by Eric Dupont
“What do you want to go there for?”
She didn’t want to tell me where our grandmother lived or where our grandparents were buried or where I could talk to people who’d known Papa Louis. Before hanging up, all she told me was that there was a way of the cross worth seeing in one of the churches in Rivière-du-Loup. That even she could still picture it, though she’s not one for details.
“But I don’t think you’ll find a trace of your grandfather. They’re all dead anyway, Gabriel. And your mom wouldn’t be happy. But if you insist, I can’t really stop you. If you go, you have to see the stations of the cross in the church. Take a good look at the figures. Let me know what you think.”
It’s strange. She was the one who gave me that photo of Grandpa, after all. She must have thought she’d gone too far. But I had something else in mind. Mom’s right when she says that news travels fast in a small town. And you were right to think she must have been pregnant with us in December 1968. I figured there must have been someone left who remembered her in Rivière-du-Loup. Someone who could tell me more about our father, a man we know nothing about. If you’d mentioned it earlier, I could have dropped by the Ophir. Maybe someone there might have remembered Louis Lamontagne, but it’s too late now. I hadn’t intended to tell you about the trip, but since you’re perfectly fine with running down Rivière-du-Loup without ever setting foot there, let me set you straight. It’s a perfectly charming town.
I took the train to Montreal and there I borrowed Chantal Villeneuve’s car. Our old teacher at Brébeuf made me feel as welcome as ever.
“By all means, Gabriel. Just keep your paws off my books!”
She’s starting to know me. Her car has a stick shift, which didn’t make things easy for me in Rivière-du-Loup, where the whole town is built on a slope! You can’t stop or you’ll never get going again! I stall it every time! Getting there is easy. You drive east along Highway 20 for five hours, then take the Rivière-du-Loup exit onto Rue Lafontaine. It’s pretty in all that snow. I’d booked a room at a motel just off the highway, near a place they call the Point. That’s where the ferry leaves from, the one that goes to the north shore. It was early afternoon, a Saturday. I watched the ferry break through the ice of the frozen St. Lawrence in the winter sunshine. It skirted Île aux Lièvres, then disappeared. I stayed in the car on the wharf until sunset. Everything turned orange and pink: the houses, the people, the trees. For a moment, my skin was the color of a clementine. Then the cold came crashing down onto the town. Through the ice you could see that the water was green, the green of lies, Michel. And the sky contained more stars than either Montreal or Toronto. I had chicken for supper and slept in the calm of the deserted motel. The next day was December 27, I think. It was a Sunday in any case, and I got up fairly early. There was a Mado’s outside the motel, complete with the egg. Her again! I felt like I was being spied on.
I set out to explore the town’s churches. I walked, since I was scared I’d stall the car at the traffic lights. At the foot of the slope, three church steeples glistened in the sunshine, like fingers pointing up to God. The first steeple was at the bottom of Rue Lafontaine. It was Saint-Patrice. Okay, okay, I’m well aware you have the domes of Rome at your feet and that you’re not going to get excited about a few miserable colonial chapels, but I found the whole thing very moving. More than your visits to St. Peter’s in Rome. It’s in these humble buildings in our little towns that the humility of the earliest churches is to be found. Not where you are, believe me. Mass was about to begin at Saint-Patrice. I watched the people discreetly. Of course, they looked at me out of the corner of their eye; I’m on the tall side and not from around there. Unfortunately, the way of the cross was nothing to write home about. The same pictures churned out by an assembly line, without the slightest trace of originality. They did what was asked of them and nothing more. I didn’t stay for mass. I planned on visiting the three churches while they were open.
After that, I went back up Rue Lafontaine. There were pretty little stores all decked out for Christmas. A florist’s in particular. Moisan, I think it was called. It was strange. I felt as though I knew where to go. By the time I reached the top of the hill, my hands and ears were freezing. The wind in Rivière-du-Loup would cut you in two! I wasn’t sure which of the churches to inspect next. I decided to go left. To cross the river the town is named after, almost completely covered in ice. Outside the church, I saw I was now in the parish of Saint-Ludger. Mass had already started, so when I walked in, the people sitting in the eight or nine pews at the back all turned around to see who’d interrupted their prayers. They looked me up and down, then turned their attention back to the priest, who was droning on in a nasal voice. Only one of the women kept on staring. She looked me right in the eye. She was a plain woman, fifty-five, maybe sixty. She kept looking around every ten seconds to check I was still there. I almost wanted to laugh. My being there really seemed to amuse her. The collection was taken and a basket was thrust under everyone’s nose. When the basket reached her, she acted as though it didn’t exist and pretended to be praying. The man holding the basket waved it under her nose three times as if to say, “Come on, it’s collection time!” But the woman didn’t budge, and the man moved on. I felt sorry for him and gave him two dollars, almost feeling obliged to make up for my new admirer’s stinginess.
Alas, the way of the cross wasn’t worth the visit to Saint-Ludger either. It was just as run-of-the-mill as Saint-Patrice’s. I walked up to every station while the people around me wished each other Happy Holidays. The penny-pincher was waiting for me outside. I jumped when I saw her. She remained impassive. She introduced herself. Annette Caron. Ring any bells, Michel? She didn’t give the merest hint of a smile. “I suppose you think you’re very funny,” she added. Then she was gone. Talk about manners! I watched her go; she lives by the church. I wasn’t even dressed strangely. I’d no idea what she meant.
I hurried over to the last church, Saint-François-Xavier. The patron saint of tourism! By this point I was chilled to the bone. Mass was over. There was only a handful of women talking to the priest. I was disappointed for a third time: the way of the cross was nothing more than a series of deathly dull holy pictures. Gloomy, depressing, conventional. Nothing more. Even Mary Magdalene seemed bored by the crucifixion. The women who had been talking to the priest whispered to each other as they passed me. I’m sure I heard them laugh. I caught the priest just before he disappeared off into the sacristy and said hello to him. He turned around and shook my hand. His eyes lit up when I mentioned the stations of the cross that was worth a look.
“You must mean the stations of the cross of 1968! The one the parish had painted. Ah! What a to-do!”
Apparently the parish of Saint-François-Xavier had their way of the cross painted by a professional in 1968. They say it cost a fortune, with every parishioner chipping in.
“A man by the name of Chevalier. No! Lecavalier! Yes, that’s it! And can you believe it was the local undertaker who paid for nearly the whole thing! Rossignol, my predecessor, could have told you more, but he’s very old now. He doesn’t say much these days. I don’t think you’d get anything out of him. The Sisters of the Child Jesus would know more. According to Father Rossignol, the pictures were unveiled at the convent. They’d be happy to tell you more, I’m sure. The convent is opposite the hospital, on Rue Saint-Henri.”
The church was broken into in 1975, he told me. The pictures were never recovered. It reminds me of your story of the paintings that were stolen from the Vatican Pinacoteca. Where are they now? What were they of? We’ll never know. I mentioned it to Magda and she promised to take me to the Gemäldegalerie at Potsdamer Platz to see this Death of the Virgin. She knows the painting; it hasn’t been there long. It used to be in a museum in Dahlem, in the West. Anyway, the priest showed me out since he was off to get something to eat. As I walked over to the convent, he drove by in an old American car, a Buick or something similar, lighting up a cigarette. He
waved at me.
The convent, Michel, is a long yellow-brick building overlooking the town. The nuns have a wonderful view as the sun sets over the Charlevoix mountains. A nun who was getting on in years came to the door. At least I’m guessing she was fairly old since she took a little while to react to my request. I’d come from Toronto, I said, and was wanting to find out about the way of the cross from 1968. She looked like she’d just seen a ghost. She didn’t even ask my name! She practically ran out of the parlor. I could hear her footsteps hurrying down the hallway. She was wearing those beige shoes that only a nun would ever wear. With a wooden heel and most probably orthopedic soles. She was back two minutes later, holding a really, really, really, really old nun by the hand, a nun with a nose as long as a day without bread. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw me.
“There you are at last! Come in, come in!”
She led me into a living room filled with leather armchairs. There were white poinsettias on a table. The first nun left us alone. The nun with the long nose introduced herself as Sister Mary of the Eucharist.
“You kept your religious name?”
“Yes, me and my sister, Sister Saint Joan of Arc. We’re the only ones. The others all went back to their lay clothes and the names they were baptized with. I’m so happy to see you. You have no idea.”
It was strange: she wasn’t smiling. Rather, she looked like someone who’s been told her pregnancy test is positive. The nun who had let me in must have shared the news of my arrival, because from time to time another nun would come down the hallway, glancing curiously in my direction. Sometimes they walked past two at a time! Sister Mary of the Eucharist grew tired of their little game and closed the door.
“They’re curious. I knew you’d come one day. You took your time.”
“Do you know me?”
“Of course I do! You’re Gabriel Lamontagne, son of Madeleine, who’s the daughter of Louis, who was the son of Louis-Benjamin, who was Madeleine’s son!”
“I know. Suzuki, uh . . . Solange told me a little about them.”
“Ah! Solange . . . I knew it would come from her. Ah! Lovely little Solange . . .”
She buried her face in her hands. I felt bad. I got the impression my arrival had upset their peaceful world. I was sorry I’d gotten that far. She told me lots of stuff about Mom, and about Suzuki too. We must have talked for a good hour. Well, she did most of the talking. Naturally enough, she knew all about Mom’s business success, she’d seen you on TV. She was very proud of it all.
“You know, Gabriel, you and your brother are like grandsons to us. Tell him he needs to calm himself. You can hear the anxiety in his voice. When he sings, you can tell he’s afraid. It’s as though he’s being chased by someone or something. Can you suggest that he seek peace in prayer? There’s nothing on this earth he has to fear other than God. Once he understands that, he will fear no man.”
I’m telling you this so you don’t think I’m making it all up. She really said that! Those exact words, Michel. You see, Madame Lenoir told you the same thing. You can hear the fear in your voice. Even the nuns in Rivière-du-Loup can tell! She held my hand while she spoke. My God, she had a lot to say! And Granddad had an undertaking business. Not bad, eh? He paid for the stations of the cross that was stolen in 1975. And the Caron woman I’d seen earlier that day in Saint-Ludger, well, she was one of our cousins. Grandma’s name was Irene Caron. She died in the 1980s, in the house where Mom was born. Other people live there now. I didn’t dare go. Apparently after Grandpa Louis died, she shut herself away in the house, all alone. Her brothers and sisters rarely visited her. And you have the nerve to ask why I hate that other crazy woman? She stole my grandma from me! I wish I’d known her. And she would have liked that, too, I’m sure. Anyway, they say our grandma didn’t change a single piece of furniture after Louis died. Even the caskets stayed in the basement. One day, in 1995, she did her hair, put on her makeup and best clothes, like she was going out. She went down into the basement, lay down in one of the caskets, and died in peace, clutching a set of rosary beads. She wasn’t found for days, but it was winter and she’d turned off the heat and the lights. She was frozen stiff, blue from the cold. The nuns let Mom and Solange know and they didn’t tell us a fucking thing!
Oh, Michel, I’ve so much to tell you. She told me so much. His name was Louis Lamontagne, and his mother was American! Madeleine, she was called. And her grandmother too. Then the old nun went off for a few minutes and came back with a pile of old photos. She rummaged through them for a long time. Just as she was about to give up, she stopped and shouted: “Here it is!”
You won’t believe it. It was a photograph of the Saint-Jean-Baptiste parade in 1948. Grandpa was pulling a float behind him, with little St. John the Baptist and his lamb perched on top. The float had broken away from the harness, the nun explained. Grandpa was just home from the war, still dressed in his GI uniform. He pulled the cart all the way to the top of what looks to me like Rue Lafontaine. Just so you know, Michel. They didn’t call him The Horse for nothing. I know you’re dying to hear the rest. I’ll tell you what I know when you come to Berlin. Hurry up and be done with that monster D’Ambrosio and we can talk face to face. Come in January, come with Anamaria! You can stay with Magda. You can sleep on her sofa bed. She can’t wait to meet you.
There was another photo of a nun who looked exactly like her. Can nature really screw everything up not once but twice? One face like Sister Mary of the Eucharist’s is something, but two! It was her twin, Sister Saint Joan of Arc, also known as Sister Mary of Nagasaki, who was killed by the atomic bomb in 1945. She’s standing in the photo, in front of a tree in full bloom, beside a little white Japanese house. I couldn’t tell you if she was smiling or if her face was always contorted like that. Sister Mary of the Eucharist asked if I wanted a copy of the photo. It’s a very touching picture, especially when you know it was taken no more than two months before the bomb exploded over Nagasaki. I didn’t know any Quebecers had died in the bombing. They were all Sisters of the Child Jesus who were on a mission over there.
“I kept all the photos when your grandmother died. Would you like them, Gabriel?”
I’ll have to show you the album.
After a time, silence fell over the parlor. The nun was tired.
“I would invite you to eat with us, but our encounter has left me quite exhausted. I really must rest. If you would pass by the cemetery to lay flowers on your grandfather’s grave, that would soothe my soul, Gabriel.”
She walked me to the door. Before we said good-bye, she asked me when I’d be leaving for the old country. How did she know I was getting ready to go to Germany? Not only did she know all about the past, it was as if she could see the future too. Then she wanted to know—and it seemed important to her—if Mom still had her little gold cross. I told her I’d never seen her without it. She seemed very pleased, practically relieved. I’d almost left the convent when I heard someone inside shouting my name. It was another nun, holding an old Polaroid camera.
“Don’t move, Gabriel! Smile!”
Carrying the shoebox full of photos the nun had given me under one arm, I picked up a wreath at Moisan the florist’s. The cemetery was just behind the hospital, the gravestones sticking out of the snow like the black notes on a piano. I found them all together at one end. Grandpa, Madeleine the American (it was even written on the tombstone that she was American), Grandma Irene Caron, our uncles Luc and Marc. Marc died only a year before we were born. I even found Louis-Benjamin Lamontagne’s grave just outside the cemetery. He was born in 1900—the same year Tosca was first performed—and died in 1919. There was no grave belonging to Madeleine Lamontagne, Grandpa’s grandmother. It must have been she who raised him, since his own mother, the American, died in 1918. Logic would have it that she’d be buried alongside her husband, just like every other wife back then, but I didn’t find her. Strange. And I was too cold to keep looking: the sun was setting over the frozen St. La
wrence. There was just one thing I regretted: that you weren’t there. We could have gone looking for the grave together.
I walked back to the motel. I had a boiling-hot bath, and my thoughts turned to the road ahead the next day. The weather forecast was bad. The road back to the highway was flat, thank God. I’ll really have to practice with the stick shift if I want to drive in Germany. If you gave me a VW right now, I could drive it. But I wouldn’t be able to start it on a hill. Shameful, I know. But it will be a while until I can afford a car with the salary I’m on. I’ll keep taking the S-Bahn.
I’ll write more tomorrow. I have to go to bed now. I’m working early.
G.
P.S. Did you know what Louis Lamontagne had engraved on his headstone? “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”
* * *
Berlin, November 9, 1999
Dear Michel,
Time goes by like a thief in the night. I haven’t had time to write until today. Yesterday I saw the painting you were telling me about, Death of the Virgin. Magda agreed to go with me to the Gemäldegalerie at Potsdamer Platz, even if she was very unpleasant while we were there. Funny, but unpleasant. She makes a scene every time we’re in what used to be the western part of the city. People must think she’s my grandmother. I take one arm, while she holds her cane with the other. As soon as she hears people from the West, she starts mumbling things like “Numbskull!” She nearly had us thrown out of the museum before we got to see Death of the Virgin. We were in front of another painting, a Venus by Cranach. You know the type: pale and almost see-through, so they look like they’re drowned. If Magda hadn’t been such a complete and utter cow, I would have forgotten the artist’s name and remembered nothing more than the pretty girls he painted. Two other women were admiring the Venus at the same time as we were. They mustn’t have read the little metal plate and seemed to be under the impression it was by someone else.
