The boy sighed and turned on his side.
“Charles, wake up! I got something to tell you,” said the carpenter in a slightly louder voice.
He shook the boy roughly by the shoulders.
“What? What’s the matter?” sputtered Charles, sitting up in the bed.
He looked at his father with a terrified expression.
“I got you a job, my boy. You’re going to sell chocolate bars!”
The child kept staring at him silently, pushing himself back to the head of the bed. His father’s breath, his slouched and somewhat puffy posture, and his narrow eyes, staring and slightly feverish, all spoke eloquently of his condition. Anything could happen. Charles held his breath and waited.
“Aren’t you happy?” Wilfrid demanded, returning his hand to his son’s shoulder. “You’re going to make us a lot of money! Five bucks a day! D’you hear that? Five bucks! Aren’t you glad?”
Charles nodded his head rapidly.
“Tomorrow you’re going to call a Monsieur Guilbault. You’ll go and meet up with him and he’ll tell you what you have to do. It’s as easy as pie. He gave me his card.”
He lifted his slightly trembling hand to his shirt pocket and succeeded in taking out the small card, which he held out to Charles. The boy took it without even glancing at it and put it down beside him, his eyes still on his father.
“You don’t look too happy about it,” Wilfrid said jokingly. “But I just did you a good turn, my boy. Money don’t grow on trees these days … When you get a chance like this you gotta jump at it without asking too many questions … S’true I just woke you up,” he added, placing his hand on his forehead as though to prevent it from exploding. He began breathing in irregular snorts, and his head bobbed gently on his shoulders.
“Yes,” said Charles.
“So say thank you! Christ’s sake! I just done you a big favour, you know.”
Charles pushed farther back in his bed and managed a tight smile: “Thank you very much.”
Satisfied, the carpenter nodded once and yawned deeply. When he tried to stand up, however, he discovered to his stupefaction that his legs had decided to detach themselves from his body, as though they wanted to follow their own separate destinies; they no longer did what he told them to do. He couldn’t let his son see him leave the room on his knees or, even worse, on all fours. No, he must avoid that at all costs.
“Tired’s the devil all-va sudden,” he slurred, struggling to make his swollen lips move in their normal fashion. “Think I’ll jus’ lie down here furrabit. Don’ mind me, jus’ go backta sleep.”
And under the astonished gaze of his son he slid down to the floor, leaned his head against the end of the bed and closed his eyes.
Charles waited a long time before lying back down. He turned his back towards his sleeping father, curled up into a ball hugging Simon tightly, and pulled the blanket up over his head. He imagined himself in a bubble, gently floating high above the city. Boff was in the bubble with him, snuggled up against his chest, and he felt he was in the best of all possible worlds.
His father’s snoring woke him in the morning; he was sleeping with his mouth open, still stretched out on the floor.
The night before, Charles had forgotten to close the blind before going to bed, and now the morning sunlight flooded into the room, pushing the night’s fears deep into the corners of his mind.
With his shirt half-unbuttoned, his hair sticking up on his head, and his jaw hanging open, Wilfrid was not a pretty sight. Sitting in his bed, Charles studied his father’s mouth, a huge, dark cavern that reminded him of a drainhole in a bathtub or a sink; he imagined a leak in the ceiling through which a thin trickle of water would fall into his father’s mouth with a quiet gurgle. The idea made him laugh, then he stopped, slightly ashamed of himself. There was nothing funny about what he was looking at. His father was drinking so much these days that he couldn’t keep a job; one day, something terrible was sure to happen to him.
Quietly he got out of bed, gathered up his clothes, and went out into the living room to get dressed. Sylvie was still asleep. He decided to go to the Fafards’ for breakfast. Lucie and Fernand always got up early and would welcome him with pleasure, as they always did. He’d hardly closed the door and begun descending the staircase when he heard Sylvie’s furious voice rising from the apartment:
“What the hell do you think you’re doing there, you! Sleeping on the floor in your son’s bedroom! Drinking like a pig again last night, were you?”
Charles crept silently down the stairs and ran across the street. In the Fafards’ backyard, Boff heard the boy’s footsteps and began barking.
Gino Guilbault got out of his purple Lincoln, rubbed his stomach absently with a circular motion, and walked towards the entrance to the Frontenac metro station, singing You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, softly to himself. His new shoes squeaked satisfactorily, a fresh stick of cinnamon-flavoured gum was sweetening his breath, Angèle, his secretary, had recently sweetened his day with never-to-be-forgotten pleasures, and sales of chocolate bars had never been better. In short, life was good.
A small but steady crowd was coming and going in front of the metro station. Two men were handing out advertising pamphlets; a city worker wielding a jackhammer was busy demolishing a section of sidewalk next to a drinking-fountain, closely watched by a gaggle of children. Guilbault slowly scanned the area until he saw Charles leaning against the station wall, holding out Guilbault’s business card. He made a quick sign for the boy to come over.
“Are you Charles Thibodeau?”
Charles nodded, staring in fascination at the man’s crooked mouth and the huge red boil in the middle of his cheek, both of which gave him a slightly comical appearance.
Guilbault looked the boy up and down, nodded his head and murmured, “Okay, okay, okay …” with an air of contentment.
“Follow me,” he said. “We’ll talk in my car. It’s too noisy out here, that thing’s making my ears ring.”
Charles stopped respectfully beside the Lincoln, then, at Guilbault’s invitation, climbed in on the passenger side. For a moment the splendour of the car’s interior took his breath away.
“You okay, kid?”
“Yes,” replied the boy in a barely audible voice.
The businessman gave a little chuckle of satisfaction.
“Not a bad heap, eh? I’m on the road a lot, you know, so I need to be comfortable. Okay, Charlie my boy, as you know I ran into your father the other day and he told me you were a clever young lad, a good worker, good with people, and you wouldn’t be against having a few bucks in your pocket. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” Charles replied, blushing.
“Would you like a Coke, Charles?”
The child hesitated a moment, then nodded, his eyes shining in anticipation. The man turned brusquely in the seat (his bulk forcing a long sigh from his lips), stuck his hand in a bag lying on the floor behind him, and took out two cans, each of which he opened with a flick of his thumb.
“There you go, my boy. Pleasure. In this bloody heat you have to keep your guts wet or you’ll shrivel up like a kernel of corn left out in the sun!”
He took a long drink and wiped his fleshy, pink lips.
“I’ve got a job for you, Charles. It’s easy and it pays well. I’ll show you the ropes and you’ll pick it up in no time. All you have to do is sell chocolate bars. You like chocolate, I guess?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
Guilbault patted Charles on the shoulder. “I like your style, my boy. You come across very well mannered. That’s perfect for our business, you know.”
Sweat had begun to bead on the man’s forehead. He turned the key in the ignition and flipped on the air conditioning, then described to Charles the exact nature of the business. Charles heard him out, becoming more and more interested. The idea of earning easy money (and it sounded as though there’d be nothing to it) while at the same time helping other kids in need
was very appealing. One by one, Guilbault revealed to Charles the secrets of salesmanship, his voice rising and falling with enthusiasm.
“First important point: your clothes shouldn’t be either too good (how can you inspire pity when you’re wearing good clothes?) or too raggedy (which attracts scorn). The clothes you’re wearing now are perfect. Next important point: you have to offer your merchandise confidently, but not arrogantly. A good salesman looks the prospective customer straight in the eye, and with a big smile explains the purpose of the sale in as few words as possible: We’re trying to raise funds for the Saint-Eusèbe Recreation Centre, or, We want all the needy children in Hochelaga-Maisonneuve to have a nourishing breakfast, whatever. Depends on the day. If you get a refusal, your smile should get even bigger, because the passerby might change his mind, either right there on the spot or maybe later. Final important point: always address the prospective customer with respect. Make it clear you’re asking for their help, but don’t exaggerate or they’ll think you’re putting it on. A good salesman takes absolute care with the money he collects, so that it doesn’t get lost or stolen, in which case, you are responsible for replacing it.”
Charles listened attentively, nodding his head and practising smiling at an imaginary client.
“Is all that clear, my boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me Gino. We’re like friends now, you and me.”
Charles cleared his throat in embarrassment.
“Could you tell me how much … er … what my salary would be?”
“Two bits a bar, the same as I get. The rest goes to good causes. Okay? Perfect. Now listen: every Monday night between eight and nine o’clock I’ll come over to your place and bring you more boxes of bars and collect the money you made the previous week. Got that? I’ll give you some special forms for keeping track of everything.”
With his eyes riveted on Guilbault, Charles nodded to show he understood. Then his eyelids fluttered, as though an unpleasant thought had just occurred to him.
“Do I have to … do I have to work very often, sir?”
“Gino, call me Gino, like I told you. From now on you and me we’re on the same team. Right? If you want to make good money, my friend, you have to put some effort into it: weekends and at least two or three evenings after school, let’s say between six and eight. You got a problem with that?”
“It’s just that I already have a job.”
“What job’s that?”
“I do deliveries for the restaurant down the street from our house.”
“And how much do you make doing that?”
“Um … nine or ten dollars a week, about. Depends on the week.”
Guilbault smiled, and because of his strangely asymmetrical face Charles couldn’t tell if he was expressing disdain or amusement. His words, however, removed all doubt.
“Listen to me, Charlie my boy. You put a bit of oomph into your work with me, you could bring in two or three times that much. D’you understand what I’m saying here? Twenty, thirty dollars! A week! I got a little girl up in the Plateau makes twenty bucks a week, regular as clockwork. She’s a hard worker, I’ll give her that, and she’s not one to hang back, like. But you’ve got the goods, I can tell just by looking at you, and your Dad tells me you’ve got a good tongue in your head; I have no doubt that you could easily do as well as she does, maybe better.”
Charles blushed and looked down. Guilbault twisted around again and plunged his hand into the bag. He took out a cardboard box, which he placed on Charles’s lap.
“You feel like maybe getting started right away? You’re in a good spot, right here at the entrance to the Frontenac station.”
Charles hesitated, then nodded. Guilbault opened the box, took out a bar, and passed it under Charles’s nose; the boy’s nostrils attracted by the smell of chocolate.
“These bars here, they’re for the Baie-Saint-Paul Youth Club, they want to go to Quebec City in the fall to visit the Museum they got there. An excellent cultural initiative … You sell ’em for a buck a bar, not a penny less. Just stand over there by the entrance and give it a try. I’ll hang around for a while and watch you from the car, make sure everything goes okay, but I can’t stay long: I got three other meetings to make before six o’clock.”
Charles read the inscription on the back of the bar wrapper two or three times to himself, in order to memorize it, then slid over on the seat and opened the car door, nerves clutching at his throat. But he managed a smile. Guilbault gave him a little encouraging pat on the back.
“Good luck, Charlie my boy. It’ll be a piece of cake, just you wait and see. You look just right! Sincere, and a good little gent to boot. The women’ll gobble ’em up! Oh, by the way …” he called as Charles was moving off, “if you know of any other kids who might want to sell chocolate, give me their names on Monday, okay?”
A few minutes later Charles sold his first bar. Fighting off an impulse to jump for joy, he waved the dollar bill towards the purple Lincoln. Guilbault gave him the thumbs-up, then pulled rapidly away from the curb in a whirling cloud of blue smoke.
Towards six o’clock, feeling sad but resolute, Charles turned up at Chez Robert to tell Rosalie and Roberto that he’d been offered a new job and wouldn’t be delivering pizzas for them any more.
“What job? What are you doing?” Rosalie asked in astonishment.
“I’m selling chocolate bars.”
“Twenty-five cents a bar?” she muttered when the boy had left, shrugging her shoulders. “Poor little tyke! He’ll be back in no time, you wait and see!”
Boff was miserable. He spent most of the day dozing in his house beside the Fafards’ garage, ignoring the other neighbourhood dogs that came to visit from time to time. He almost never left the yard. Not even the odoriferous rear-end of a beagle with whom he had, in the past, enjoyed a few torrid afternoon adventures was enough to draw him out of his sad state. He missed Charles. Curled up in a ball, head poking out of his house, he dreamed longingly of those halcyon days when he’d slept at the foot of Charles’s bed, spent entire days with him, and run his tongue up and down the boy’s cheeks just about any time he’d wanted to. Now those days were long gone. His whole reason for living had flown out the window. He could no longer go across the street to see him (a lesson he’d learned the hard way!), and on the rare occasions when Charles came to visit him he never stayed long enough and seemed tired and distracted. He came, he left, God knew where he went off to. In fact, Boff was beginning to suspect that the boy no longer loved him. The very idea of it killed his appetite, turned his paws into jelly, made his head moan like an empty seashell. There was nothing he wanted to do but sleep, sleep and never wake up …
Once in a while Henri, worried about Boff’s condition, went out to see how he was doing. Henri was not the kind of person who did things by halves. What he liked were energetic, rapid solutions to problems. He’d grab Boff by the collar and haul him out of his doghouse, attach a leash to him, and, ignoring the dog’s whining, quick-march him around the block a few times “to keep him in good shape and build up his appetite.”
“That’s not what he needs,” Lucie said one night after watching them anxiously from the kitchen window. “What he needs is Charles. That’s all.”
But Charles was selling chocolate. He was selling it six days a week (he took Mondays off), from eight o’clock in the morning till nine o’clock at night. He sold chocolate in his sleep; he sold chocolate as he was getting dressed in the morning; he sold chocolate while he was brushing his teeth, while visiting Boff, night and day, selling chocolate. He would have liked to have sold a bit less and been able to take a break, see his friends, whom he was beginning to neglect. But Gino Guilbault smothered him with so many compliments, phoned him nearly every night encouraging him to do better than he’d done the night before: “Charlie, my boy, you keep it up like this you’re going to be my best salesman, bar none. You’re going to out-sell my little Ginette in the Plateau. You�
��re a natural, no kidding, I’m prouder of you than I know how to tell you! But don’t slack off, now! You haven’t shown me half of what you’re capable of doing!”
Charles redoubled his efforts, his charm, his cleverness. Smiling with his lips – a smile that sometimes betrayed his weariness – he held out his chocolate bars to passersby, constantly coming up with new ways to make himself more noticeable, to attract more and more of their sympathy. He would return home late in the evening totally exhausted. He began getting headaches for the first time in his life, his legs would ache, and the soles of his feet would feel as though they were on fire. He’d broadened his sales base, adding the Berri-de Montigny station to the Frontenac site and expanding into the Place Versailles shopping concourse and all down rue Ontario, as well as other spots. Guilbault drove him all over the city in his purple Lincoln, picking him up from various places with exemplary punctuality. Often Charles would travel with other children; their drained faces and unwillingness to talk (perhaps because of the Big Boss’s presence) made him thoughtful.
Charles worked himself to the bone to spread happiness throughout the land by the sale of chocolate bars – also to make himself a bit of money. Because of his efforts, he believed, children from Baie-Saint-Paul were being better educated; Scouts from Verdun were able to clear the city air from their lungs on camping trips; young polio sufferers (how that word polio made him squirm!) at the Institute Notre-Dame-du-Rosaire were able to buy the equipment they so badly needed. He was overwhelmed by good causes, limitless in their diversity, each need as pressing as the next and the next. A million lives like his wouldn’t make a dent in them!
Lucie and Fernand forbade Henri to become involved in selling chocolate bars for charity and blamed Wilfrid for having pushed his son into the life of a street vendor.
“He’s wearing himself out, the poor kid,” Fernand grumbled whenever he saw Charles leaving his apartment, arms loaded with boxes. “And for who? For a bloody crook, I’ll bet any money. Not to mention the risk! Montreal’s a big city. All kinds of low-lifes in it. Who’s to say what could happen to him?”
Charles the Bold Page 18
