WINTER WONDERLAND

by Belinda Jones

  Annique grabs my arm, alerting me to the fact that our target is on the move.

  Before I can let nerves apprehend me, I hurry to catch her up. ‘Madame Lafromboise?’

  ‘Oui?’ she turns to face me.

  Her expression is polite, curious, if a little tired, but there is another layer in her eyes, a dark pool of sadness that makes my heart ache just to look at her.

  ‘I wonder if you have just a minute or two to talk to me.’ I make my request via Annique. ‘My name is Krista Carter. I am a friend of Jacques Dufour.’

  She looks instantly conflicted.

  ‘I don’t want to upset you,’ I speak in my softest tone. ‘And I promise I will be brief … ’

  ‘Is he okay?’

  I consider this a good sign, that she is concerned.

  ‘Yes and no,’ I reply. ‘He has his health but his grief is profound, and I think a big part of his pain is no longer having you in his life.’ I pause, waiting for Annique to make her translation. ‘I can’t even imagine the agony you live with. I don’t have children of my own but there can be no greater loss. I understand it would be natural to blame—’

  She shakes her head. ‘It is not blame.’

  She then looks for an available sofa and bids us sit. For a moment she is silent and then she says:

  ‘I cannot look at Jacques without seeing Rémy. They were always together and every time I see Jacques I look for Rémy and find him gone.’ Her voice wavers. ‘It is too much to bear. To be reminded over and over.’

  I nod, desperately wanting to reach for her hand but not wanting to overstep the mark.

  ‘The last time, he came to me with money and all I could think was, “You took my son away from me. I don’t want money. I want him back.”’ She hangs her head in shame. ‘And that is not the Huron way.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘We must not attempt to recall to earth souls who have departed. We have rituals to prevent grief from disrupting our lives. This is how we have been raised. And yet … ’ She heaves a long sigh.

  Annique’s eyes flick to me. ‘I think she is saying that her people have two souls: one goes to a village in the sky when they die, the other waits to be reborn.’ Her frown deepens. ‘I think she is waiting for Rémy to be reborn.’

  At this point, a fellow waitress comes over to check on her. From their interaction, it sounds as if she is her ride home. She gets to her feet and tells us she must leave.

  ‘Just one thing!’ I hasten to add. ‘Jacques doesn’t know I’m here, so if you did ever consider contacting him, that would be your choice. If not, he would never have to know we had this conversation.’

  ‘You mean well.’ She touches my face. ‘You too must forgive yourself.’

  I blink back at her. What does she mean by that?

  Her hand drops to my tummy. ‘Forgive.’

  Something tells me she doesn’t mean forgive myself for ordering a second dessert.

  Annique and I drive back into Quebec, lost in our own thoughts. All the while, my hand never leaves my belly.

  Once back in the room, I light one of the fir incense sticks (calling upon the aspect that heals wounds) and find myself having my own private ceremony.

  ‘I forgive you, my body, for not being able to grow a baby inside of you. I know you would’ve given it your all if you could. I’m not going to be angry with you any more. No more holding on to the disappointment. I’m not going to blame you. I’m not going to feel faulty or broken or less than. I didn’t mean to make you feel like a failure. You have served me in a million other ways. And for every one of those I am grateful. I know there is something that will make sense of all this one day. I will be patient until that day comes. You do your best for me every day and for that I thank you.’

  And then I get into bed and close my eyes.

  There’s something else out there for me, I know there is.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The wind is so bitingly cold today I feel I’m being Tasered every time it strikes.

  And that’s with my usual twenty-seven layers on. It seems unthinkable that I will be performing a striptease with Annique within a matter of hours.

  But the first item on today’s agenda is transferring to the new hotel in Old Town. I’m sorry to leave my Hilton haven with its beaver-hatted doorman and best-way-to-start-the-day breakfast potatoes. But if this tower gave me a sweeping overview of the magic kingdom, then Auberge Place D’Armes lies snug in its bellybutton.

  The building has only twenty-one bedrooms and no lift, but as soon as I climb the steep entrance steps, I feel at home.

  ‘We have a package for you, madame,’ the receptionist announces as I give my details.

  ‘Really?’ I wonder for a moment if Gilles has printed out some pictures, but the envelope is squishy. I open it right there and then, pulling out a red hat with a pompom bobble on the end.

  ‘Perfect for the Carnival,’ the receptionist smiles. ‘Just like Bonhomme.’

  I get a chill. ‘D-did you see who delivered this?’

  She shakes her head. ‘It was already here when I started my shift.’

  Of course it could be Jacques. Not that he knows where I’m staying. But then how would Malhomme? I try to think back to the night at the bar. Is it possible that it came up in conversation with the others and he overhead? I’m too hazy to be sure.

  ‘There’s no note?’

  I reach my hand back inside the envelope and yes! There is a card. With two words etched on it.

  ‘Oh!’ I gasp. ‘What does that mean?’

  I hand it to the receptionist, hoping it’s not too improper.

  ‘Wanna toque?’ she reads, pronouncing ‘toque’ as ‘took’.

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘No, no – toque is this, the hat.’

  My relief is short-lived. I can be certain now this is from Malhomme. Jacques is simply not the innuendo type.

  The receptionist hands me the key to Room 7. I check every cupboard and jewel-knobbed drawer before I even take off my coat. All clear. And all cute. My darling attic hideaway has a whitewashed wooden bed with a pale blue patchwork quilt and hand-crafted furniture stencilled with a fleur-de-lys motif. Whereas the whole of one wall at the Hilton was window, here there are just two tiny rectangles filled with snow, except for a peek-a-boo triangle in the top right-hand corner. All I can see are the domes and spires of neighbouring buildings – almost like a display of ornate bottle-stoppers – and that’s fine by me.

  I am about to start unpacking when there’s a knock at the door.

  ‘Yes?’ I enquire with caution.

  ‘C’est moi – Annique!’

  She seems in good spirits as she looks around the room making approving sounds, especially at the modern glass sink in the bathroom that I hadn’t even seen yet.

  Then she turns to me and says: ‘Ta-daaa!’ and throws opens her coat, flashing a white bikini with red maple leaf motif. She looks like a cross between a Miss Canada and a modern-day Eve. I don’t know if she’s applied one of those shimmer-infused lotions or her skin just has a natural luminosity, but her every contour – from cleavage to calf muscle – seems to be highlighted.

  ‘Wow!’ I can’t help but gawp.

  ‘Is okay?’

  ‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it!’

  She reaches into her bag. ‘I have your maillot de bain!’

  I close my eyes, fearing some kind of cutaway Rihanna number, but instead she pulls out a round-necked Speedo.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You said you wanted more coverage.’

  That I did. I just don’t recall asking for anything from the Chaste & Celibate collection.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll sit this one out,’ I suggest.

  ‘No, no!’ Annique protests. ‘I’m sure we can make something work.’

  I quickly move my earmuffs from her sight. The last thing I want is fluffy bunny boobs. As she starts going through my suitcase, her first suggestion is to cut my se
quin top in half and pull the lower section down to cover my groin.

  ‘Isn’t that bit go-go dancer?’

  ‘Let me see your underwear.’

  Definitely nothing that passes as swimwear there.

  ‘Besides, I can’t have as much flesh on show as you,’ I say, exposing my stomach to ram the point home.

  ‘There must be something we can use … ’ She strums her fingers and then pips, ‘I’ve got it! Wait there!’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the souvenir shop next door. Won’t be long.’

  I try to guess what she has in mind, but can’t quite see how shot glasses and fridge magnets are going to aid this cause.

  ‘Gosh, that was quick!’ She’s back already. ‘What did you get?’

  She pulls three long fringed sashes out of her bag – replicas of the snazzy one Bonhomme wears around his waist. ‘We can wrap these around and around you.’

  ‘So basically I’d be going as a Bonhomme groupie?’

  ‘It is very Carnaval spirit.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  She kneels beside me. ‘You know this arrowhead pattern has its roots in the Amerindian culture?’

  ‘Really?’ I take a closer look at the weave – the bold red, black, white, yellow and royal blue colour-way – and then Annique takes the last sash from my hand, completing an ingenious halterneck design that would make Tim Gunn proud.

  ‘You’re good at this,’ I marvel. ‘And fast!’

  ‘I’ve had a lot of practice playing dress-up with my daughter.’

  As she adds safety-pin reinforcements, I ask how Gilles was with her last night.

  ‘I didn’t see him. I thought I would let him miss me and then today—’

  ‘Knock his socks off?’

  ‘All three pairs!’ She gets to her feet. ‘You look très jolie.’

  I have to say I don’t look too bad. It’s actually more flattering than a conventional swimsuit in that the material is thick, the arrow pattern sends the eye in multiple directions and Annique has positioned the ties on my hips so the loose ends fall over the tops of my thighs.

  ‘I wouldn’t move around too much, but it should be secure enough for the picture.’

  I give her a careful hug. ‘Oh by the way … ’

  ‘Oui?’

  ‘Do you remember that guy from the bar the other night, the one that was staring… ’

  ‘The one with the gold hair, YSL suit and fossette?’ she says, marking a dimple on her chin.

  I smile. ‘So you’d recognise him again?’

  ‘Well, it depends what he is wearing … ’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Does she know?

  ‘We were inside then, so he was less covered up. If I saw him on the street in hat and coat … ’

  ‘What if he was in his swimwear? Or less … ’

  Her eyes narrow at me.

  ‘I’ve just got a feeling he’s going to show up today,’ I shrug. ‘So if you see him before I do … ’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ she says, still looking suspicious.

  It’s a very strange thing walking around wearing next-to-nothing under a Puffa coat. I feel like a winter version of a strip-a-gram – about to peel off my elbow-length wool gloves and twirl them under the nose of some unsuspecting tourist.

  My real clothes are stuffed in my bag. I’ve never longed for my long johns like I am doing right now. I still can’t believe I’m going to do this. Not that I’m entirely sure what it is I’m about to do …

  ‘So what exactly happens when we get there?’ I ask as we enter the Carnival site.

  ‘It’s a little chaotic, some people dive into the snow, we have a little dance, we play with Bonhomme … ’

  ‘So the real Bonhomme is going to be there?’

  ‘Well, we certainly hope it is the real Bonhomme.’

  ‘Yes we do,’ I say, checking every passing man for a cleft chin, though the majority are disguised by high collars or scarves.

  Would he really have the nerve to show up at such a public event, knowing that everyone is looking for him?

  ‘Patrick! Bonjour!’ She kisses a handsome stubbly face that is a precision cross between Russell Crowe and Marti Pellow from Wet, Wet, Wet. Now that’s a name I haven’t said in a while.

  ‘Patrick is the PR manager for the Carnival. He is the one who arranged all our passes and our registration for this event.’

  ‘And a photo opportunity with Bonhomme!’ he grins, bidding me follow him.

  ‘Where’s Gilles?’ I ask Annique.

  ‘Waiting for us … ’

  Indeed, he has everything prepared; all I have to do is drop my coat and step into the scene he has arranged beside Bonhomme’s Ice Palace. Just drop the coat. Unpop the poppers, unzip the zip and let go.

  ‘I can’t do it!’ I bleat to Annique.

  ‘Yes you can!’ She insists.

  ‘Go on, for me!’ Bonhomme encourages.

  I look back at him. He’s certainly very similar to Malhomme, but probably a foot taller and his head has a different texture, akin to a million little polystyrene bubbles. I certainly don’t want to be seen to be wasting his precious time, so I scrunch up my eyes, drop my protective layer and step into the frame.

  ‘Our outfits match!’ Bonhomme cheers, flipping his sash.

  I decide to give him a little test. ‘You do wear that quite high, don’t you?’

  ‘Perfect position, no?’

  ‘Yes,’ I smile. ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘Okay!’ Gilles calls over. ‘Let’s get a hug!’

  ‘Ooomf!’ I gasp, as Bonhomme nearly squeezes all the cellulite out of me. ‘You’re really strong!’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘Got it!’ Gilles calls.

  ‘Can we do a quick one with Annique?’

  ‘Is that okay?’ She checks with Patrick.

  He nods his approval and then metaphorical socks begin to blow off in every possible direction.

  ‘Y-you look amazing!’ Gilles’ hands are actually shaking.

  Seconds later, the mad dash of the Snow Bath is underway and Annique begins the Winter Carnival version of Bo Derek’s run down the beach in the movie 10. If she’s not in slow motion now she will be later as hundreds of spectators zoom their mini-movie in on her frolicking form.

  Not having had that liqueur she promised, and not fully grasping why this is considered ‘fun’, I stand awkwardly on the sidelines as the clinically insane people throw snow in the air like it’s dollar bills and generally do everything in their power to get hypothermia.

  I hate to be a party pooper but my skin is already zinging scarlet and my teeth are chattering like castanets. I did it and I’m done. But when I backtrack to grab my coat I find it gone.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

  I spin around. Gilles is nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t be carrying all our stuff and taking pictures, so he must have stashed it somewhere.

  ‘Holy mother of … ’ I gasp as the wind slashes at my skin. This is too much. I’ve got to get out of the cold. I start hurtling towards the nearest firepit when I feel myself yanked back.

  ‘What the … ? I look behind me and find a German shepherd chomped on to the end of my sash, paws dug deep in snow, pulling backwards. ‘Oh no, no, no!’ I plead, as I feel my lower layers unravelling. ‘Stop! Let go!’ I try to pull back but his grip only tightens, this time with a low growl. ‘Nice doggie, let go of the sash … ’

  ‘Niko! Lâche-toi Release!’

  It’s Jacques! My saviour! Again!

  ‘You’re frozen!’ he tuts. ‘Where’s your coat? Where are your friends?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t know.’

  ‘Well let’s call them!’

  ‘My phone is in my coat, I don’t know the number … ’

  ‘Niko stop it!’ He reprimands the dog as he stands to full height and puts his paws on my shoulder, seemingly wanting to take a chunk out of my head
.

  And then it dawns on me. ‘I think it might be this … ’ I can’t believe I’m actually going to take off another item of clothing, but I pull off my red toque and hand it to Niko – immediately he’s snuffling all over it.

  Jacques looks confused by my hurried explanation but then quickly snaps into action. ‘Here, take my coat,’ he says, wrapping it around me (which feels good on so many levels). ‘I want you to go and warm up in the bistro here and I’ll be back in just a minute. Don’t go anywhere.’

  For a makeshift food concession this is very nice – modern white chairs set around black-clothed tables, cool lighting and, over at the back, a raised area with lime-coloured sofas and an armchair that is just about to become free …

  The only snag is that the line for paninis and hot coffee is an unwieldy snake. Not that I have any money on me anyway. Still, Jacques will be back any minute.

  ‘Beaver tail?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  I turn and find the waitress offering me a flattened pastry coated in maple butter icing.

  ‘I wish!’ I sigh longingly. ‘I didn’t order it.’

  ‘The gentleman asked me to send it over.’

  ‘What gentleman?’ I ask.

  She looks back towards the counter. ‘Oh. He was just there … ’

  ‘Did he have … ’ My finger rises to my chin.

  She nods. ‘And blond hair.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ I gulp, getting to my feet and looking wildly around the room. Why is he doing this? I’m getting really freaked out now. Do I dare even eat this?

  I roll my eyes. Why is that even a concern to me? I’ve got far bigger things to worry about than what to do with a complimentary pastry. Like finding my clothes and figuring out why Malhomme is singling me out.

  It really does smell good though – all warm and sweetly fragrant with crispy deep-fried edges.

  Just one tiny bite then …

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘What is it with you two?’ Jacques asks when he returns with my coat and bag and I bring him up to speed on my encounters with Malhomme – the snowball fight at Place Royale, the Staring Man at Auberge Saint-Antoine, the toque waiting at my new hotel and now this beaver tail. In and of itself, nothing to arrest a man over, but I do seem to be a magnet for his mischief.