‘Look at this one!’ He shows me another shot of a pre-peroxide Sebastien in double-jointed gymnastics pose.
‘So Jacques doesn’t have a bad bone in his body and Sebastien doesn’t have any at all?’ I hoot.
‘Looks that way, doesn’t it!’ Mr Dufour laughs.
‘In a way he was preparing for Cirque du Soleil from the age of … ’
‘He started taking classes at five.’
‘Wow. And then was it a straight transition through?’
‘Well. There was a gap. He stopped for a while.’
My eyes flash towards the door.
‘He’s gone down to the basement, he can’t hear us.’
‘Teenage rebellion?’ I suggest, tallying up what Sebastien had told me in the car.
‘Oh, he took that to a whole new level. There was nothing I could say … It got so bad, Rémy had to call Jacques to step in.’
Oh dear, so he was in trouble with the police.
‘And Jacques managed to turn things around?’
‘At a price.’
I wait for him to continue.
‘He had to give up his place in the Iditarod, the year he was set to break a record. That’s months of training and about thirty thousand dollars down the drain.’
My eyes widen.
‘Of course Sebastien paid him back the money a few years later. He’s been trying to make it up to him ever since.’
‘Doesn’t he know that he doesn’t need to?’
‘I think he always felt that if he didn’t suffer in some way, if he didn’t have to give up something truly precious, then it wouldn’t be equal.’
I shake my head.
‘Catholic guilt. That’s from his mother’s side … ’
I nod. And then I get a little bold. It just seems too good an opportunity to pass up, finding the answer to something that has been bothering me since the first day I met Sebastien.
‘It seems like he doesn’t want Jacques to get involved with anyone romantically?’
‘He just doesn’t want him to get hurt. You know, on top of everything else, if he met someone and then that person went away – losing someone else he cares about … ’
‘Right,’ I gulp.
And then I realise that when Sebastien said, ‘You can’t save him!’ it may well have been because he felt that it was his job – he was the one who needed to return the favour. Especially since he too was connected to Rémy, perhaps even has residual guilt for causing him trouble way back when.
I hear the sound of boots coming up the stairs so switch my attention back to the awards.
‘You must be so proud,’ I say. ‘Of all your sons have accomplished … ’
Mr Dufour pulls a face. ‘They think I’m too proud – I like to display the accolades, solid proof that I did something good with my life.’
‘But you’ve done so much in your own right!’ I gasp, surprised he could ever doubt that.
He shrugs. ‘It’s not where you start, it’s where you finish. I didn’t expect to be living alone at this age.’
I feel a pang of empathy. That’s always been my greatest fear – you give your all but still end up solo. With regrets.
‘You know, life can surprise you at any moment,’ I tell him in earnest. ‘Someone new can take your breath away.’ I look back at the photo of Jacques’ mother. ‘Or someone can come back into your life … ’
‘Speaking of which!’ He rouses himself as Sebastien returns. ‘Are you going to see Julie while you’re here?’
Sebastien groans. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask that.’
‘I like Julie.’
‘I know, Dad.’
Mr Dufour looks at me. ‘First time I saw her I said, “That’s the girl who’s going to give me grandchildren.”’ He shrugs. ‘I’m still waiting, but I haven’t given up hope there.’
I feel my nails dig into my palms. Please don’t ask me about babies …
‘I like having them around, children. I like how blunt they are – they sock it to you, right between the eyes!’
‘Okay dad, I’m sure Krista wants to be getting on her way … ’
‘And what are your plans for the day, young lady?’
‘Well,’ I prepare to set myself in motion, ‘I’m basically going to try and see as many of Montreal’s attractions as possible before sunset.’
‘Are you taking her to the Cirque HQ?’
Sebastien gives his father a stern look.
‘I bet you’d like to see it … ’ Mr Dufour eggs me on.
‘Who wouldn’t like to peek behind the scenes of the greatest shows on earth?’ My eyes gleam back at him.
‘And it is just fifteen minutes’ drive from here … ’ He continues his campaigning.
‘I thought you needed the car.’ Sebastien’s eyes narrow.
‘Not for a couple of hours. Don’t you still have some of your personal items there?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, it would be a good opportunity to pick them up. And you’ve got reason to keep it brief if you don’t want to get into it with everyone – you’re showing a British travel writer around the city and you’re on a tight schedule … ’
Even Sebastien can’t argue with that.
‘All right,’ he concedes. ‘But we’re in, we’re out and we’re on our way. Deal?’
‘Deal!’ I lie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I had expected the building to have an other-wordly design, like Gaudi’s free-form fantasies in Barcelona or a multi-storey big top, but it’s far more angular and industrial than that – a futuristic version of a Slough office block on the vastest possible scale.
As we make the trek across the car park, I see Sebastien mentally psyching himself up. And me for that matter.
‘There’s going to be a lot to look at but I need you to keep moving,’ he urges.
He’s asking a lot. Our first stop is the costume department and my eyes are darting every which way trying to take in all the bolts of fabric, the avant-garde headdresses and row upon row of white molded heads – casts taken to represent every performer from chubby-cheeked bowling balls to oblongs with imposing Roman noses.
Everyone is busy doing intricate, hand-crafted work – dying, stitching, boot-making … It’s amazing to think how much creativity this one building holds.
‘Sebastien!’ I hear his name called out in every possible accent as we move among the workstations.
Costume, make-up, marketing, canteen, lockers – everywhere we go the reaction is the same: absolute delight to see him again, and then three questions:
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘When are you coming back?’
He deftly dodges any definites but with each encounter I see his resolve to keep everyone at a distance slackening. One guy, who I discern to be a Higher Up, tells him that there’s a place for him on a European tour leaving next week. And Julie’s part of the show.
My heart loops at the possibility. He just nods. The guy then places an arm on Sebastien’s shoulder and leads him through to the hangar-like studio where the aerial acts perfect their skills.
It’s impossible not to stare at their bodies. Not just because of their highly evolved muscle tone, but also the way they conduct themselves – the grace, posture, flexibility and incredible strength. By comparison I feel like a wobbling blancmange.
And then a petite redhead enters the room, dressed in a shimmering, skin-tight bodysuit that changes colour with the light, her eye make-up a sparkling blaze. It’s like the parting of the Red Sea as the performers clear a path for her, a path leading to Sebastien.
I can tell, simply from the way he is looking at her, that this is Julie.
She’s deeply engrossed in conversation with another woman and then she registers the hush around her and looks up and sees him. For a microsecond she falters, perhaps not quite believing her eyes, and then she sprints, gazelle-like, towards him. Th
eir bodies collide and then, in a seamless move, he places his hands at her waist and lifts her into the air so that her toes are pointing towards the ceiling and their faces are nose-to-nose. For a second I think he’s going to lower her into a kiss, but instead he drops her into his arms, cradling her as he spins around.
Wow. The range of expression their bodies has is incredible. Around here, if you said someone was so excited they did a backflip, they mean it.
‘Julie!’ It’s her turn to rehearse.
She signals back to the trainer and then takes Sebastien’s hand. ‘Will you join me?’
He can’t resist for long, everyone is clamouring for him to strip off and step up. I feel a wild flutter of anticipation as he casts aside his coat, fleece, and even his T-shirt. I always thought he was considerably skinnier than Jacques but his form is extraordinary – lean but sharply sculpted, like a true gymnast. He kicks off his boots and walks barefoot to what I know to be silks – those gleaming skeins of suspended fabric that aerialists bind themselves in. I see him apply what looks like resin to his hands, wrap the fabric around and around his hands and wrists until it is taut. He composes himself, starts to run …
And then he takes flight.
My heart soars right along with him as he traverses the room on the smoothest arc… I can feel the breeze he creates as he swoops past and my eyes tear up as I imagine the sensation of freedom he must be experiencing up there. This is just so right – Sebastien is someone who needs to feel the air all around him, not be tethered to the earth, even via a fast-moving dog-sled.
And then suddenly Julie is up there with him. Her petite form in perfect synchronicity with his as they entwine, climb, twist and then take a freefall drop, ever in motion, working in exquisite harmony with implicit trust. I am in awe. To me, these people are life’s true magicians; what they do seems way beyond the realms of human limitation, only here there is no illusion, it’s all real. Just way beyond what us mere mortals can even dream of.
I don’t want Sebastien to give a moment’s thought to babysitting me, or be the presence pulling his mind back to his other life in Quebec, so as soon as he’s back on solid ground I tell him I’m going to scoot off and do some sightseeing.
‘Did you have a St-Viateur bagel yet?’ one chunky bald chap enquires.
‘Noooo, it’s got to be a Fairmont bagel!’ another protests.
‘Or you could have afternoon tea at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel,’ the one Brit suggests. ‘That’s where John Lennon and Yoko Ono had their bed-in and recorded “Give Peace A Chance”.’
‘Really?’ I marvel.
‘Room 1724.’
‘Elizabeth Taylor married Richard Burton at the Ritz-Carlton!’ A flamboyantly gay guy elbows in. ‘You can have tea there too and you won’t find liverwurst on the cake stand.’
‘What?’ I splutter.
‘Better than all that,’ Julie reaches out to me. ‘The cocktails at the Baldwin Barmacie.’
‘That’s just across from Toi, Moi et Café,’ Sebastien chips in.
‘You showed her Saint-Laurent Boulevard?’ Julie checks. ‘There’s a super-cute boutique there called Preloved – everything is one of a kind, made from vintage fabrics … ’
I’m using my phone to record all their suggestions, unable to keep up with pen and paper.
‘This is great!’ I cheer as they continue to bombard me. Now I can add such captions as: ‘As recommended by Cirque du Soleil’s Lithuanian juggler’ to my guide.
‘Will you be all right getting around on the Métro?’ Sebastien checks as he walks me to the door.
I assure him that, as an aficionado of the London Underground, I’ll be just fine.’
‘Just don’t confuse the subway with the Underground City.’
‘What’s that?’ I ask, feeling slightly creeped-out as I picture a sinister French-speaking community living amid the sewers.
‘It’s this insane underground mall – there’re two thousand shops down there.’
‘Handy in this weather,’ I note. ‘Wait, did you say two thousand?’
He nods. ‘It runs for twenty miles.’
‘You keep telling me these things about Montreal that are blowing my mind.’
He gives a ‘what can I say?’ shrug.
‘Of course you can go there,’ he adds. ‘I just don’t think it will show you the best of our city. You could be anywhere.’
‘Good point.’
And then he asks me a favour – could I possibly drop the car back at his dad’s?
‘I can show you how to get there in two streets … ’
I take a deep breath. ‘Okay. I can do that.’ I may not be able to place my feet behind my ears but I can depress an accelerator pedal and turn a steering wheel.
‘And text me later to let me know if you’re getting the train back or staying over.’
‘Will do.’ I go to push open the door and then turn back, ‘Do you need to grab anything from the car before I take off?’
‘No, I have everything I need here.’
‘Ain’t that the truth,’ I mutter under my breath as I exit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Returning the car to Mr Dufour is as simple as posting the keys through his letterbox – no doubt he’s gone out in his perfectly functioning other vehicle. I smile as I descend his curvaceous staircase and even take a picture of it as a keepsake. And then, a few blocks away, I take a second, rather more industrial set of steps – this time down into the Montreal subway.
I need to go three stops on the orange line and then four on the green. Deep breath…
I brace myself for the zombie crush, the inevitable knocks and the possibility of boarding the wrong train because I’ve got caught up in the rush-hour flow and am unable to swim against the tide. But none of it happens. It’s busy, yes, but so calm it’s actually a pleasure. And, unlike on the London underground, I don’t immediately break into a claustrophobic sweat. Back home I have to adopt the demeanour of a Zen master just to get through the experience. Here there are even little arrows where the train doors open indicating the route for those getting off (straight ahead) and those getting on (angled at the side). And people actually follow them. Not in a sheep-like way, but in a courteous, logical fashion. Because why wouldn’t you? Why would you obstruct the people getting off, thus creating more problems? Why would you push? Why would you elbow the person next to you just because you can? This civility really is rocking my world. It’s just so nice to feel composed instead of hot and bothered. My personal theory is that there is more trust here – you don’t have to try and quell the panic that you won’t make it off the train at your stop before the doors close because there won’t be any damn fool standing in your way, unthinkingly blocking the exit.
I suppose it comes back to that dad kneeling beside his boy reminding him to be aware of his surroundings and always respectful … It’s funny the things that hit you when you’re abroad. It used to be all the big, flashy wonders that got my attention, but now it’s the little things that register – the things that make you feel different on the inside.
And then I go and ruin it all by getting off at the stop for Sainte-Catherine Street.
I may be a travel writer but I’m a girl first, and when they told me this was the major shopping centre of the city, I couldn’t resist a look. A choice I’m now regretting. This is even more daunting than Oxford Street – the six-mile drag is lined not just with megastores but behemoths. Just contemplating all the super-sized commerciality after the darling personalised boutiques of Mile End makes me feel as if I’m contributing to the end of society as we know it. I know I should just walk away, divert down a side street or dip into this cute little church here, but instead I find myself sucked into Canada’s oldest department store – The Bay.
The shop’s origin is actually English – founded in 1670 as Hudson’s Bay Company, back when our ancestors were bartering knives, kettles, blankets, etc, for beaver pelts from the native trappers.
The dense wool blankets proved the most coveted item and are still available today in a classic winter-white with a red, green, yellow and indigo stripe. There’s something very cool about the design and I consider a purchase until I see the price tag – nearly £250 for the queen-size! There is a fleece throw for about £20 but it’s just not the same. Besides, considering that I live in a city shoebox as opposed to a log cabin, I think this probably qualifies as one of those holiday purchases best left in their natural habitat.
Not that there’s anything natural about my immediate environment … This the first time I’ve seen women in high-heeled boots, until now we’ve all been united in the desire to be warm and not skid on the snow, but here I’m back in the land of fashion one-upmanship. I don’t like it but I continue to wander around until the strip lights drain every bit of joy from me.
‘Laurie!’ I call out to her from the lingerie department. ‘I need you to give me an audio slap! I’m in a shopping trance and self-loathing is paralysing me!’
‘Okay.’ She immediately rises to the occasion. ‘I want you to walk calmly to the nearest escalator and head for the exit … ’
‘All the shoes!’ I gasp.
‘Krista … ’
‘They even have flip-flops with the Hudson’s Bay stripes!’
‘Because flip-flops will be the perfect memento of your trip to the Winter Carnival.’
‘But they’re so cute!’
‘Keep moving past them, tunnel vision; all you need is to get back out into the fresh air.’
‘There’s a massive Guess store across the street,’ I say as I emerge.
‘You’ve never bought anything from Guess in your life.’
‘H&M!’
‘We have that at home,’ she tuts. ‘You know what you’ve got to do … ’
I take a deep breath. She’s right. The only way to purge myself of this feeling is to go to a museum.
I choose the Pointe-à-Callière aka The Montreal Museum of Archeology and History, which may seem like I’m overcompensating but in actuality it’s the hippest building at the Old Port. And home to an innovative multimedia experience showcasing Montreal’s evolutionary timeline, with red digital numbers counting us up from prehistoric times to the present day. I learn about the natives who came ashore in the fourteenth century to fish, the French who founded Montreal and the British who barged in and took over in 1760. But the coolest thing is when the floor is illuminated, revealing it to be an excavation of the actual foundations of the original colony, established right here in 1642!
WINTER WONDERLAND Page 19
