Charles the Bold

by Yves Beauchemin

  “It’s all right, Monsieur Duquette, you can come in,” the teacher said in a slightly pinched voice. “We’re through here.”

  19

  Charles had started taking an occasional look at the newspapers. Fernand was a great devotee, and they were often scattered around the floor of the living room, to the consternation of Lucie, who threw herself into indignant fits of tidying up which ended just as suddenly when she came upon an article that interested her. The two of them talked politics frequently, sometimes vigorously. Both were in favour of Quebec’s independence, but Lucie thought her husband was “slightly fanatical about it,” while Fernand considered his wife to be “a tad too fond of the English.” Charles would listen to them without understanding much of what they were on about, but some of their ideas sank in and produced a small glimmer in his mind. Fernand never failed to let fly at any politician ill-advised enough to show his or her loathsome mug on the tiny screen of the Fafard television; so it was that Pierre Trudeau, Jean Chrétien, and Gérard D. Lévesque, Bourassa’s boring successor as the head of the Quebec Liberal Party (Bourassa himself had resigned after the party’s defeat, and hadn’t been seen since) were often subjected to harangues that would have turned them forever off public life had they been able to hear them.

  Parfait Michaud held René Lévesque in a kind of mystical awe. One day, when Charles was at the notary’s house and an announcement came on the radio promoting the law regarding the financing of political parties, Michaud took the boy by the shoulders and looked deep into his eyes with an intense, burning expression.

  “Remember this day, Charlie boy,” he said. “Lévesque is the saviour of Québec. One day you’ll be able to brag that you lived at the same time as him.”

  After that, whenever Charles saw the politician’s photograph in a newspaper or read his name in a headline, he would pick up the article and read it.

  That year Charles grew six centimetres. His features became firmer, losing something of their childish softness, but he retained his frank, naive, and open expression, his easy laugh and unalloyed joyfulness that so easily gained him friends and had made him such a wizard at selling chocolate.

  Lucie had developed a deep affection for him. Sometimes, during one of his rampages through the house, she would grab him in the hallway and hold him close to her, smothering him with kisses.

  “Oh you, you, you,” she would say. “With a little mustard and ketchup I could just eat you up!”

  He would allow himself to be doted on, delighted and slightly intimidated by it, under the thoughtful gaze of Henri, who seemed to be a bit uneasy at this erosion of his status as only son.

  He was bonded to Céline, who was now eight, by a secret complicity. Despite her brother’s teasing, she continued to snuggle up against Charles when the two boys were watching television. Charles had passed on to her his love of reading, and he was very proud of having done so. He helped her with her homework and never failed to take her side in any argument she might be having with Henri. From time to time she and Charles would go for long walks around the neighbourhood under the guise of “exercising the dog,” since Boff was, at the time, looking a trifle overweight.

  Once or twice a week Charles would show up at Parfait Michaud’s; he enjoyed the notary’s somewhat affected but charming mannerisms and his often unpredictable comments. He also respected Michaud’s vast knowledge, and he didn’t say no to the many little treats he was offered at the house. But what gave Charles the greatest pleasure was that Michaud spoke to him as a grown-up. On those occasions Charles felt such an intense bubbling up of joy in his soul that he could barely refrain from leaping into the air and clicking his heels; of course he restrained himself, not wanting to be seen acting like a child. Michaud continued to lend him books and even, sometimes, made him a gift of one or two. And recently he had been initiating his young friend into the intricacies of chess.

  Charles’s feelings for Michaud’s wife Amélie were more ambiguous. He found her strange and unpredictable; when she was out of sorts, a condition that seemed to form the basis of her life, she could be frankly unpleasant. But she was also capable of showing surprising thoughtfulness.

  One day Charles told her about his weakness for raspberry pie. On his next visit, she brought him into the kitchen with a mysterious air and gave him two huge slices of a raspberry pie she had made the previous night especially for him.

  One afternoon, when he’d finished a game of chess with Michaud (Charles was proving himself to be a formidable adversary) and was about to take his leave, she came up to him in the vestibule.

  “Do you have a minute?” she asked him casually. “Good. Come with me, there’s something I want to show you.”

  She was wearing her purple turban (she claimed it helped to ward off her migraine headaches), a velour dressing gown of the same colour, pink slippers with white fur around the edges, and her hands were weighted down with a large number of shining, multicoloured rings. The boy found her outfit rather ridiculous.

  “Where are you two off to?” asked the notary when he saw them passing his office.

  “I’m going to show him my happiness cocoon.”

  “Oho! Lucky boy, Charles! You’re one of the privileged ones. They’re as rare as bilingual kangaroos.”

  They crossed the kitchen to a narrow hall that led to the back of the house.

  “Close your eyes,” Amélie ordered, stopping before a door painted a deep, soft blue. “Don’t open them until I tell you to.”

  Charles heard the rattle of keys, then Amélie took his hand and drew him forward several steps.

  “Are you keeping your eyes closed?”

  More and more intrigued, Charles nodded.

  Amélie let go of his hand and he heard a few slight sounds which he was unable to identify. Then there was a brief silence.

  “Okay. You can open your eyes now.”

  Charles gave a cry of astonishment.

  He was standing in front of a magnificent Christmas tree, decorated and lit with regal magnificence. A pile of beribboned presents wrapped in silver or gold paper lay at its feet, beside an illuminated crêche comprised of delicate figurines of painted porcelain. A music box, perched on a small pedestal table, began playing “Silent Night.”

  A delicious half-light filled the room, decorated as it was with garlands, huge stars cut from golden cardboard, stuffed bears, and the rubicund faces of various Santa Clauses. Dark-blue star-covered blinds covered the two windows, cutting out the light of day and giving the room a surreal atmosphere. A large rocking chair piled high with thick cushions had been placed before the tree, ready for someone to sit down to contemplate the room full of marvels.

  “It’s beautiful,” murmured Charles, heaving a sigh of ecstasy.

  “Not bad, eh? I put a lot of time and money into this room. The crêche figurines come from Vienna – ho-ho! – and they’re nearly a hundred years old. They’re from Conrad Kreutzer’s workshop. Means nothing to you, I see. You can sit in the rocking chair if you like.”

  Charles climbed into the chair and sat with his legs dangling, looking at the Christmas tree.

  “Why have you done all this?” he asked after a moment.

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “Because you like Christmas?”

  “Everyone likes Christmas. Guess again.”

  “Because you want Christmas to last all year?”

  “Warmer.”

  “Because … because being here makes you happy.”

  “That’s it. This room is my happiness cocoon, as I said. It’s like an anti-depressant for me. Whenever I feel sad or upset, or a problem is giving me a headache, or simply when I’m bored, I come in here, sit in front of my tree, and everything just tumbles into place. If you ever feel extra sad, you have my permission to come here. On condition that you don’t tell another soul about it.”

  The music box had switched to “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night.” Charles remembered one Ch
ristmas Eve when Alice had gently awakened him and taken him into the living room to see the tree, a tree as wonderful as this one was, he thought. In front of the crêche had been a fantastic cowboy outfit, complete with a ten-gallon hat, a holster, and two six-shooters.

  He looked up at Amélie. “I have a secret place to go to that makes me happy, too,” he said.

  About six months after Charles moved in with the Fafards, Wilfrid Thibodeau began sending Fernand small monthly sums. He was still working up at James Bay, and Fernand concluded that the carpenter must have kicked the booze, at least for the time being.

  On May 12, 1977, when he came home from school, Charles found, to his great astonishment, a letter addressed to him on his bed. It was from James Bay. His father had sent him a ten-dollar bill wrapped in a piece of paper on which was scribbled:

  Some pocket money for you. Good luck,

  Your father,

  Wilfrid

  The letter gave him not the slightest amount of pleasure. He deposited the money in the Credit Union as though he wanted the bill to be lost among the bank’s thousands of other banknotes.

  He rarely thought about his father. He’d pushed the unhappy years he had spent with him far to the back of his memory. He even experienced a pang of annoyance mixed with fear when Fernand told him that Wilfrid had started sending a small sum every month to offset some of his expenses; it was as though the money represented a link between himself and a man he no longer wished to see and to whom he felt no goodwill.

  “Am I going to stay with you always?” he’d asked Lucie one night when she was going over his homework with him.

  She had laughed. “As long as you like, Charlie! And your dog, too, as long as he keeps his nose out of the living room.”

  But the next day she called Parfait Michaud to ask him what was involved in becoming a child’s legal guardian. He advised her to see a lawyer.

  “Don’t waste your money on a lawyer!” Fernand exclaimed when she asked his opinion on the matter. “You know Wilf as well as I do: he no more wants anything to do with his son than he wants a tail in the middle of his forehead! I’ll wager you a thousand dollars that we never set eyes on him again! And even that would be too soon for me!”

  One afternoon in June, Charles was walking down rue Ontario, his schoolbag on his back, having just got out of school. A small stray dog was following him on its short legs; it had taken a liking to the boy and was constantly jumping up on him. Suddenly a vigorous tapping on a plate-glass window beside him made him look up.

  On the other side of the window was Sylvie. She was smiling and waving at him, seated at a restaurant table beside a man Charles didn’t recognize. He had black, curly hair and looked younger than Sylvie, and he too was watching Charles and smiling. Charles hadn’t seen Sylvie since the night of the paring knife, and as he looked at her he had a vague presentiment that this chance meeting did not augur well. The young woman motioned him into the restaurant. He felt like running as fast as he could, but the imploring look in the eyes of his father’s former girlfriend made him push open the restaurant door, leaving his new canine friend on the sidewalk. The dog looked after him for a second, disappointed, then took off down the street.

  Sylvie stood up and waited for him beside the table.

  “How big you’ve grown!” she cried after giving him a big hug and two loud kisses on his cheeks. “I hardly recognized you!”

  Charles tilted his head from side to side, not knowing quite how to respond to such comments, which kids always find so boring. Unexpected exuberance like this from a woman who had never shown anything but coldness and reserve towards him made him feel shy and uncertain. Her breath smelled strongly of beer, which explained everything. She turned to her companion.

  “This is Charles, my ex’s son. He gave me a pretty hard time, the little rascal, but he’s not a bad kid underneath.”

  The man half-stood and held out his hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Charles. My name’s Gilles. Come and sit with us for a few minutes.”

  The child hesitated slightly, but Sylvie pushed him gently towards the table.

  “Come on, let’s have a chat. I’m so happy to see you again! We haven’t seen each other for nearly a year!”

  Charles sat on a chair with his hands joined together on his lap, looking about as comfortable as a cat in a bathtub. Sylvie took her beer bottle and refilled her glass.

  “So,” she said, watching the glass fill with foam, “how’s your father?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t live with him any more.”

  And he briefly told her about the great changes that had taken place in his life.

  “I’m happy for you, Charles. That man was not meant to bring up a child.”

  “What man is?” asked her curly-headed friend, with a big smile. He emptied his glass in two gulps and signalled the waitress to bring two more.

  Charles didn’t like him. His red, glistening skin, his bright, expressionless eyes, his small, thin, meticulously trimmed moustache, his slightly creased cheeks sloping down to a square jaw, all gave an impression of indestructible hardness, as though with a single head-butt he could burst through the thickest of walls as though they were made of paper.

  “And I don’t think, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Sylvie went on in a sad voice, “that he liked you very much, my poor little Charles.”

  “I don’t think so, either,” Charles replied.

  “What a family!” exclaimed Gilles, laughing again, a loud, mocking laughter that seemed to hold both father and son in the same disapproving light.

  Charles rubbed his knees together and looked longingly at the door.

  “But are you happy living with the Fafards?” Sylvie asked.

  “Yes,” Charles said. “They love me very much. And I’m doing well at school.”

  He tossed these last words like a challenge at the man, whom he was disliking more and more.

  “Tell me, Charlie, what’s your pleasure?” Gilles asked. “It’s on me. Anything you like.”

  Charles looked at him coldly.

  “No, thank you. I have to go.”

  “Well, aren’t you the independent one! Come on, come on, I’m paying. Ask for something!”

  “Come on, Charles, have something,” Sylvie insisted. “Have a Coke. Or a Seven-Up. As a favour to me, Charles. Oh yeah, I remember: hot chocolate! You love hot chocolate, don’t you? It just came back to me.”

  Charles still shook his head and, sliding to the side of his chair, placed one foot on the floor.

  “How about a beer, then?” said Gilles, grabbing him by the arm. He looked straight in the boy’s eyes and laughed openly. “But no, of course not,” he said, answering his own question. “You’re just a little raggedy-assed kid that’s not man enough to drink beer, aren’t you?”

  “Raggedy-assed yourself – I’m as much a man as you,” Charles spat out, furious.

  And he grabbed one of the bottles in front of him and brought it to his lips. Sylvie cried out in protest.

  At first the ice-cold liquid with its slightly acid taste, which was entirely new to him, and the explosion of bubbles that prickled in his throat like a mouthful of needles, contracted his chest and forced a burping sigh up into his mouth, to the great amusement of Gilles, who nodded his head approvingly. Charles took two more large swallows and put the bottle back on the table to catch his breath.

  “Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-gun! You’re a real man, after all!” exclaimed Gilles, holding back Sylvie, who was trying to reach out and take the bottle from Charles.

  “Gilles!” she said under her breath, looking anxiously about the restaurant to see if anyone was watching. “Cut it out! He’s just a kid!”

  “A kid? No he ain’t! He’s a man like me! Ain’t you, Charles? Ain’t you a man like me?”

  Charles nodded. Flattered though he was by the compliment, he also wanted to show up the slobbering idiot who was not even trying to hide his disdain.

>   “What’d I tell ya?” cried Curly-Head, turning to his girlfriend. “The boy says he’s a man. Down the hatch, my man, you gotta still be thirsty. Two, three more guzzles. Don’t listen to Syl – ouch!”

  Sylvie had punched him soundly in the ribs. Silently, with a feline grace, he grabbed her arm with both hands, keeping it out of harm’s way, and at the same time steered her towards the back of the restaurant so that what he had to say to her would be confidential.

  Meanwhile, Charles picked up the bottle again, and, his eyes bulging out of his head, tried to swallow as much beer as he could.

  “Atta boy, kid!” Curly-Head said encouragingly, coming back to the table. “You’re a real connoisseur! An honest-to-God connoisseur! You’d think he was born with a beer in his hand, this guy! No kiddin’, Charlie my boy, you’re the champ!”

  Sylvie suddenly broke her arm free of his grasp and, nearly leaping over her chair, wrestled the bottle from Charles’s hand.

  “Get out! Get out of here! This is no place for you!” she told him quietly, pushing him towards the door. “I should never have waved at you, you poor kid.”

  Charles, proud of his defiance but burdened nonetheless by the unpleasant feeling that he’d been an object of ridicule, left the restaurant with Gilles’s guffaws ringing in his ears. Curly-Head, enchanted by his own wit, waved goodbye to Charles through the window while Sylvie, once again seated beside him, looked the other way.

  20

  Charles took several steps along the sidewalk; he was filled with an immense joy, the cause of which he could not determine. He felt light on his feet, not a care in the world, wanting more than anything to talk to someone without having anything in particular to say. His feet, however, were having trouble moving in unison, and the weight of his school bag was pulling him over backwards, nearly making him lose his balance. He tried to shuck it up higher on his shoulders, but the manoeuvre seemed complicated and confusing. He turned to a young girl in a blue dress who was walking in his direction.