A Very Bold Leap

by Yves Beauchemin

  “The Dark Night,” said Charles, surprised and suddenly calm.

  “Oh dear,” said the editor with a slight wince, opening a drawer in a filing cabinet and riffling through the contents. “Not a memorable title, is it?”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Boring. Used a thousand times. Ah yes, here it is.”

  He removed a large, spiral notebook, the sight of which made Charles’s stomach churn.

  lean-Philippe L’Archevêque opened the manuscript, removed a page that had been tucked into it, adjusted his glasses with a light touch of his thumb, and spent a few moments reading what had been written on it.

  “The committee passed it on to me three days ago. Split decision, two against, one for. The best we could hope for, I suppose, would be a complete rewrite.”

  “A complete rewrite?” Charles whispered, horrified.

  The editor laughed. “How old are you, Mr. Thibodeau?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “And did you think, at nineteen, that you could sit down and … just like that… at the first go-round…. No, believe me, that sort of thing almost never happens. Twice, maybe three times in a century, give or take a genius or two, and it’s never once happened in Quebec, unless you count Nelligan, although in my opinion…. In any case, I still haven’t had time to read your manuscript and so I can’t possibly talk to you about it, can I? I was going to read it this afternoon, in fact, but your surprise visit has taken up my time, I’m afraid, and I can’t very well manufacture time, can I?”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Charles, contrite and blushing once again.

  “No, no. I like your audacity…. The young are so lacking in audacity, these days…. You, apparently, are the exception! But understand me: audacity is not the same thing as talent. It’s not the same thing, not the same thing at all…. Audacity can help, it may even be necessary for creativity, but in and of itself, it is not talent. I know writers who have enough audacity to choke a horse, but not an ounce of talent!”

  Charles smiled. “I hope that’s not the case with me.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see …”

  And Jean-Philippe L’Archevêque gently rolled his chair back to his desk and pursed his lips, indicating that the interview was at an end.

  Charles returned to his apartment no more reassured than when he had left it. But at least he had had the satisfaction of having stated his case, and of speaking for at least a few minutes with an influential member of the literary establishment. Five days passed with no sign of life from Mr. L’Archevêque. What was happening to The Dark Night? Had he managed to get past the first two pages? Had the novel ended its career at the bottom of a wastepaper basket? Despite his almost uncontrollable impatience, Charles did not dare call the editor, much less return to confront him in his office, sensing that the polite reception he’d had to his first visit would not be repeated a second time.

  A few days later he read an article in L’Actualité about the literary and artistic landscape of Montreal. The piece described the customs, secret codes, beliefs, and dogmas of the august fraternity, mentioned its habitual meeting places, and so on. It quoted several of its more picturesque representatives, some of whom seemed to take delight in shocking the housewives and husbands that made up the magazine’s middle-class readership. Charles decided to observe the fraternity up close, in the hope — one never knew! — of mingling with them and making a few contacts that would help him in his career.

  He spent three successive nights at L’Express, the Café Cherrier, and the Casa Espagnole, run by the well-known Pedro Robio, and spent the exorbitant sums of eleven dollars and forty-five cents, ten dollars and twenty-two cents, and nine dollars and thirty-six cents, respectively. Sitting at a table with a cappuccino (the first of his life!) in L’Express, he overheard two clever remarks by Jacques Godbout, who was eating a plate of calves’; liver at a table with a tall, smiling blonde, with thick glasses and a French-from-France accent, who seemed to be his publisher. But since he didn’t know what the two were talking about, much of the pith of the writer’s comments escaped him as well.

  At the Café Cherrier, a man in his fifties with a thunderous voice and an apocalyptic laugh was delivering a lecture to a group of young admirers who hung on his every word; someone at a neighbouring table told him that the man was Gaston Miron, a great poet and an ardent separatist. Charles remembered seeing his book, L’Homme rapaillé, at Parfait Michaud’s, and that Parfait had said it was a masterpiece. He listened to Miron’s oration and was impressed; he was even tempted to join the group of admirers, but he was too shy. He remained at his corner table, sipping a glass of white wine.

  Somewhat discouraged by his two solo sorties, he managed to convince Blonblon to accompany him to the Casa Espagnole the next night. They arrived at about nine o’clock. The restaurant was nearly empty and seemed gloomy, with its darkly painted walls, its tables covered with purple tablecloths, and its deep shadows that here took the place of light. Behind the bar, a squat, heavy-set man with salt-and-pepper hair and dressed like a banker was serving drinks to a few patrons. At the end of the room they could make out a small stage where performances must at times be held, but which for the moment was not in use.

  After drinking a beer and smoking a couple of cigarettes, Charles was on the point of suggesting they change locales when a tall, bearded man with long, reddish-brown hair appeared at the door, looking for all the world like Christ descended from the cross. He was waving his arms about, engaged in an animated discussion with a young woman dressed completely in black.

  Seeing him, the bartender, who seemed also to be the owner of the place, called out, “Armand!” in a low, sonorous voice like an Oriental gong, and reproached the newcomer for having stayed away for several months. The few patrons in the café grouped together around him, and an even livelier, more scattered and somewhat chaotic conversation ensued. Charles and Blonblon listened with interest. They learned that the Christ-on-the-cross figure was a sculptor named Vaillancourt, that he was well-known for his wild adventures and his love of a good fight, and that he had just received a grant from the Ministry of Cultural Affairs, a stroke of luck that demanded a celebration.

  “Janou!” he cried, turning towards a woman with deeply lined features, somewhat masculine in appearance, who had just come through the door. “Come and help me celebrate my grant!”

  He moved towards her with his arms outstretched.

  After some time had passed, the sculptor noticed Charles and Blonblon, who were still sitting at their table, not talking, with their nearly empty glasses before them. He came over and sat down.

  “How’re you guys doing?” he asked, as if they were old friends.

  The two young men nodded, a bit intimidated.

  “Students?”

  Blonblon nodded again.

  “That’s good, very good,” the sculptor said approvingly. “You have to keep learning. It’s the ignorant who keep getting screwed.”

  Then he turned to look questioningly at Charles, who hesitated a second, his cheeks turning red.

  “Writer,” he said.

  “A writer? Good. That’s interesting…. And what do you write, young man?

  Poetry?”

  “Novels. Well… I’m working on my second.”

  “An artist!” said Vaillancourt, giving him a fraternal pat on the shoulder. “Me too, I’m an artist. But a visual artist. I’m a sculptor.”

  “I know,” said Blonblon. “You’re famous.”

  “I’m getting there, getting there,” replied Vaillancourt, with a look of boyish happiness. He asked their names, shook their hands, and took a long drink of beer as he glanced about the room. Then he turned abruptly to the bar. “Two beers for these gentlemen,” he called in his clear, vibrant voice. “An artist and a student, they’ve earned the right to have a drink now and then, wouldn’t you say?”

  Thus begun, the night carried on until one o’clock in the morning. When they fin
ally made their way home, both Charles and Blonblon felt they had made a faithful friend in the person of the sculptor, and Charles even believed he had finally been accepted, if not into the world of writers, then at least into the much vaster and more ambiguous world of “the artist.” But he would have been hard put to explain what exactly had given him that impression.

  The next time he went to L’Express, he took Céline with him. It was an outing she’d been looking forward to for days, and she was a bit miffed that he hadn’t asked her earlier. And it was one she would remember for a long time to come.

  Wearing a new pair of jeans and her prettiest top, she sipped on the second cappuccino she’d ever had in her life while casting curious, somewhat nervous glances about the restaurant. Two tables down from them, the actor Jean-Louis Millette was burbling away at Denise Filiatrault while devouring a steak tartare. Behind them, at the back of the room, Jean Besré was having a drink with a young Haitian woman whose radiant beauty filled the air around her with a golden glow. The animated clamour, the to-ing and fro-ing of the waiters looking serious and businesslike, the discreetly inquisitive glances at the door each time a new patron arrived, the heady giddiness of the conversations, and the stylishness of the nouvelle-cuisine dishes combined to give the restaurant its unique cachet, its air of being “the capital of the world,” and imparted to those who frequented it the sense that they were part of an important group of people, worthy of envy and respect, and that the future of the country depended on them and them alone, should they decide to bother themselves with it.

  Although it was only Charles’s second visit, he tried to assume the nonchalant air of a regular, casting his gaze about the room with the tired smile of one who has seen many rooms like this one, and bending towards Céline from time to time to favour her with an ironic observation. Céline remained silent, her hand nervously clutching her cup, visibly impressed. The smell of the dishes being served whetted Charles’s appetite and he decided to order something, oh, just something light, you know, nothing too expensive, because at these prices they couldn’t order anything big. A waiter passed their table and Charles stopped him and asked for a menu.

  “Will you have something, too?” he asked Céline.

  “I’m not very hungry,” she said. “We ate just before I came out.”

  “Well, I feel like nibbling on something.”

  He was trying to decide between the croque monsieur with fries and the salade niçoise when a commotion suddenly filled the room, punctuated by whispers and stifled exclamations. Charles looked up — and dropped his menu.

  Brigitte Loiseau was standing in the doorway, smiling faintly and looking around for an available table. A waiter rushed up to her, bowed with courteous servility, and led her to a table that had not yet been cleared away. New settings were in place in seconds, and she thanked the waiter with a slight nod of her head before sitting down. She was with a young woman, as thin and blond as herself; she looked nice, but the actress’s beauty put her completely in the shade. Even the radiant Haitian woman at the back of the room suddenly seemed ordinary by comparison, despite her jewels and her mauve silk dress, and no longer attracted any more glances than the bottle of wine on the table in front of her.

  Charles, his face pale and set, gaped unabashedly at Brigitte Loiseau while a waiter hovered in front of him waiting to take his order. He finally shook himself as if emerging from a coma and pointed to the menu, babbled something, and then went back to his contemplation of the actress, having apparently forgotten all about Céline, who watched him with tightening lips. Brigitte Loiseau was wearing a black velvet dress with a pearl necklace, and her long, silky hair was held behind her neck by a large ribbon, also of black velvet. The simple way she held herself gave her an almost regal bearing, or rather brought out something in her that was sublimely primitive, as though she were Eve herself in the full flower of her youth and fresh from Eden, having consented to clothe herself so that she could spend a few minutes in a trendy restaurant.

  Since she was sitting at right angles to Charles, she hadn’t noticed him. From time to time she looked up from her menu to exchange a few words with her companion, as though she were having difficulty deciding what to order. A waiter stood beside her with a radiant smile, notebook and pencil at the ready. The dull conversational roar had subsided to its usual pitch, but eyes continued to turn towards Brigitte Loiseau, the sensation of the year, the actress everyone was predicting was on her way to becoming a major star.

  A waiter placed a croque monsieur in front of Charles, who failed to notice it. He suddenly felt a violent pain on his shin, let out a yelp, and turned to Céline; she was glaring at him, furious.

  “Would you prefer me to leave?” she hissed between her teeth. “It would make it easier for you to pick her up.”

  He stared at her in astonishment, trying to think what to say as he rubbed his shin.

  “What’s got into you?” he finally said. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I’ve never been so humiliated in my life,” she said. “It’s like you’re sleeping with her in front of me.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said, keeping his voice low and furiously attacking his croque monsieur in an effort to save face. “You know what happened between us. I saved her life. That’s pretty significant!”

  “Well, tonight it’s me who feels insignificant. I’ve half a mind to walk out on you.”

  Charles smiled in surprise, suddenly feeling almost sorry for her. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You’re jealous, aren’t you! You’re jealous as a cat!”

  “Jealous?” she said, her eyes suddenly moist. “Who wouldn’t be jealous? The way you’re looking at her… it wouldn’t matter who she was … I mean … it’s easy to see that you’re just waiting for an opportunity to … I think I’d better go.” She began pushing her chair back from the table.

  “Céline, please,” said Charles, gripping her arm. “I’ve never seen you like this before. Look, let me explain …”

  The slight sudden movement he had made to stop Céline had drawn the attention of Brigitte Loiseau’s companion, and now the actress herself turned and saw Charles. Her face immediately drained of colour and she looked away, then once again turned to look at the young man, this time with an expression of surprise and perplexity; her companion furrowed her brows. There ensued a whispered conversation between the two women, both of whom from time to time cast furtive glances in Charles’s direction. His full attention was on Céline, whom he was still trying to placate.

  Suddenly Brigitte Loiseau stood up and came towards the young couple.

  “I think we’ve met,” she said, holding out her hand to Charles with a smile that just failed to mask the emotion that was running through her.

  Charles jumped to his feet, his face turning scarlet, nearly overturning a glass. A hush seemed to have fallen on the conversations in the restaurant.

  “Yes, madame,” he stammered.

  “You’re Charles, right?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  She laughed. “Please, stop calling me ‘madame.’You make me feel ancient.”

  “Excuse me,” Céline said, standing up. She gave Brigitte Loiseau a pinched smile and a brief nod, then turned and hurried off, leaving her purse on one of the chairs. The actress, taken aback, looked after her for a second, then turned to Charles.

  “I hope …”

  “No, it’s nothing,” Charles assured her. “She had to leave.”

  “Can I see you sometime?”

  “Whenever you like.”

  She gave him a card. “You’re very kind. Call me tomorrow, if you can. I’m always home in the morning.”

  She shook his hand again and returned to her table. Charles sat down and stared at the card, which trembled in his hand. Only then did he become fully aware of the possible consequences of Céline’s departure. His first impulse was to jump up and run after her, but he remained in his chair, sensing that that would only make
her angrier. Besides, he hadn’t paid their bill yet. And all the eyes on him made him incapable of action.

  “I’ll deal with it tomorrow,” he sighed. “She’ll have had time to calm down a bit.”

  He finished his croque monsieur without enthusiasm, his hunger gone, and forced himself not to look over at Brigitte Loiseau, who was now deep in conversation with a tall, red-bearded youth with long hair — a sort of unsuccessful replica of Alfred de Musset — who had gone over to her table and was laughing too loudly. It was at this point that a series of soft, repeated coughs made him look up.

  A heavy-set man in a green suit and a lemon-yellow tie was sitting at the table next to him. Charles hadn’t noticed him come in. The man nodded and smiled at Charles. The domed forehead, the round, somewhat protruding ears, the small mouth and red, fleshy lips, the full cheeks, the gleaming, bloated chin, the self-satisfied paunch and short legs, all comically reminded Charles of one of those hackysack balls that kids played with by keeping them in the air using only their knees and heels and elbows. His next thought was of “Boule-de-Suif,” a short story by Guy de Maupassant he had read and enjoyed a few years before. It was the story of a young prostitute, of course, but the woman’s surname fitted this fifty-year-old suet-ball like a glove.

  “Pardon me,” the Suet-Ball said, still smiling and looking unctuously benevolent. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I do hope you’ll forgive me.”

  Surprised and a bit put off, Charles shrugged, then held up his hand to signal the waiter for the bill.

  “Can I offer you a cognac?” pressed the Suet-Ball, undeterred by his neighbour’s apparent lack of good manners.

  “No, thank you. I have to go.”

  The Suet-Ball emitted a warm chuckle and leaned farther over his table, despite the impediment presented by his abdomen. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “Bernard Délicieux, journalist. I work for Artist’s Life magazine. Do you know it?”