The American Fiancee

by Eric Dupont

  “But isn’t that music by and for those cold-hearted Protestants?” a particularly annoying parishioner could be heard complaining one Sunday in December.

  “Perhaps, but there’s enough joy to go around for everyone,” came the reply from an irritated Mother Mary of the Great Power.

  For Christmas 1950, as a thank-you for all the errands he ran for them, the nuns gave Louis a recording of the Herz und Mund und Tat und Leben cantata, of which Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring is the final movement, that they had secretly ordered from Quebec City. Ten years later, hoping that the music might have a calming effect on Solange, Papa Louis played the cantata’s final movement for the thousandth time. The whole family knew it by heart. The record crackled and even skipped a little. Luc’s head nodded in time to the music while Marc and Madeleine pretended they were holy statues to draw a laugh from their father. Madeleine excitedly showed Solange around the house, even the parlor where Old Mrs. Lévesque’s body was lying, Irene having done her hair that very morning. No one had turned up for the wake yet. The old woman was laid out like an Egyptian queen, features deformed by her passing, surrounded by chrysanthemums and carnations. The two girls paid their respects in front of the old woman for an instant and mumbled a quick prayer before going back to join the rest of the family in the living room.

  Old Ma Madeleine, whom Solange touched for the very first time, smiled as she stood beside the dead woman, waiting for friends and relatives to arrive, as was her wont. Solange had enjoyed the feeling of the dead woman’s cold skin on hers when she had shaken her tiny hand.

  “Her hand’s cold. Just like Sister Mary of the Eucharist’s!” she whispered into Madeleine’s ear.

  With Irene busy cooking, Louis was free to do as he pleased.

  “Do you like a good story, Solange?”

  There was a twinkle in Papa Louis’s eye; his sons began to fidget . . .

  “Tell the one about the tornado in Kansas,” Madeleine begged.

  “No, I wanna hear the one about the calf named Adolf!” Marc grumbled.

  Solange sat, tiny and immobile on the bottle-green sofa as she listened to an hour’s worth of stories that took her to places with unpronounceable names: Wyoming, Ohio, Iowa. Names that bore all the poetry in the world: Idaho Bill, The Warsaw Giant . . . and the incredible tale of Podgórski, or the time when Papa Louis was chased by a furious Cheyenne man up and down the roads of Nebraska. The storyteller was inspired by the little girl from next door and took her visit as an excellent excuse to share a story he had not yet told his children, an older one this time . . . but then he heard Old Mrs. Lévesque’s friends and relatives moving around in the parlor beside them. There was a heavy silence, and words that drifted over to them . . . Solange listened closely to Old Ma Madeleine’s voice as she tried to console what sounded like two or three people on the other side of the wall.

  “She’s better off now, you know that, don’t you?” Old Ma Madeleine began.

  “Yes! And so are we!” a woman’s voice cut in.

  In the living room where Louis was sitting with Solange and his children, they tried not to laugh.

  “The Lord calls his favorite children back,” Old Ma Madeleine went on.

  “He took his time about it! Eight years we were looking after that old dame!” the same woman countered. “Now we’ll finally be able to put the television in her bedroom.”

  “If you would like to join me in prayer . . . Oh merciful God who watches over us . . .” Old Ma Madeleine went on, without skipping a beat.

  Irene brought the invisible theater to an end, ordering them all to sit at the dining-room table. Solange was seated between Madeleine and Papa Louis, whom she couldn’t take her eyes off. Irene wanted to know if Solange liked pea soup. More used to meals where no one was allowed to speak a word, Solange took a while to adapt to the jovial mood at the Lamontagnes’ table. Everyone talked over each other, a ladle held by a steady hand piled the plates high, and hunks of bread traveled north and south along the boisterous table where no one seemed to listen to anyone. Between the soup and the main course—chicken, Solange was delighted to see—Louis got up to put in an appearance with the Lévesque family. He came back from the parlor smiling. The family had already gone, leaving Old Madeleine to watch over the body by herself. She could be heard demanding a bowl of soup.

  “Why don’t you eat with us?” Louis asked, looking pointedly at the place reserved for the old woman beside Irene.

  “The dead are best left with the dead,” was her only reply.

  Louis looked at his wife.

  “You could make a bit of an effort, Irene.”

  Irene sighed, stood up slowly, and with the fervor and enthusiasm of a woman on Death Row, went off to find Old Madeleine, who refused to budge. She could be heard speaking softly to her and a few words made their way to Solange’s ears:

  “I’m sorry I spoke to you in that tone . . . disrespect . . . with us.”

  Then the footsteps of the two women coming back toward the dining room. Old Ma Madeleine, lips pursed. Sitting right across from Solange, she stretched out her chin to tighten the wattle hanging down off her throat, smiled at the guest, and even asked how she was getting on at school.

  “Your little friend is a math whiz. Her mother trains her. Nothing gets by her . . .”

  Irene took a deep breath. The two women were barely on speaking terms, Madeleine explained later to Solange. Not a day went by without Old Madeleine threatening to move into the old folks’ home or the convent. Louis was constantly having to step in between his wife and grandmother.

  “The soup’s a bit thin,” Old Madeleine went on.

  Irene didn’t turn a hair. Solange almost found her courageous. Louis, visibly keen to entertain his new audience for the evening, insisted on recounting, to his wife’s despair, how, when Madeline was nothing but a slip of a girl, the archbishop of Rimouski had sent him a letter.

  “The archbishop!” Solange repeated in amazement.

  The Lamontagne children and their mother ate their chicken in silence. They already knew the story by heart. One day, in 1954, Louis was working up a sweat with two pals in a garage on Rue Fraserville. The garage was chilly, but they had set up a bench and a few weights there. Louis had always refused to let himself go, believing paternity was no excuse for piling on the pounds. So he’d stayed in great shape. Passersby with nothing better to do would sometimes gather and watch the three men work out. It had become a free show that anyone could take in. Scantily clad in the summer months, the three hulking men would put on, in addition to a show of strength, an anatomy lesson to anyone who showed up in front of the garage on a given Saturday morning. The lesson was revealing enough for the priest in the parish of Saint-François to have gotten wind of it in a confession from a man who had felt “degraded” after watching Louis lift his weights.

  “But Louis is a strongman. It’s a matter of constitution. My predecessor, Father Cousineau, told me he came into this world that way. He was so big his mother didn’t survive the birth,” the priest had murmured through the grill in an attempt to console the poor man.

  “I don’t mean that! We all know he’s well built! We all know about his broad shoulders! My own mother was sitting in the church of Saint-François the night he was born in 1918!”

  Father Rossignol, a puny runt of a man produced by the seminary in Sainte-Anne-de-la-Pocatière, wanted to be clear in his own mind. A few minutes were enough for him to understand what his parishioner had meant by “degraded.” Then again, it’s all about proportion, he thought to himself, but it was a matter best discussed with someone you could trust. And so what any woman could have told you in a heartbeat traveled from confessional to sacristy to convent to parlor to refectory. News spread through every echelon of the Lower St. Lawrence clergy, the result being that the archbishop of Rimouski got wind of the matter from a young seminarian who had heard it from Father Rossignol himself.

  One day, Louis received a handwritten
letter from the archbishop in the mail. To support his claim, Louis rummaged around in a dining-room dresser drawer for a moment before producing the document. His Grace, who had heard tales of Louis’s exploits “both beyond these shores and within Canada” was intrigued and honored to learn that there lived such a force of nature so close to Rimouski, only a few hours away by car. “I would like to invite you, Louis Lamontagne, to come train before me at your convenience at the archbishop’s residence in Rimouski, so that we might all witness your God-given talent.”

  As proud as a peacock, Louis had gone down to Rimouski, bringing weights and a small cast of extras with him along the bumpy road, which wasn’t even paved in places, to put on a most convincing display of force for His Grace and a handful of other priests: a couple of bench presses, a snatch, and two or three bent presses. From this athletic excursion, Louis returned with a photograph of himself standing beside the archbishop, an amiable man wearing a black cassock. Louis looked magnificent in his leotard and tight-fitting shorts, grinning from ear to ear. In the background were a few young priests Louis had nicknamed the “Vobiscums” and brothers he called the “Orapronobisses.” There were also other, smaller, photos of Louis. One of them showed him at the peak of his powers in 1955, age thirty-seven. A wave running through his hair. Muscles bulging.

  “I was bigger than Eugen Sandow in that one! You know who I mean? The father of modern bodybuilding.”

  Solange shook her head. And without knowing where her question—or daring—came from, Solange asked Papa Louis if she could keep one of the photos. Sitting around the table, Madeleine’s brothers grinned. Such a handsome man, well used to dealing with women, could not very well refuse.

  “Whichever one you like, Solange.”

  She killed two birds with one stone: Papa Louis flanked by the archbishop of Rimouski. The photo slid into her pocket. Solange looked at the strange family around her, so different from any to be found in her manual of civility.

  Not that the Lamontagnes were ill-mannered louts, far from it! Irene saw to it that each of her children was courteous and polite. At the far end of the table, sitting ramrod straight, was Marc, a tall, quiet boy with an aura of mystery about him. It was already clear that he’d be as handsome as his father, only with brown eyes. Luc, age seven, seemed to live in a world all his own. Marc was cutting up his chicken for him. In fact, Luc seemed to be more absent than usual, as though in another orbit. Sometimes the little boy would drum his knife against the table (which his mother quickly put an end to) or seek attention by making noises with his mouth, bursting into spontaneous laughter, or making other sounds with different parts of his body. Peace would be restored after a swift slap and a growl from Papa Louis. Luc barely spoke, at least not in complete sentences that made any sense. He was content to listen, laugh, and interject with little “hah!” sounds to express astonishment or disappointment; for instance, when he realized there were no peas left. Solange was overcome with emotion at the sight of this family portrait. She would have to compliment Mrs. Lamontagne once the last bite was swallowed, just like her mom had told her, then leave no more than ten minutes after dessert. It was basic etiquette. Old Ma Madeleine, who had just begun picking at her plate, suddenly changed gear.

  “At any rate, Irene, you have no idea how to make pea soup. And you can take that how you will. But your rabbit! I don’t know what you did to it, but I’ve never eaten a tastier one, not even my own mother’s. Was it the big fat orange one you roasted? Isn’t it simply delicious, little Solange?”

  Solange had just swallowed her last mouthful. For an instant, she felt all the air had been sucked out of the room. She couldn’t feel her legs. Lazarus. She’d just eaten poor Lazarus. Papa Louis bounded up out of his chair.

  “You cooked Lazarus? What’s gotten into you!”

  He was roaring now. Madeleine, used to these outbursts, interrupted.

  “I asked her to, Dad. For Solange.”

  “What do you mean ‘for Solange’?”

  “Solange wrote me a note in Sister Saint Alphonse’s class. Hang on a second. Here it is.”

  And Madeleine produced from her pocket the little scrap of paper that had caused such an uproar at the convent. For always. You, me, and Lazarus. S.

  Louis peered at it. His breathing slowed; the story seemed to charm him. He lifted his glass of cider.

  “Well, dear Solange, it looks like you got your wish! You’ll always be together, you and Lazarus.”

  “Not just Lazarus. The two small ones and another that my Jew from Montreal sold me are in there too,” Irene said, her mouth still full. “He was big, but not big enough to feed all of us. And he sold me potatoes at half the price you’d pay at Damours, and just wait till you see the veal in the fridge. Want to know how much I paid? Guess. Go on . . . give me a number.”

  Siegfried Zucker. The Jew from Montreal was neither a Jew, nor from Montreal. He was a Catholic from Linz, a young traveling salesman who had given Madeleine her very first business opportunity that day he gave her a piece of barley sugar. Since his prices were unbeatable and he was open to negotiation (unlike Canadian grocers who tended to be dogmatic when it came to price) and he spoke with a thick Austrian accent, Irene called him the Jew from Montreal. If you asked her, all Jews were from Montreal and spoke like he did. The name had stuck. Irene called him “Mr. Zouquère” when talking to him, but otherwise he was known as the Jew from Montreal. Irene harbored feelings for the salesman that were too shameful to mention. And word had it that Zucker was not altogether indifferent to Irene’s charms.

  “Don’t vomit, don’t vomit,” Solange was repeating to herself.

  “And it wasn’t as if we were going to keep them all winter!” Irene went on. “Do you know how much they cost to feed? No, I thought to myself, the Good Lord made smaller animals for the bigger ones to eat. Isn’t that right, Mother? It’s just a rabbit, Louis. You can find her another one in the spring once the snow’s gone.”

  As though caught up in her mother’s momentum, Madeleine chimed in.

  “Last year, we ate Thomas the rabbit with some chicken, Solange. I really wanted you to be there for Lazarus, since you knew him and all.”

  “The Lamontagnes love rabbit,” Marc added.

  “And it was me who named him Lazarus, my favorite character from the New Testament!” Old Ma Madeleine concluded.

  Solange’s world was spinning. Did Madeleine really have to take her message literally? Were they all mad? Dangerous? She was no stranger to the notion of eating an animal you’d raised in your own backyard; people in the country did it all the time. But did they really have to go and give it a name? One thing was for sure: she was just as determined to become a Lamontagne as she’d been the day before. Lazarus or not. As much to disguise her faltering composure as to show the Lamontagnes what she was made of, Solange sat up straight in her chair, set down her fork, and asked in a crystal-clear voice:

  “Is there any rabbit left?”

  Her words were met with a round of applause. Knives tinged against glasses as bravos and laughter rang out. The Lamontagnes were simple folk at heart. Fortunately for Solange, all that was left, at the bottom of the dish, were a few bits of overcooked carrot. That night, she was welcomed into the Lamontagne fold like a lost sheep. The note that she had slipped Madeleine took on its full meaning: For always. You, me, and Lazarus. S.

  Over dinner, Solange also learned that Madeleine’s first word had been a number. Before saying “Mama” or “Papa” she had said “twelve.”

  Then out came the coffee cake and the kind of entertainment that only Louis Lamontagne could provide. Once the tablecloth had been folded away, Papa Louis took Luc upstairs to bed. He returned looking solemn, and announced to the rest of the family that he felt sorry for Old Mrs. Lévesque. She had lived for so long and brought nine children into the world only to find herself alone in an unfamiliar parlor in the middle of November. That’s not how death should be. He suggested they hold a wake for the
old woman, that they treat her as a member of their own family, that they give her a proper send-off. Irene raised her eyes to heaven, but did not protest.

  “Well, I suppose it doesn’t cost anything!”

  They stood around Old Mrs. Lévesque’s casket, praying in the semidarkness. The clock struck nine. Louis thanked everyone. Solange assumed that the evening was about to end there, that it was time to put on her boots and coat and run along home like a good girl. But that just showed how little she knew Louis. Never had Solange been so glad to be in the company of the dead. Louis slipped out of the parlor without saying a word. Off to the bathroom, Solange thought to herself, as she intoned her prayers for the dead. Louis was taking forever. Old Ma Madeleine led the rosary . . .

  “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .”

  Irene had lit a few candles around the casket, and the children’s voices rang out in unison, ending each prayer started by Old Madeleine. For a moment, Solange thought she saw a smile cross Old Mrs. Lévesque’s lips. Might she be another Lazarus? And where were the poor woman’s children? Wouldn’t it be better to pass on at the end of one’s life, swept away by the currents of the St. Lawrence and out toward the magnificent, ice-filled ocean, than end up alone, surrounded by strangers, even ones as kindly as the Lamontagnes? Between a Hail Mary and an Our Father, a soft clicking sound could be heard. It came from the living room and was followed by a loud snap, as intense as it was brief. After a return to silence, a background noise could be heard, softer and more fluid this time. And then as crisp and clear as the March snow: