8:17 pm rue Darling

by Bernard Emond

  A cyclist found me early the next morning in an advanced state of hypothermia. Somehow I’d ended up on a detour along the bicycle path on rue Notre-Dame, beside a factory wall across the street from the St. Lawrence Sugar refinery. He could easily have missed me: I had crawled into a heap of garbage and leaves to die. Or he could have seen me and just left me there. But he was a Good Samaritan. (Yes, they really exist.) I remember him well, a young man with an apple-green anorak and a pony-tail sticking out from under his helmet. He roused me gently from my stupor, rubbed my arms and shoulders, and tried to get me moving. Then he said:

  – Hang in there, monsieur, I’m going for help.

  I don’t know why, but I remember his eyes. He had smiling eyes. And he wasn’t fazed in the least, as if he rescued rubbies on the bicycle path every day. Maybe he did. He squeezed my shoulder before leaving. That I remember, too. Then I must have passed out again.

  u

  – There he is! ... Gérard, where on earth have you been?!

  That voice, that accent, the hospital corridor ...

  There’s a hell for drunks and I’m in it – that’s what I thought when I opened my eyes. Everything else was a blur, but there was no mistaking Chantal: the little mocking eyes, the little turned up nose, the brownish-grey tweed suit, the little pearl necklace, the little Vuitton handbag, the faint fragrance of Quelques Fleurs by Houbigant. Oh, boy. There was a time in my life when I was a regular at Saint-Luc Hospital and, God knows why, but I’d given them Chantal’s number to contact in an emergency. They must have had it on file.

  – Pauvre Gérard. What happened?

  For a moment I was sure I’d been transported back to 1969, the victim of a temporary tear in the warp and weft of the space-time continuum (as they say in science-fiction novels) ... Chantal and I were married ... she’d come to pick me up at the hospital one more time ... If I just hung on a while I’d be transported back to the present, with apologies from ground control on planet earth.

  No such luck: it really was the present and it really was Chantal, thirty years older. As for me, I felt sixty years older. I tried moving. I must have moaned. I hurt all over, especially where I hang my hat. When I have a hat.

  – Gérard, you’re too old for this now, she cooed softly.

  I never could resist a woman who takes pity on me. When they use that tone of voice, I crack. I guess I didn’t get enough hugs when I was a kid.

  – Oooooh, I answered.

  The binge was over. It happens like that, when you least expect it. You go back to being a human being. The beast retreats to its cave. Mr. Hyde changes back to Dr. Jekyll.

  Chantal took me to her place. She washed my clothes and made me chicken noodle soup. Why she has these outpourings of generosity towards me, I’ll never know. I guess I should stop trying to understand and just be grateful. To keep her entertained I told her the whole story, right from the beginning: the explosion, my half-assed investigation, the Maniwaki Antler Festival (at least what I remembered of it). When I was finished, Chantal said:

  – Every time you do these ridiculous things, Gérard, I remember why I married you.

  Ah, the old game. I played along.

  – Why’s that, Chantal?

  – Because you’re impulsive, you’re absolutely unpredictable. I never know what you’re going to do next!

  I smiled and waited for the punch line. It’s like an old comedy sketch you’ve seen a dozen times and still love. She didn’t keep me waiting.

  – It’s also why I left you.

  That night I slept on the sofa. Everything was above board. While I was settling down for the night I heard Chantal locking the liquor cabinet. It wasn’t necessary, but you never know. I called out to her:

  – Chantal?

  – What?

  – You’re terrific.

  – I know.

  – Bonne nuit, Chantal.

  – Bonne nuit, Gérard.

  u

  In the big city, AA never sleeps. There are meetings going on everywhere, at all hours of the day and night. It’s reassuring, in a way, to know that the age-old story of the drunk is being recited again and again: “Hi, my name is Sophie, or Bruce, or Denis, or Sandra, and I’m an alcoholic.” There’s always someone, somewhere, saying: “I lived in hell and I haven’t had a drink now in seven years, or six months, or three weeks.” Yes, it’s possible: you can choose not to drink. Some people actually do. That morning I found myself in a group downtown. They were mostly business types: hot-shot junior executives, lawyers with paunches, slick PR types, and a few pencil-pushers nearing retirement. Mes frères, all the same ... Someone should start Capitalists Anonymous: “Hi, my name is Tom and I’ve just laid off 500 employees. I couldn’t help it. It’s stronger than me.” There should be steps for them, too: We have acknowledged that we were powerless in the face of globalization and neo-liberalism, that we have lost control of our lives. But would they make amends to the people they wronged? It doesn’t matter. They were my enemies but they were my brothers, too, bosses and hatchet men alike, slaves of the bottle and slaves of profit. Whether they suffered less or were any less of a bastard than I am, I don’t know. But I drank coffee with them and I told them my story. “My name is Gérard, and I’ve been sober for 24 hours.”

  After the meeting I went back to my place, across the street from my old childhood home, and I made a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself (Step Four). I came to the conclusion that I lacked humility, that the Power greater than ourselves had sent me a Test I couldn’t run away from, and that it was a waste of time looking for meaning in things I’d never understand. Acceptance, I told myself, acceptance. One day at a time, 24/7, 365. And then I got to Step Six: to be entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character. That one I couldn’t stomach.

  – Tabarnak! I shouted. I don’t want to change who I am. I just want to stop drinking!

  Oh, oh. I was starting again, doing my mental pirouettes. If I kept on like this even AA would throw me out. Thoughts like that are dangerous, they lead straight to the nearest bar. I watched the kids playing ball hockey in the street. Then I skipped a step in my head. I went straight to Step Eight, made a list of all the people I had harmed, and agreed to make amends to them. Starting with Angéla. She must have been worried.

  It was lunch-time. I sat at the counter. Angéla pretended she didn’t see me. Rose, the owner, had to leave the stove to take my order. Angéla served me but didn’t say a word. She was aloof and beautiful. I ate my hamburger steak and my raspberry upside-down cake. Then I drank three cups of coffee in a row. By the fourth cup, the Bien Bon was empty. It was two o’clock. Angéla sat down at the other end of the counter, lit a cigarette, and started reading the newspaper. I decided to jump in the deep end.

  – Angéla, je m’excuse.

  It wasn’t much of an opening line, I have to admit. A few years back I had an Irish drinking buddy, a Frank O-something or other. He used to say:

  – Catholicism is a great religion: you do whatever you want, you confess, the priest absolves you, and then you can start all over again. Let’s drink to good old Jay Pee!

  I guess he meant John Paul the Second. Me, I’m Catholic to the bone, a genius at every kind of excuse, lie, and honourable amend. Forgive me and I start again. Just ask my three exes.

  – Angéla, I’m sorry.

  She didn’t move. It occurred to me that I didn’t really owe her anything. We were just neighbours. We’d only eaten together a couple of times. But sharing life stories, especially stories like ours, creates bonds. And even if the bonds weren’t very strong, there was always hope. So I started telling her what I had found out and what had happened to me over the past few days. At first there was no indication that she was even paying attention. But Rose came out of the kitchen, lit a cigarette, and started listening. After a while, Angéla raised her eyes from the newspaper and turned to look at me. When I finished my story, I said to her:

  – You’
re right, Angéla. I stuck my nose in where it was none of my business and I hurt people. When you stir shit, it stinks. If you were worried about me, I apologize.

  A mocking expression came over her face. She said:

  – Worried? Moi? Not me. But people are looking for you. Your friend from the coroner’s office called. They found your neighbour from the third floor.

  I had a choice: I could lie or I could tell the truth. I lied. Not very well.

  – I don’t care anymore.

  It didn’t sound very convincing. I waited a few seconds, then added:

  – Are you still angry?

  Angéla looked at me and shook her head.

  – It would probably be simpler if you call the coroner’s office from here, Gérard. You can finish your coffee while you’re talking to the guy.

  And that’s what I did.

  The police had picked up Karl at the corner of Sainte-Catherine and Beaudry on the night of the explosion. He was stark naked, delirious, and high as a kite. That’s nothing unusual for the Village, but unfortunately for Karl the cops just happened to be driving by. They took him to Pinel, where they sedated him. It took three days to get a name out of him and another two for the police to connect him to rue Darling. Now they knew who the streaker was, that Madame Kovacs had seen. They’d also gotten an ID on the woman with no face. Her family had claimed the body. Her name was Eve Parenteau. She was a friend of Karl’s. Apparently she’d been visiting him, but that part of the story was still vague: my source didn’t have any more details. I phoned the Pinel and they told me Karl had been transferred to the psych ward at the Royal Vic.

  I asked Angéla for another cup of coffee. When she put it down in front of me, I said:

  – Angéla, I’m pig-headed. I’m the most pig-headed person in the world.

  – Tell me about it.

  – I’ve got to know how the story ends. You understand, don’t you?

  – Non. But I’m listening.

  – If I don’t find out, it’ll haunt me for ages.

  – You wouldn’t want to lose any sleep over it.

  Really, the woman was so understanding.

  – Can I ask you a favour, Angéla?

  – What?

  – Come with me to the Royal Vic.

  – Are you nuts?

  – Probably. But if you’re with me, there’s less chance I’ll do something stupid.

  – Hmm. Sure. And a couple just happens to look more respectable, so there’s less chance of you getting thrown out.

  She read me like an open book. I have to admit, I’m pretty transparent.

  – Well, that’s true, too, I said.

  – Gérard, look, I’ll go with you. But you owe me one.

  – Pas de problème. I owe you one.

  – Now please stop calling me “vous.”

  – OK. Sure. Vous aussi. Shall we go?

  – We close at five.

  u

  It was dusk by the time we got there. The grey stone buildings of the Royal Victoria hospital looked like the set for a vampire movie. Everything was perfect, right down to the wind tearing the leaves off the trees and flocks of crows with walk-on parts. It wasn’t hard to imagine a mad professor inside, administering LSD to his human guinea pigs on a secret mission for the CIA. “Take this, my dear lady, you’ll see, it will make you feel better ...” You could almost hear Dracula’s blood-curdling laugh echoing through the corridors. Those corridors weren’t much to look at, either, at least not the ones in the psychiatric ward. If you weren’t depressed going in, the decor would soon finish you off. Not to mention the locked doors, the intercoms, and the peepholes. They don’t let just anyone in there. And getting out is even harder. I speak from experience.

  The duty nurse, a chubby red-head with a kind smile, seemed pleased to see us. Karl’s mother, Madame Godin, had been down from Val d’Or to visit him, but she’d had to go back up north and Karl hadn’t had any visitors since. I introduced myself as a friend and neighbour, a fellow victim of the explosion. I said I’d been worried when Karl disappeared and was relieved to have finally found him. We’d brought chocolates and magazines to make it look convincing.

  – How is he? I asked.

  – He’s still heavily sedated, but we’re gradually bringing him around, the nurse said.

  I told a little white lie to keep her talking.

  – I was worried about him. He seemed agitated those last few days before the explosion. He’d stopped going to work and was blasting his music at full volume. It wasn’t like him.

  When I want to, I can be a charming old fart. A priest would give me absolution without waiting for my confession. The nurse fell for it.

  – That doesn’t surprise me, she said. Karl stopped taking his lithium. He was completely psychotic when the police picked him up.

  – Oh. I see.

  She commiserated.

  – That’s what happens with manic-depressives. As long as they’re taking lithium, they can lead a normal life. But some of them miss their highs and stop taking their meds. And then they end up here.

  – May we see him?

  – Oui. But not for long. Room 1708. Don’t say anything to him about his friend, or the explosion. I’m not sure he realizes what happened.

  A man completely walled up. That’s what we found in room 1708. Not locked up, walled up, inside a tomb of suffering, chemically cut off from life and the rest of humanity. You couldn’t help but feel his pain and misery: it was tangible, it filled the room. It was as if the world had lost all its colour and there was only a grey monotone left. His sadness was a black hole sucking in everything around it. I was afraid I’d fall in and disappear. Angéla sensed it and took my arm. And then I said a ridiculous thing:

  – Bonjour.

  He seemed minuscule, a small, brown-haired man curled up in a bed miles too big for him. It took him a good minute to turn over; he moved with glacial slowness. He didn’t say a word. He just looked at us.

  – I’m your neighbour ... from rue Darling.

  I could see from his eyes that he recognized me. Eventually he spoke:

  – There ... is ... no ... thing ... left.

  He separated each syllable. His voice was as thick as syrup. The anti-depressants, obviously. He spoke again:

  – There ... is ... no ... thing ... left.

  I knew what he meant. But I wanted more.

  – Do you remember the night you were arrested?

  He averted his eyes, slowly. I realized I wasn’t going to get anything out of him. For all I knew, his memory was a blank. I placed the chocolates and the magazines on his bedside table and was wondering how best to take my leave when he spoke again:

  – I ... on ... ly ... wan ... ted ... to ... go ... to ... Por ... tu ... gal.

  – Pardon? What did you say?

  He averted his eyes again. Angéla stepped forward and tried to draw him out, but there was only silence. We exchanged glances and decided to leave. I was just about to close the door when I heard his voice:

  – Mon ... sieur.

  I went back to the bed and bent down, to hear him better.

  – Li ... thi ... um ... stops ... you ... from ... read ... ing. I ... can’t ... read.

  All the suffering of the world was in that voice. But he couldn’t drag up another word. He turned away slowly, and curled back up into a ball.

  We didn’t say much on the drive back. Angéla let me use her phone to call Karl’s mother in Val d’Or. She was pleased that someone was taking an interest in her son, and talked freely about him. He’d had his first episode of mania five years before. They’d had to evict him from Place des Arts during a concert by the MSO. Apparently Karl wanted to make an important public announcement and Charles Dutoit wasn’t amused. Karl was diagnosed as manic-depressive and put on lithium. But the medication made it hard to concentrate and read. He dropped out of university. He’d been studying history. He was 22. He had to earn a living somehow so he got a job at Radi
o Shack. Karl’s mother didn’t think he knew about the explosion yet. She didn’t find out herself until she went to rue Darling to pick up some things to take to him in hospital. As for Eve, Karl and her had been lovers and had made a trip up to Val d’Or a few years ago, but later separated. Madame Godin hadn’t known they were seeing each other again.

  I went out. It was dark. I dropped in to the Maison de la culture and read a book about manic-depression, until closing time. Then I walked the streets of the neighbourhood, trying to piece together Karl’s story from what little I knew. I couldn’t let it go. I imagined Karl working at Radio Shack. Lithium masked the dangerous excesses of his illness. He’d been living a normal life, but that got boring. I could relate to that. He began missing the highs. He got tired of the chemicals that fogged his brain and prevented him from reading. So he threw out his meds. At first, everything was fine. He came alive again. His confidence came back, ideas started percolating, he was determined to live life to the fullest. He started buying stuff – three TVs, CDs, books on every subject, little games and silly toys and tricks. He listened to music, he craved music: his spirit soared. He read, he scribbled poems on every scrap of paper he could find. On the day of the explosion, he was completely out of it. He phoned an airline and bought two tickets to Portugal, then called Eve. Everything was crystal clear: they’d leave together. Eve could tell from his voice that something was wrong. She asked him if he was taking his lithium. He hung up on her. He unplugged the phone, turned off the TVs, turned off the music, and switched off the electricity. He didn’t need those artificial connections to the world. He was the world. Alone in the dark, he felt strong and invincible. He took off his clothes. There was a knock on the door; it was Eve. She was worried about him. She wanted to talk to him. He had to get out. For a moment he thought about leaving by the window and flying, but he opted for the roof instead. He went out the back door, climbed the fire-escape to the roof, and started running. He was tall, he was beautiful, nothing could stop him. Eve was still knocking when the building blew up.

  I ended my wandering back at the ruins on rue Darling. I realized I’d never know for sure what had happened. All I knew was that innocent people had died and that the survivors owed their lives to chance: young Patrick, too stoned to return home; Karl, in the middle of a full psychotic meltdown. And me, because my shoelace had come undone. Fate doesn’t always pick the best and the brightest to save. Fate is deaf and blind. Fate is stupid and unfair. Fate is an imbecile. Fate plays dumb jokes.