8:17 pm rue Darling

by Bernard Emond

– Monsieur, would you be so kind as to tell me your name and what you are doing in the ruins of my former home?

  The situation was ridiculous. But the fact is, I was curious. I moved closer to the opening. He was inside now. He’d brought tools with him. I could hear digging and scraping, I could hear rubble being pushed aside. Then silence. And then I heard him straining to move something big. There were a couple of hits of a shovel, then more straining. I heard him swear and groan with the effort. And then there was a terrible crash as the rubble collapsed on top of him. I switched on my flashlight and started down into the tunnel. You couldn’t see ten steps in front of you, the dust was an impenetrable fog. I was just about to turn back and go for help when I heard a faint moan. I couldn’t just leave him there. I groped my way forward to where he was trapped. The dust began to settle. I moved some pieces of rubble and saw him, pinned under a thick beam that lay across his chest. His breathing sounded like a death rattle. It was François, the guy with the beard, my downstairs neighbour.

  There was no time to lose. He was in bad shape. The beam had crushed his rib cage. And it wasn’t going to be easy to move: both ends were jammed under the rubble. I told him:

  – Hang in there. I’ll get you out.

  I put my flashlight down on the end of a cinder block and started moving bricks and pieces of wood to see if I could shift the beam. No luck. There were creaking sounds above me. The whole mountain of rubble was unstable. I thought I might have a better chance of freeing him if I cleared some space under him. I started digging and managed to move him a few centimetres. That seemed to ease the pressure on his chest. He was breathing better. But there still wasn’t enough room to get his head under the beam. I kept digging. I started pulling on a 2x4 and realized, too late – wrong one! Bricks and rubble crashed down on top of me. Something hit me on the head. I found myself in complete darkness. Completely conscious. And completely panicked. I was inhaling more dust than air. I forced myself to calm down by thinking about the ocean. God knows why, I don’t like the ocean.

  Cigarettes cause throat cancer, lung cancer, heart disease, and stroke, not to mention social ostracism and bad breath. But smokers have one advantage over non-smokers: they’ve usually got a light. I dug around in my pockets while saying a little prayer for E.B. Eddy and found my book of matches. I lit one. The beam had crushed François’s neck. His head was twisted at an impossible angle and his eyes were wide open. He was dead.

  The cave-in had also blocked the way out. I was trapped. The match burnt my fingers. There were only three left. I lit one more to try to get my bearings. No doubt about it, I’d got myself into a real mess. I groped about in my pockets for my flashlight. No luck. I lit a cigarette. I was cold. But it didn’t take a genius to figure it out: I’d just have to wait for Lieutenant Geoffrion to show up in the morning. He’d rescue me. But wait – what day was it? Friday night. Fear gripped me. Did he work Saturdays? Probably not. He probably had a bungalow in Laprairie, a wife and two kids, and a Voyager minivan. On Saturday he’d be putting on the snow tires and tuning up the snow-blower, then picking up some Kentucky Fried Chicken and hitting the sofa to watch the Canadiens get creamed by the Tyrannosauruses from Normal, Illinois. It was one thing to tough it out till morning in the company of a dead body and a few dozen rats. It was a whole other thing to sit two days freezing in the dark with nothing to eat or drink. And what if the Boomer’s boss decided to close the investigation and send him somewhere else? Whoa. Calm down, Gerry boy. One day at a time.

  And all this for what? A wild goose chase. I’d never know for sure what François had come looking for in the rubble, even if I figured it wasn’t a few old photos of his mother. There was probably a few thousand dollars worth of coke buried a few inches from my head, fronted no doubt by his buddies at the Darling Tavern. Big deal. Big discovery. I was making great progress, stuck in this hole. Obviously, it was time to do a little introspection, to practice Step Ten: We continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it. If I’d had a cell phone and the number of the Power greater than ourselves, whoever we understand Him to be, I’d have called Him up right then and there: “Fine. I was wrong, OK là? From now on I’ll be super smart, super good, super sober, super nice, and a super nobody. And I’ll live to be 90. OK? ... OK?!”

  Rebellion erupted in me. I could have howled with rage. I wanted to smash something. Instead, I chain-smoked my cigarettes, seethed with bile, and railed against Step Eleven: We sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out. I was half mad with loathing:

  – Yes, Master. Anything you say, Master. Only water for me, Master ... Christ on a fucking crutch. Enough with the boot-licking, hostie! I’m not a fucking poodle. Je suis un homme! When you fuck up and you land in shit, you get the fuck up and you start walking again. What the fuck’s all this powerless shit? Our lives have become unmanageable ... only a Power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity. Bullshit! I’m not sick, I’m fucking furious! I drink because life is shit, people are bastards, and the Good Lord couldn’t give a flying fuck about any of us, just like we don’t give a flying fuck about cockroaches.

  I was out of cigarettes. I fished around in Francois’ pockets and smoked his. Then I must have fallen asleep.

  When I woke up, I was three-quarters frozen and still pissed off at the world. I was stiff as a corpse. I was cramped. I was out of cigarettes, out of matches, and almost out of body heat. My fingers were numb and I couldn’t feel my feet anymore. I tried moving a little. I rubbed my legs, flexed my arms, and turned my head from side to side. It was then I saw the faint light. Daybreak. In a little while there was enough to see by. I started working, very slowly, terrified I’d trigger another cave-in. After half an hour, my hands bleeding and my clothes torn, I crawled out of the rubble just as Lieutenant Geoffrion was climbing in through the fence. He looked as determined as ever but a little down in the dumps. And he didn’t seem surprised to see me.

  – So, it was you.

  –Non, pas moi. You’d better call for back-up. There’s another body down there, my neighbour. I saw him go in, I followed him, and there was a cave-in.

  The Boomer went back to his van to call and I took the opportunity to vanish. I went home, showered, changed my clothes, and wolfed down something to eat. At 10 o’clock on the dot I was at the door of the SAQ.

  u

  She was gorgeous, sitting there beside me in the car. Her curves, her golden complexion. I hadn’t touched her yet, I was just imagining how warm she’d feel. I drove for the sake of driving, to prolong the pleasure, because it’s always better if you hold back a little. She was waiting patiently, wrapped in her brown paper bag. I drove around the city a few of times. She loves me, she loves me not ... I wanted her so much. I parked at the look-out on Mount Royal, where the junkies and lovers go, and I gazed at the city. And then I turned to her. I pulled off her brown paper bag and read the advice printed on it: “Moderation is always in good taste.” I decided that didn’t apply to me. And then I looked lovingly at the yellow label and the little ship. I unscrewed the cap, thrilled by the sound I’d forgotten: click click click. And then I inhaled her aroma. And then I raised her to my lips. And then – no, not right away. I waited until the desire was unbearable. And then I think I started crying.

  And then I drank.

  The taste of whiskey filled my mouth. The warmth slipped down my throat. The knot in my stomach dissolved. My scalp tingled. The weight I carry on my shoulders every day from morning to night evaporated, instantly. I felt happy, truly happy, for the first time in seven months.

  I was home.

  u

  Staying drunk, maintaining just the right degree of drunkenness, is a high-wire act. There’s a degree of intoxication that’s just right. For me it’s a quarter of a forty-ouncer. That much is perfect. It’s peace and love, no worries, tout co
ol. But it’s harder to stay right there than not to drink at all: the Sirens call from the bottle. I mustered all the willpower I had and hurled it off the look-out, then jumped back in the car. Time to move. Christ, I love driving drunk. But not in the city, on the autoroute, a nice and easy 90 klicks an hour in the centre lane with the turkeys flying past on both sides. Life slips into slow motion, it’s all good. I was almost in Sainte-Agathe when I had a brilliant idea: finish the job. I still had Madame Caron’s address, I might as well find out how that story ends. I could picture it clearly: I’d go and see her and tell her what I wanted to know. She’d either speak to me or she wouldn’t, but at least I’d have tried. It’s amazing how alcohol clarifies things. I took the exit at Sainte-Agathe and drove straight to the SAQ. I stashed the bottle under the seat without opening it. I was proud of my willpower. Then I pointed the car back towards Laval.

  At the Porte-du-Nord I got thirsty. I pulled into the parking lot at McDonald’s and downed another quarter of a bottle. It was even better than the first. You have to maintain just the right degree of intoxication, I told myself. I was about to hurl the rest of the forty-ouncer in Ronald McDonald’s face, painted on the window, but I decided against it. There were people around. Besides, no use wasting good Scotch on a clown, even if he is the herald of American imperialism and prophet of the end of western civilization (whatever we understood that to be). I put the bottle back under the seat and consulted my Perly’s. Madame Caron, it turned out, lived in Sainte-Rose. I headed for Sainte-Rose.

  The place was beside the water, a three-story building that looked like a snake made out of bricks. The stone gate must have been ultra-modern in 1960. The sign said: “Pavillon Sainte-Béatrice: Long-Term Care.” There was a garden with a pond and some maple trees in colour. A nurse was pushing an old lady around in a wheelchair. I checked the address on my scrap of paper. This was it. I went in and spoke to the woman at reception.

  – Is there a Madame Caron living here?

  I’ll never get used to being treated with contempt. Indifference I can take, hatred I can deal with, but not contempt. She looked me over from head to toe. She looked at my Canadiens jacket, my Fortrel pants, and my crumpled scrap of paper. Her nostrils quivered and her lips pursed. I resisted the temptation to say that it was people like her that drove me to drink. Really, my willpower was amazing. There was a long silence. Then she said, yes, there was a person by that name living there.

  – I’d like to see her, s’il vous plaît.

  Another silence. Then she informed me that visiting hours began at three o’clock.

  Fine, change of plan. I decided to take advantage of the delay to get my blood alcohol content down to a more socially acceptable level. It almost worked. I went to a truck stop on Route 117 and had two cups of coffee. I went to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, ran a comb through my hair, and grabbed a handful of mints at the cash. On the way out I lifted a raincoat from the cloakroom. It’s important to look presentable. Then I headed back to the Pavillon Sainte-Béatrice, with another shot of Cutty Sark for the road. It’s always the last one. They say people who drink are lost, but it’s not true: we know exactly where we are. We’re like the needle on a compass, always pointing to the bottle, our one true north. Say what you like, but it’s good to have a direction in life.

  The nurse who took me to Madame Caron seemed a little concerned about my appearance. We found her in the smoking room. She was in a wheelchair, dressed in black. She was looking out at the trees.

  – You have a visitor, Madame Caron, the nurse said.

  She turned her head slowly; her movements seemed awkward, uncoordinated. She looked at me for a long time before speaking.

  – Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?

  – My name is Gérard Langlois. I lived in the building where your husband died.

  – Was he in your apartment?

  – No.

  – Did you know him ?

  – No.

  – Do you know what he was doing there?

  – N ... no.

  – So what is it you want?

  Her voice was strange. It was too high, somehow, and quivering. And yet there was authority in it, along with unmistakable suffering and bitterness.

  – Je ne sais pas. I’m trying to understand.

  – Understand what?

  The nurse caught Madame Caron’s eye.

  – Would you like me to show the gentleman out?

  – No. Leave us alone, please.

  The nurse left and Madame Caron continued.

  – What is it you are trying to understand, Monsieur Langlois?

  – I dunno ... I should have died, too ... It’s just luck that I’m still alive ... My shoelace was undone ... It only took a few seconds to tie it ... But, because of that, I had a car accident ... I wasn’t drunk ... And then, because of the accident, I got home late ... So I wasn’t there when the explosion happened ... It’s crazy, eh? ... I mean ... a shoelace ...

  She looked at me as if I were some strange insect that had landed in her soup. I was thrown off balance. I didn’t know what to say. The situation was absurd. Suddenly I realized how ridiculous I looked. I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could. I apologized and started to walk away.

  – Monsieur Langlois!

  I turned and faced her.

  – If I understand you correctly, you’re alive because your shoelace came undone.

  I wanted to sink through the floor.

  – And you want to know why my husband is dead, c’est ça? Am I wrong?

  – Excusez-moi, madame. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll go.

  I wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Her expression was fierce.

  – No. Don’t go. I’ll tell you why my husband is dead, if that’s what you want to know. My husband is dead because he went to your building to make love to another woman. Do you find that crazy, too? I know who she was, but I’m not going to tell you. He made love to her because I could no longer make love to him. Do you want me to explain that, too, Monsieur Langlois, why I couldn’t make love to my husband? You want details? My medical files? The why of things interests you? There is no why, Monsieur Langlois. Life is shit, that’s all. There is no why. Only the how matters. How we make love. How we cope with suffering. How our bodies fail us. Is there anything else you want to know?!

  She was shouting. The nurse rushed back in to calm her, and glared at me:

  – You. Out!

  I retreated down the corridor. Patients came to the doors of their rooms to see what was happening. Nurses stared. The last words I heard Madame Caron screaming were “multiple sclerosis!” I turned a corner, ran down the stairs and out the lobby. The next thing I knew I was in my car, fumbling under the seat. I wanted to die.

  u

  How I got to Maniwaki I’ll never know. All I remember is that I was desperate to put as much distance as possible between me and what had just happened. If I’d had more guts, or been more impulsive, I’d have killed myself out of shame and despair. Happily, I had my little ship to save me. I poured Scotch down my throat and slammed my foot to the floor, trashing a couple of parked cars on the way out. I emptied my account at the first bank machine I saw then got back on the autoroute heading north. I must have hung a left at Grand-Remous. I vaguely remember a tavern with wood panelling and deer and moose heads mounted on the walls. Apparently some hunters wearing checked shirts came in with more heads and started measuring the antlers with tape measures. But that part’s fuzzy. I only know that I drank nine hundred of the National Banks’ thousand dollars and ended up in jail. The rest of the story they had to tell me.

  Apparently I drank for two days straight and the waiters had to help me up to my room the first night. The next day was the close of hunting season and the hotel was hosting the Maniwaki Antler Festival, a very exclusive affair. It seems I took exception to the measuring of the antlers and climbed up on a pool table shouting: “Leave the poor animals alone!” That part I don
’t remember at all. And I’m surprised, really, because I’ve got nothing against hunting. But that’s what they tell me, so it must be true. And it gets better. It seems they threw me out. It seems I came right back in, determined to torch the winning rack. It seems I doused it in Scotch and tried to set it on fire. On the list of things not to do during the Maniwaki Antler Festival, that probably comes in at number three, right after: “Don’t proposition the hunters’ girlfriends” and “Don’t piss off the Indians on the reserve.” But a long and troubled life has taught me that tact is easily dissolved in alcohol.

  I woke up the second morning in a cell at the Maniwaki police station with a black eye and a few good bruises. The moment I came to, it hit me like a ton of bricks: the explosion, little Josée, the guy with the beard crushed for a few grams of coke, the woman in the wheelchair, all those lives cut short – and me, still alive. More or less. I was thirsty. I was shaking. I was like a drowning person struggling to get to the surface to breathe. Except my air was a golden liquid. Binges have a life of their own: a few days, a few weeks, sometimes a few years. How long they last depends on several things: How long the body can take it. How much money you’ve got to burn. But most of all, how much pain you need to numb, how much rage you need to stifle, how much emptiness inside needs to be filled. I still had plenty of all that. It wasn’t time to abandon ship yet.

  It seems the Montreal police had been looking for me in connection with the death of the guy in the rubble. They took me back to the city in an unmarked police car with no door handles in the back. They dumped me in a cell at Montreal police headquarters and left me to cool my jets for a while. Then two detectives in suits questioned me. I told them everything I knew, though I didn’t mention the Darling Tavern. After a while, they got bored. Me, too. They decided I wasn’t the type to murder a guy twice my size with a six-foot beam. I had to promise to remain at their disposal for further questioning, then they cut me loose in the big city. I still had a hundred dollars in my pocket. I drank every penny of it.