Pa all spring, so bravely out there in the lane? Harvey has no idea. Jean-François can only dream! Pa was doing all he could to guard her. His donkey dance, his pig nose and noises, the Latin prayers and the verses of bel canto that will make Mama leave for the bathroom to weep; all his tricks to prove his madness, the things he always does to chase anyone away… But Last Days? Last Days raised his beer. Far out! Pa would start mumbling in the dialect of the old country, saying things that would wither any man, things so vile the words don’t need to be translated, filthy words become transmuted to bestial noise… Last Days blinked his rheumy eyes, showed his awful teeth; he had no plans to leave. What was Pa going to do for Last Days next? He’d say, Why don’t we have a drink?

  Wine, beer, Last Days could probably drink Pa under the table, if it ever came to that.

  But it never did. Pa always walked away. Like he walked away again today.

  Claudia speaks three languages, Italian, French, English, completely fluid, like walking in and out of doors. That makes for a lot of possibility when you think about different kinds of men.

  And Claudia has a fourth language which only she can hear:

  Special… Our special Claudia! A leaf sound, only she can hear.

  Special… In the lightest wind, their constant adoration. The language of her obsession.

  Last Days blew a hole right through it. A ragged, messy door. But a door that allowed her out.

  “Last Days is gone, Claudia. Harvey is here.”

  Yes, and it’s Sunday and the family is together. They pause again and listen.

  Harvey says, “Hanging a door is a true art, J-F, like a change-up or a knuckleball or a pickoff move to second. You only get it right after years of experience, a lot of mistakes… But when you get it, well, a good door hanger is worth his weight in gold. Like a good closer… Hah!” Harvey’s laugh is mellow. “You get it, J-F? I guess you don’t. You a baseball fan, by any chance?”

  Jean-François says, “Peux-tu te taire?” J-F is having trouble adjusting to Harvey’s presence; where Harvey comes from, that could be translated as: put a sock in it.

  But Harvey doesn’t know that. If he stays around, maybe he’ll learn. Harvey says, “We’re going to work together, J-F. I’m going to work on my French, you’re going to work on your English. We’ll get this door thing licked for Vic. OK? Do we have a deal?”

  There is silence on the porch.

  Sophia calls from the kitchen, “D’accord, chérie?…are we going to work on this? Please tell Harvey that you will… Please!” Which means you’d better.

  “D’accord, tabernouche…d’accord!” Jean-François smashes something against the door.

  Harvey says, “Not like that. You have to finesse it. Look…”

  Sophia says they’re lucky. Harvey and J-F are lucky because Pa is always going to give them another door to hang, and a door is a physical thing and this always seems to help men interact.

  Mama gets up and starts to work on supper. They are all eating supper together. (Whether Pa will be there or not is impossible to know.) Sophia goes to the living room to see what little Nic’s got on TV.

  Claudia sits there and listens, staring at her white, white hands as Harvey hangs a door.

  6.

  Harvey’s Airstream has a bed that’s twice the size of Claudia’s. Having sex in it is definitely wonderful and so long overdue. Harvey says he loved her white skin the moment he saw it, and Claudia says she knew. Would she have got to this place with Last Days? Where? (Not in her bed, not in her room…) How? Claudia was trying to see it then; she is trying to see it now.

  Sophia’s not so brutal as to mention Last Days’ lack of legs. Perhaps she knows it’s not the issue.

  And Harvey is not an insensitive man. He sees her silent tears. He knows; he kisses her.

  He says, “Don’t worry, Claudia, sometimes love is like this. Last Days’ heart is strong.”

  After making love, they get dre
ssed, step out of the Airstream and stroll in Jarry Park. After watching Harvey eat one of Mama’s suppers, Claudia feels confident he will be staying around.

  There are people from everywhere, tranquil in the warm sunset. Three dark women’s saris are the soft colours of paper inside boxes bearing gifts…blue, yellow, mauve. Their reflections rustle in the inky pond. Their children run ahead of them, their own mothers shuffle along behind. The huge orangey half-sun frames a drifting kite. Every few minutes another jet descends across the indigo sky, toward its landing in Montreal. Claudia is aware of her absolute whiteness. Does Last Days belong in this scene? Claudia’s body has found satisfaction. Her mind could do with a rest… Harvey’s hair is blond and curly, it has grown unruly and long. He says there’s no need to gel it anymore, now he’s not doing the broadcast. Claudia knows almost nothing about baseball. She knows Harvey used to be on television, which means he must have been famous, and that now he’s a voice in America, and that sounds important too. But here in Montreal, in the park on a Sunday evening, Harvey is just another man.

  Claudia senses this is what she needs as she strolls on Harvey’s arm.

  A Processional Exit of One…

  A sad song? Oh, mes braves. Down by the beer factory, the spirits of the streets were out in force, feeling mean, feeling mad, singing LOUD…

  This is goddamn horrible!

  This is just no fun

  Last Days worked so hard to win her

  But she just cut and run…

  It ain’t right! It ain’t right!

  B’en, that’s always been the point.

  It ain’t right! they shouted...

  Desolé mes braves amis

  Our hero’s life cannot be fun.

  Claudia saw it. Claudia got it right. Last Days is a warrior, a true if not-so-parfait knight.

  He sallies forth to do battle brandishing his can of beer, mitigating bullshit, confirming jubilation, tracking heartbeats through the city, questing for the shifting heart of Montreal.

  The mess he makes? all that noise? This is part and parcel to his quest.

  By design – like Vic’s disegno?

  Harvey’s perfect baseball?

  J-F’s grande idée?

  Mais oui, si, si, oh yes…

  …perpetually in motion,

  inciting spiritual commotion,

  our emmerdeur ne plus ultra

  Last Days can’t be nothing less!

  It’s in that ellipsis whenever he passes: Last Days of Montreal… Three dots like a trail, like coins along the sidewalk, a message moving forward like that Bruce’s fragile thread… The man’s a mirror on the future, whether brilliant or degraded, a celebration or a warning, depends on who will look and when. But everyone will look. Everyone has to. The city is the measure of its collected days, and some days some people will say anything and others will believe it, and still more only long to be led by the nose.

  Because the fears out there are always changing…

  merging, demerging like the waters in the river,

  because joy is always renovating,

  pride is always building up,

  anger’s tearing down.

  Does that mean Claudia’s sister was also right? Last Days is a fantasy? Not real — not a man to really know?

  No. Sophia’s far too literal these days. She feels she has to be for safety’s sake, for the sake of her child, for the sake of peace on Sunday afternoon, and for Mama’s and Claudia’s too. It’s something she senses. It’s a political thing…

  But there you go: Sophia proves it. Au contraire — Last Days is a man you have to know.

  And you don’t need no

  neverendum

  Referendum —

  not for Last Days, no!

  But it does mean no one can ever love Last Days.

  Not even Claudia?…goddamn Miss Montreal?

  Nope, sorry, ain’t gonna happen,

  desolé encore, les boys —

  By self-appointed definition,

  like anyone’s deepest premonition,

  Last Days is personal,

  Last Days is alone.

  Alone. Alone makes us sad.

  Yeah, we do feel sad for Last Days.

  Fine. Be sad. Sad’s at the centre of beauty and Montreal is beautiful. No?

  Oh yes!

  But please remember: No. Damn. Pity…pity is a pittance, the more so on the street.

  Ah! Then what about our sympathy? Will Last Days accept that?

  Sure. Sympathy’s good. Sympathy’s worth something. Sympathy means you’re with him. Maybe not all the way; but you’re with him in your own way and Last Days feels it, and on and on he rolls.

  And forgiveness? Should we forgive Last Days? It’s very clear the man’s a pain in the ass…

  Yeah, and that shit-eating grin like he’s so proud of the fact...

  Enough! Damn right, forgive him, and with all your hearts!

  After all, he is you and he just can’t stop it, and he’s embedded in your souls.

  fin

  About the Author

  John Brooke grew up in Toronto, but moved to Montreal in the mid-80s, a time when sensible Anglos were heading west, fleeing the politics of Quebec. John has worked in film and television, more lately as a freelance business writer and translator. His first published fiction, "The Finer Points of Apples," a story of inter-language love during the Referendum, won the Journey Prize and became the impetus for Last Days of Montreal. John has published poetry and journalism as well as fiction. He is the author of the mystery novels The Voice of Aliette Nouvelle, All Pure Souls, and Stifling Folds of Love, which feature Inspector Nouvelle of the French Police Judiciare.