WINTER WONDERLAND

by Belinda Jones

  ‘It’s flatter than I was expecting.’ I peer out of the window at the endless fields, accented with the occasional barn. ‘I think of Canada and I think of the Rockies, all vast lakes and mountains … ’

  ‘We are the second largest country in the world,’ he informs me. ‘We have room for a little topographical variety.’

  Well that told me!

  ‘Here,’ he reaches behind him then hands me a map book. ‘Take a look.’

  I open it onto the relevant page and he points to Quebec.

  ‘Our province alone is three times the size of France.’

  ‘Eyes on the road!’ I urge, though really it seems to be a straight shot all the way to Montreal.

  As I look closer, I see our route is speckled with saints – Saint-Celestin, Saint-Hyacinthe, Saint-Lazare-de-Bellechasse … Even, rather pleasingly, a Saint-Bernard.

  ‘Now that’s my kinda town,’ I chuckle as I hold up the map. ‘Saint-Pie!’

  ‘It’s named for Saint Pius.’

  ‘Oh,’ I slump. ‘That’s not quite so much fun.’

  ‘Tarte!’

  ‘Excuse me?!’ Oh my goodness, did Sebastien just enter into a little playful banter with me?

  Er, no.

  ‘Tarte: t-a-r-t-e,’ he spells out the word. ‘That is French for the kind of pie you like. As in Tarte Tatin.

  ‘Ohhh.’ I’m getting hungry now but continue to distract myself as I can’t see my driver wanting to stop. ‘What about this place?’ I point out a town called Asbestos. ‘Does that mean something different in French?’

  He shakes his head. ‘That town once had the largest asbestos mine in the world.’

  ‘And they wanted to advertise the fact?’

  ‘It was before the dangers were discovered.’ Sebastien’s fingers strum the steering wheel. ‘That community was thriving in the Sixties.’

  ‘It says here that Montreal is twin-towned with Hiroshima,’ I note. ‘I’m starting to notice a worrying theme … ’

  He is not amused. I decide to lose the jokes and go for a more conventional line of questioning.

  ‘So is Montreal where you grew up?’

  ‘Born and bred.’

  ‘And Jacques?’

  ‘No, he was born in Quebec. He stayed with his mother when my father left.’

  ‘Oh. So you actually didn’t grow up in the same house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’re so close now … ’

  ‘Well, we would have holidays together. He was always very protective of me – being ten years older.’

  ‘And now you’re returning the favour?’

  ‘I owe him.’

  ‘You owe him?’ I raise a brow.

  He gives me a warding-off glance but I ignore it.

  ‘In what way do you owe him?’

  ‘I owe him my life.’

  For a second I say nothing. This sounds serious. But then Sebastien has a way of making everything sound dramatic.

  ‘It’s because of him I joined Cirque du Soleil.’

  ‘Really?’ I brighten. ‘So it’s a good kind of payback?’

  ‘I lost my way as a teenager. Jacques got me back on track.’

  Something tells me that drugs were involved. This would perhaps have been around the time of his parents’ divorce. He went off the rails, Jacques put him back on and suddenly his life goes into warp-drive with Cirque du Soleil. Strange that he thinks his debt of gratitude would include giving up the thing he loves the most. Can’t he see what a burden that is to Jacques?

  Then again, depending on the drugs he took, maybe he doesn’t exactly think straight.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Sebastien asks me, suspiciously.

  ‘Just how incredible it is that you got to perform with Cirque du Soleil.’

  ‘Have you ever seen any of their shows?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’m a huge fan. I even applied for a job there once. Just as an usher when they had their big top in London, in Battersea. I thought it would be fantastic – show people to their seats and then stand there, night after night, gawping up at the stage. There’s always so much going on, I knew I’d never get bored … ’

  The truth is my own life seemed so dull at the time; I longed to escape into their fantasy world, even vicariously.

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Well, they said they were having trouble finding English-speakers so they wanted me to work in the box office and answer telephones, but that wasn’t quite so appealing.’

  ‘They had trouble finding English-speakers in England?’

  ‘Well, London in particular is such a melting pot, we’ve become quite the rarity!’

  ‘So which shows did you see?’ Sebastien can’t help be curious.

  I twist around in my seat. ‘Where do I begin? In Vegas I saw Mystère, O, Zumanity and Kà, which blew my mind. Basically all of them except the Beatles one.’

  ‘Everything except Love?’

  The comment seems oddly personal so I move swiftly on. ‘Saltimbanco, Alegría, Quidam … And then, not so long ago, I saw the Michael Jackson Immortal show.

  ‘What did you think about that?’

  ‘Well, it was probably the one I was least interested in seeing but it was worth it for the ring routine to “Can You Feel It?”’

  ‘And what was so great about that?’

  ‘It just got me – the music was pumping, it’s such a rousing song anyway, and you’ve got these four guys in their metallic helmets and bare chests with their arms twisting every which way like Action Man figures … ’ For a second it’s as if they have appeared before my eyes. ‘They’re swinging so high, flying through the air at the perfect crescendo moments … it just seemed so powerful.’

  Sebastien splutters a laugh.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what I used to do.’

  ‘No!’ I squeal.

  ‘That is a great song.’

  ‘But what does it feel like?’ I ask, practically up on my knees now. ‘To be out there – part of such a spectacle?’

  ‘Well, obviously you’re concentrating on hitting your marks, but when the group does a spinning dismount and you hear the audience gasp, it does give you a thrill.’

  ‘Can you sense it, when you’ve got them? I mean, there seemed to be a point at which the whole arena was spellbound … ’

  He nods. ‘The energy changes, for sure.’

  ‘Oh I can’t believe it! I can’t believe I’m in a car with someone so cool!’

  Sebastien rolls his eyes.

  ‘I mean it. I’m a bit in awe now.’

  ‘Being able to do a backflip doesn’t make you a better person.’

  ‘It does in my book,’ I tell him. ‘Did you ever perform with Julie?’

  Immediately his face falls. I’ve gone too far.

  ‘Perhaps you should get some sleep.’ He grunts. ‘There is much to see in the city, far to walk. You don’t want to be tired when we arrive.’

  I think about trying to make things right with him, apologising or changing the subject, but what he seems to want most of all is my silence. Best I leave him in peace with his own thoughts.

  Settling back into my seat, I give the landscape another scan: it remains all bare trees and frozen lakes, some stamped with tyre tracks – I try to follow their trail, wondering if the car made it back to solid ground, but we’re moving too fast …

  I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to get a little more shut-eye … Discreetly I remove my scarf and roll it into a substitute pillow so I can rest my head on the juddering window. The next thing I know I’m surrounded by skyscrapers.

  I sit up and pay attention. ‘Gosh, it really is a lot bigger here.’

  Three times bigger than Quebec, Sebastien tells me. And an island. (Surrounded by rivers, as opposed to the sea.)

  ‘There is an area at the heart of the city, a mountain or a hill, either way, five hundred acres with a park and a lake and cemeteries with a million bodies buried.’

 
‘A million?’ My eyes bulge as I imagine Cirque du Soleil re-enacting Thriller here, what a chorus line that would be!

  ‘It is called Mont Royal,’ Sebastien continues, clearly happy to be back on a neutral subject.

  ‘Mont Royal,’ I repeat. Why does that sound familiar?

  ‘That is how Montreal got its name.’

  ‘Ohhh!’ I smile. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘If it was summer I would take you there.’

  ‘But it’s not.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Sebastien confirms as we watch a pedestrian turn sideways to shoulder her way through the wind as she crosses in front of us.

  The light changes and on we go. The first thing he wants to show me is the Old Town. Sounds familiar.

  ‘I was wondering … ’ I try to sound casual. ‘For breakfast, I’ve heard about this place called Toi, Moi et Café?’

  ‘Jacques already made me promise to take you there. But first I want you to see this.’

  He pulls over beside a greying cathedral. ‘Notre-Dame Basilica.’

  Perhaps he senses that I’m not entirely sold because he adds, ‘This is where Celine Dion got married.’

  Now I’m curious. ‘Can we look inside?’

  He allows me to step in first, so he can stand to the side and watch my jaw drop.

  Gloriana! I don’t know that I’ve experienced a more vibrant, spirit-lifting cathedral. I’ve seen opulent, I’ve seen ornate, but this one has an almost Disney-like glow…

  The dominant colour is blue – a luminous mix of azure and cobalt – with a gold centrepiece that is almost a kingdom unto itself, with its multitude of arches, spires, statuettes and, rather comically, a Hoover abandoned on the carpeted steps leading to the altar.

  Even the stained-glass windows seem more colourful – beyond the traditional blood reds and royal blues they feature subtler, prettier shades like blush pink and lilac.

  ‘This is just gorgeous!’ I whisper, lured from gem to gem. ‘I love how these pillars look like the spines of old books – you know those leather ones with the gold detailing?’

  Before Sebastien can reply, his phone bleeps. ‘I have to take this.’

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ I tell him, happy to do so.

  Until, that is, a young couple pass me …

  They are being escorted to the rather more affordable chapel at the back, and suddenly I find myself transported back to my own wedding day. Knees weakening, I stumble to the nearest pew and then turn back, as if I am looking at myself, walking up the aisle …

  I was so determined not to get caught up in wedding hysteria I went for a very simple dress and then I wondered, just before I stepped out, whether I was short-changing my groom in some way, not giving him a major transformation to gasp at. Was I deliberately trying to play things down? It seemed such a big statement, getting married – so much further to fall. Did some part of me always know it wouldn’t work out, or was that just me trying to keep a level head? I couldn’t understand how people managed to go cock-a-hoop at a time when divorce seems more likely than seeing your first anniversary. How do you buy into the eternity ideal any more?

  But on the day itself, all cynicism went out the window and I found myself on an unexpected high – I had never felt so bonded with another person. As we stood at the altar I could barely differentiate between us and it felt wonderful to go ‘all in’. The ultimate free-fall!

  And everyone around us just seemed so pleased for us. I hadn’t expected that – so much well-wishing. It seemed too good to be true – I get your love and that of everyone around me too?

  Who wouldn’t want that to last?

  Sitting here now, I wonder whether he ever really loved me or whether it was all about the possibility of what I could bring to his life. Not even a month after we first met we started talking about our children – what they would look like, which of our personality traits we’d most wish upon them and how we would bring them up, possibly on a diet of cereal since neither of us could cook. It was such fun – the idea of creating something so deeply personal together. Andrew never really liked his job and I think he viewed his future children as his life’s work. Well, I hope that works out for him. I hope that baby growing inside the sandwich girl’s tummy doesn’t feel too much pressure to be his everything. I hope he allows for some mistakes and doesn’t cut little Him or Her off if they don’t turn out to be perfect.

  My eyes prickle. I’m doing it again. Upsetting myself. Rummaging around in a hurtful place, stirring up resentment, just making it worse. I have to stop this. Think a different thought. Set myself in motion …

  I get to my feet, turning towards the silent prayer room, but then finding myself confronted with a painting of Madonna and child. I expect to feel another stab of pain but there is something so serene about this place that instead I find myself lighting a candle, both for the baby that never was and the one that might yet come into my life. Because that does happen. Sometimes a baby finds a different mother in the world. There’s still hope.

  And then I move on and light a bright yellow one for Laurie and all her New York City dreams. Another three dollar coins in the donation box, I choose snow white for Jacques, then strawberry red for Mrs Laframboise, and for Sebastien I choose blue.

  ‘If you’re going to light every candle in this place, it’s going to get expensive.’

  I turn and smile at him. ‘That one was for you!’

  He looks so taken aback I wonder if it’s a bit much – the idea of being ‘prayed for’ – so I tone it down by adding, ‘To thank you for bringing me to Montreal.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ He shrugs. ‘A bagel would’ve done the trick.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Stepping back into the sunny chill of the outside world, Sebastien tells me that he’s going to leave the rest of Vieux-Montreal for me to explore at my leisure. But barely two minutes later he’s pulling over again, this time beside Place Jacques Cartier – an elongated pedestrian square leading down to the river.

  ‘Guy Laliberté used to perform here as a stilt-walker and fire-breather.’

  My heads clunks the window. This is where Cirque du Soleil began? I can’t help but get a thrill.

  ‘Now you can go around the corner and eat at his restaurant – L’Auberge Saint-Gabriel. We’ve had some good parties there … ’

  I take out my notebook and write down the name, intending to make that my dinner spot later.

  ‘This may be a silly question, since the whole world is in awe, but is Cirque du Soleil well received by the locals?’

  ‘Oh yes, very much so,’ Sebastien affirms. ‘Everyone has great respect for all they have achieved. And every year Guy shows his gratitude to the province by putting on a show for free.’

  ‘That’s fantastic!’

  ‘The headquarters that he built here with the training facility, he deliberately chose a poor part of town and employed local people to bring that area up.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘How many people would you say work there today?’

  ‘About eighteen hundred.’

  ‘What?’ I exclaim.

  ‘About four hundred of those are in the wardrobe department.’

  ‘My goodness.’

  ‘This is Boulevard Saint-Laurent by the way … ’ He motions beyond the windscreen. ‘It bisects the city from north to south. The French-speaking typically live to the east, the Anglophones – that’s your people – to the west.’

  ‘How interesting … ’

  ‘All the way up here you will see different immigrant communities – Jewish, Chinese, Italian, Portuguese, Greek, Arab, Haitian … ’

  ‘Just like Cirque du Soleil!’ I laugh.

  ‘Do you know about the One Drop foundation?’ he asks as we turn off into a new neighbourhood, one with more of a trendy, boutique feel.

  ‘One Drop?’ I shake my head.

  Sebastien explains that Guy Laliberté has partnered with Oxfam to bring water to people in countries where access
to this vital resource is lacking – El Salvador, India, Honduras, and so on.

  ‘I went out to Nicaragua last year with one of the touring shows and it’s not just the water projects they’re working on,’ he enthuses, ‘they’re doing all this great work to promote gender equality and get the young people motivated about building a brighter future.’

  ‘Really?’

  He nods intently. ‘We ran these workshops with all these kids and teens, got them involved. It was incredible … ’

  Watching Sebastien talk about this is like meeting a new person – his grumpy shell falling away as a dynamic, passionate and compassionate man emerges.

  As we pull up outside Toi, Moi et Café, I turn to him, unable to keep it in any longer.

  ‘Aren’t you tired?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says, unclicking his seatbelt. ‘I don’t need much sleep.’

  ‘I mean of watching over Jacques. Don’t you miss having your own utterly remarkable life? Being around your fellow performers? Working on such meaningful projects? Doing what you love and what you are obviously brilliant at?’

  A cloud crosses back over his eyes. ‘Yes I miss it. Of course I do. But I’d miss Jacques a whole lot more if he were gone.’

  ‘But what if he’s not going anywhere?’

  ‘Have you ever thought you had lost someone?’ he turns on me, blunt as ever. ‘Had someone taken from you before their time?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘When I got the phone call, that Jacques had fallen in the frozen lake … the line cut out. And while I was stood there, shaking, waiting to reconnect, I thought they were going to tell me he had died.’ His lips purse as he fights to steady his voice. ‘In that moment, I experienced losing him. I felt it, as if it was real. So when they told me he had survived, it was like I had been given a second chance. That’s when I knew I had to be there for him. Because I never wanted to have that phone call or that feeling ever again.’

  I sigh. ‘But Sebastien, do you really believe he would want to take his own life?’

  ‘Who knows what anyone would do under those circumstance, until it happens to you. Everyone reacts differently. I have Russian friends at the Cirque who heard that a family member died just minutes before they were going on stage, and they carry on and perform as flawlessly as ever – it doesn’t even faze them because for them it’s the norm, a part of circus life. The high wire is dangerous, the trapeze is dangerous … ’ He pauses. ‘But to feel somehow responsible for another person’s death, as Jacques does with Rémy… ’