WINTER WONDERLAND

by Belinda Jones

  ‘By the way, where’s Niko?’ I look around us.

  ‘Sebastien has him,’ Jacques explains. ‘I thought it would be a good idea to get some hot food in your system.’

  I look back at the lunch queue.

  ‘Do you have a picture ID with you?’ he asks.

  ‘Um … ’

  ‘Driving licence, passport … ’

  ‘Just how far are we going?’

  He smiles enigmatically. ‘Do you?’

  I check in my bag. ‘I do.’

  ‘Okay, come with me.’

  I flinch a little as we step back into the cold.

  ‘Don’t worry, five more minutes and all this will be forgotten.’

  As we head for the nearest exit, we pass Gilles and Annique sheltering around the back of the hot tubs, apparently opting to skip lunch in favour of devouring each other.

  ‘Oh!’ Jacques stumbles in shock. ‘I didn’t see that coming.’

  ‘Really?’ I frown. ‘Can you honestly picture a more perfect physical match?’

  ‘It’s just … I thought he was into you.’

  ‘What?’ I hoot. ‘No.’

  ‘That’s odd, I’m usually right about this stuff.’

  ‘Well … ’

  For a second I consider mentioning our initial frisson at the Hôtel de Glace, but why on earth would I tell him that?

  ‘Well?’ He looks expectantly at me.

  ‘Well this time you were wrong!’

  Initially I think we’re cutting across the Parliament building grounds to go back to the Hilton, but then Jacques diverts up to the front door.

  I hang back. ‘Do you have a quick ballot to vote on?’

  He laughs. ‘Come on.’

  ‘We’re going inside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought we were going for lunch.’

  ‘We are. Everywhere else will be too busy.’

  I’m still waiting for his choice to make sense.

  ‘Are you a part-time politician or something?’ Perhaps this is what he does in the autumn?

  ‘Quebec is a democracy, and one of the ways the government likes to demonstrate that is to make their restaurant available to the public.’

  ‘So you can dine next to the Minister of Health?’

  ‘Yes,’ he shrugs. ‘Why not?’

  There’s just the small matter of getting through security, which is on a par with the airport.

  ‘Madame, we need you to take off your coat.’

  Jacques hangs his head. ‘I forgot, you haven’t had the chance to change yet.’

  The only toilets available at the Carnival were Portaloos and it simply wasn’t possible to dress without trouser legs collecting slushy detritus and scarves falling into the chemical abyss.

  ‘What shall I do?’ I fret.

  Jacques does his best to explain in French but they are insistent.

  ‘And the food here is really good?’ I check.

  He nods.

  ‘Okay! Here we go!’ I pull off my Puffa and stuff it onto the conveyor belt along with my bag.

  ‘What are they saying?’ I blush as I wait the eternity for it to appear on the other side.

  ‘Just how patriotic you are.’

  I give a little snort. ‘And how diplomatic you are.’

  ‘Here.’ He places the coat around me and guides me to the Ladies.

  Even when I do get my clothes on, I wonder if I am appropriately dressed for such grand surroundings.

  It’s all ornately tiled floors, everlasting staircases and jewel-bright stained-glass windows featuring coats of arms with sinewy lions and ermin-trimmed crowns.

  And to think that I was angling for a panini on a paper plate.

  I notice now that Jacques is wearing a nice blue check shirt under his round neck sweater. He looks almost bookish, which is all the more appealing knowing the rugged man that lies beneath.

  Together we ascend the glossy wooden staircase to Le Parlementaire restaurant. The dining room, inspired by the Parisian beaux-arts period, looks more like a ballroom to me – soaring pale blue ceilings, imposing columns of cream and gold, rich blue draperies and glittering chandeliers. I feel as though I should have my hair piled high and embedded with jewels. Reassuringly the maître d’ doesn’t bat an eyelid at our rather more casual attire. Instead he shows us to a lovely table by the window, impeccably set with navy and ivory china accented with gold fleur-de-lys. I take a seat on the striped velvet chair and then just marvel.

  I wish I could count this as a date because it would make a great ‘first lunch together’ story. It’s not every menu that opens with a welcome note from the President of the National Assembly.

  We order the three-course table d’hôte for just £12 – this is so going on my list of Uniquely Quebec experiences.

  The soup, together with a gourmet version of a cheese straw, arrives swiftly, and from my first slurp of puréed country vegetables I can feel my insides thawing out.

  ‘So, were you always an outdoorsy kind of person?’ I ask Jacques between spoonfuls, keen to find out more about the kind of man who chooses to work al fresco in the deep midwinter.

  He nods as he adds a little pepper. ‘My father was very athletic, got us into all kinds of sports, and my mother loved to be in nature whenever she could.’

  ‘And the dogs?’

  ‘That started pretty young,’ he smiles and then leans forward. ‘We had this neighbour who was not kind to his dog.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘He was always on a chain, always barking. Everyone was afraid of him, said he was old and mean, just like his owner. But I knew he just wanted to be free. And maybe eat something better than scraps from the garbage can. So. When the summer holidays came I would sneak over after the guy left for work and I’d take off his collar and use some garden rope as a leash and I would walk him. Every day.’

  ‘You weren’t afraid?’

  ‘I knew he wasn’t a bad dog. I’d be crazy too if you chained me up twenty-four hours a day. I was a little kid and he was gentle with me. He wasn’t as strong as he looked anyway – he didn’t have any muscle tone because he wasn’t getting any exercise. But that started to change. We’d walk and walk, then if it was too hot we’d hang out in the garage and I would do my reading and he would sleep with his chin on my foot … ’

  ‘That’s so lovely!’ I pang.

  ‘And then one day I went over there and I guess the owner was home from work and I didn’t realise … ’

  ‘Yikes!’ I flinch. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told me that if I took the dog one more time, all the barking and the complaints and the vet bills and the cost of food would be my problem.’

  My eyebrows rise. ‘Really?’

  ‘Best punishment I ever had!’ he grins.

  ‘And your parents were okay with you taking him in?’

  He nods. ‘Barney was part of the family by then.’

  ‘Barney?’ I smile.

  ‘We renamed him. The owner had called him Cujo.’

  ‘God, what’s wrong with people?’ I despair.

  ‘I know,’ he shakes his head. ‘I only had him a few years, he was old, but he was the sweetest company.’

  ‘And how great that the last years of his life were the best – it’s not often that way round.’

  Jacques nods and then looks wistful.

  I tense slightly, aware that we have paused on the subject of death. He must have lost so many dogs over the years, as well, of course, as Rémy.

  ‘And then the sledding aspect?’ I try to move the conversation on.

  Jacques’ gaze returns to me. ‘My dad took me on my sixth birthday. I told him that day, “This is going to be my job when I’m a grown-up. This is what I want to do.”’

  ‘And you did!’

  ‘Was it the same way for you and your writing?’ he asks.

  I think for a moment. ‘I can’t really remember a time when I wasn’t writing. It was just the thing I did
that felt most like me.’

  ‘So no confusion over what to do with your life?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must be a natural.’

  ‘I don’t know about that – I’ve never found it easy. But I think that’s just the way of it. And there are great perks – like now, doing the research, that’s the best!’ And then my eyes narrow. ‘Which brings me to a question … ’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you really the Wolfman? Have you tamed wolves?’

  He laughs. ‘No. I’ve certainly had dogs that resembled wolves, and who’s to say there wasn’t a little mix along the line, but typically wolves attack dogs.’

  ‘Ohhh. So it’s not true that people have heard wolves howling at your farm?’

  He smiles. ‘Huskies howl like wolves. They’re known for it. It’s an easy mistake to make. But nothing I care to correct!’ He leans in. ‘I kind of like having that reputation. Nobody gives me any trouble.’

  ‘I bet!’

  And then we lean back as two piping hot bone-china plates are placed before us – mine with the fresh catch of the day, his with a hazelnut-crusted pork medallion.

  ‘The cutlery here is so nice!’ I admire the weight and design of the silver as I take it in my hands. ‘There’s this café that my friend Laurie and I go to almost every lunchtime and they have the cheapest knives and forks with edges that dig in your hands and leave marks, so we’ve actually started bringing a set from home!’

  ‘That’s quite a testament to their cooking.’

  ‘It’s the chips,’ I tell him. ‘They do the best chips!’

  ‘Have you tried ours yet? The poutine?’

  ‘Poutine?’ I frown.

  ‘It is chips that are golden brown—’

  ‘And a little bit soft?’ I ask hopefully.’

  ‘Yes, the ideal chips, with gravy … ’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And then topped with cheese curds.’

  I know I’m not pulling a pretty face now.

  ‘Honestly, it is so good. Will you promise to try it?’

  ‘I did have fries with mayonnaise once in Amsterdam.’

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  I hesitate. I don’t want to make any false promises to Jacques, but cheese curds? Still, I trust him. ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

  ‘They actually have some of the best in Montreal, at La Banquise, if you have time … ’

  I take out my notebook and scribble down the name.

  ‘They have about twenty varieties. Including Poutine Kamikaze if you’re feeling daring.’

  ‘I don’t have a death wish.’ Oh god! There I go again. ‘Any other recommendations?’

  ‘Toi, Moi et Café. That’s my favourite.’

  ‘You and me?’ I translate and then feel my cheeks pinken. I think it’s my favourite thing too.

  ‘See if Sebastien can take you there for breakfast.’

  We talk a little more about food – him saying how he likes to cook for people, me saying how I like people who cook – and then comes a mini-dessert, or ‘sweet taste’, as they call it.

  ‘I think this is genius,’ I say as I contemplate my one perfect profiterole. ‘You don’t even have to ponder whether or not you’ll order pudding, it just arrives like a gift with your coffee. It’s so civilised!’

  ‘I like your definition of civilised!’

  ‘Well, I’ve never been one for deprivation when it comes to food.’

  ‘You should try the dog-sledding diet,’ he grins as he takes a sip of coffee. ‘All the girls who come to us arrive so health-conscious, and then they see how many calories get burned with the feeding and the cleaning and the tours and they realise they can eat all the pastries and cakes and second helpings the guys do and they don’t put on a pound!’

  ‘Sounds like heaven!’ I sigh.

  ‘Have you ever been married?’

  For a second I’m thrown. I didn’t see that question coming.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jacques apologises. ‘I don’t mean to pry.’

  ‘No, no. Um.’ I try to collect myself. ‘The answer is yes. I was. But I’m not any more.’ I squirm a little. ‘This is actually quite new for me – it was just official six months ago, so I haven’t quite got my story down pat.’

  ‘That’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked … ’

  ‘It’s fine, really. What about you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he confirms.

  ‘Past tense?’

  ‘Past tense for nearly three years now.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s never pleasant, is it? Divorce. Was it one big thing or lots of little things?’

  ‘One big thing.’

  ‘Me too,’ I tell him.

  I’m glad we don’t go any deeper at this point. I don’t want to spoil our lunch. Besides, with so many emotional landmines to negotiate, is it really such a mystery why marriages end? To me the miracle is that any survive.

  And then I tilt my head. ‘I thought I read that people in Quebec didn’t really get married?’

  ‘It’s true. But it runs in our family. My dad has been married twice and now he’s looking for wife number three!’

  I give a little chuckle. ‘That’s some kind of optimist. And Sebastien?’

  ‘There’s a girl in Montreal, Julie. They split up when he moved back here, but they should be together.’

  ‘I’ll add that to my To-Do list for the trip.’

  He smiles back at me. ‘Wouldn’t it be great if life was that simple?’

  And then my phone bleeps. ‘Sorry!’ I cringe, feeling terribly uncouth, as though I’ve ruined a scene in Downton Abbey with my new-fangled technology. ‘I meant to turn it off.’

  ‘Go ahead and check it, it could be important.’

  It’s a text. From Annique.

  I look up at Jacques. ‘She has one more activity for me back at the Carnival.’

  He sighs. ‘I need to get back too – check in with Sebastien and Niko.’

  Neither of us moves.

  And then I find my hand reaching for his across the table. ‘Thank you for bringing me here, Jacques. It was such an elegant experience.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he replies, giving me a little head bow.

  It’s therefore all the more of a contrast when we return to the Carnival and Annique insists I join a game of human table football, or fusball as the Americans call it.

  ‘So, just to be clear, because I haven’t been traumatised enough today, you want to strap me to a horizontal pole that slides from side to side and have a ball ricocheting around me.’

  ‘Well, hopefully you will get to kick the ball.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I’ll get a goal.’

  ‘It’s just so much fun,’ Annique rallies. ‘I know you’ll love it.’

  ‘You’re not doing it?’

  ‘I played the last two games and now they say I have to let someone else have a go.’

  ‘Really?’ I check with Gilles.

  ‘She’s extremely competitive.’

  ‘All right,’ I sigh. ‘But only because I owe you.’

  I enter the green boxed-in area, put on an outsize red shirt (to show which unfortunate team has me on their side) and then get buckled and clicked into position on a yellow pole.

  ‘Secure?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, finding myself all too restricted.

  A whistle blows, the ball is in play, cheers and jeers resonate as the two teams flounder and duck and reach and scramble. One young boy loses his footing altogether and finds himself hanging horizontally from his pole like something out of Mission Impossible. Twice I make contact with the ball – just not with an appropriate body part.

  Suddenly the ball is at my feet, out of my opponent’s reach. This is my chance. I go to give it a hefty kick but my foot slides over it without making contact, at least until the way back when I send it neatly in the opposite direction and score an own goal.

  ‘Bravo!’ A voice cheers louder than the rest. A voice I know …
<
br />   There he is! Bold as brass, leaning over the barrier at the far end. His sandy hair may be hidden beneath a hat but I’d recognise that chin anywhere …

  I twist around, looking for Jacques – is he still within view? Annique is busy talking to Patrick and then I think of Gilles, with his camera …

  Just as I turn his way the ball hits me in the face. I’m stunned for a moment and then recover.

  ‘Gilles!’ I call out to him.

  ‘It’s okay, I got it – great shot!’

  ‘No! I need you to photograph …’ I go to point out Quebec’s Most Wanted but of course he’s already on the move. I grapple with my buckle but the more I struggle and wriggle, the more trapped I become.

  ‘Need some help with that?’ It’s him again. Level with me now, taunting me.

  It’s then I realise I’ve been calling the wrong name. ‘Niko!’ I cry. ‘Niko, Niko, here boy!’ And then I give the whistle I learned when I got my first dog.

  He holds my gaze for a second. ‘I didn’t think you’d do that.’ And then he’s off.

  Shortly followed by Niko and Jacques – they’re onto him!

  The police are hot on their heels, all very Keystone Kops, skidding hither and thither, then myself (having been freed by Annique) and Gilles.

  There’s no doubt I am slowing up proceedings, so Annique hails a taxi and we follow the trail all the way down to the ferry port.

  ‘That’s twice he’s been traced to here,’ I note.

  ‘We’re going to go across,’ Jacques informs me as we join him on the side of the road. ‘Do you want to join us?’

  ‘Can we all come?’

  Jacques looks to the police chief for approval.

  Obviously no man is going to turn down Annique, and Gilles has a potentially useful zoom lens, so the answer is yes.

  It doesn’t occur to me until the ferry disconnects from the shore and we start moving into the frozen waters that we could be placing ourselves in peril …

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘You know, it’s not just the French-Canadian people who are nice,’ I tell Laurie. ‘They even have nice toilets on their ferries.’

  ‘I do worry about you sometimes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be chasing a criminal?’

  ‘Well, criminal is a little harsh. I’d say he’s more of a public nuisance.’