Behind the eyes we meet

by Mélissa Verreault

  “Get out. I SAID GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU UNGRATEFUL BRAT!”

  Conversations inevitably ended with Nicole screaming, a door slamming, and Emmanuelle streaming profanity on the way out. One more scar on her heart to heal. Manue sincerely hoped that, for once, things would go differently. She didn’t want Fabio to have to witness a scene.

  Nicole offered her guests a glass of Ricard. Emmanuelle hated anise, but she took the glass so Nicole wouldn’t accuse her of being difficult. She wanted to avoid a twenty-minute lecture on the importance of developing a palate by eating foods you don’t like without complaining, and how turning your nose up shows a lack of sophistication. Manue hoped to keep the peace at all costs, and she found that the best way to appease her mother was to hold her tongue.

  Fabio proved to be extremely charming. He made conversation with Nicole, talking about his travels, Italian culinary traditions, and his love of fine wine. Nicole couldn’t help dropping a few hints, pointing out that Fabio would make an ideal son-in-law and stressing that she’d be thrilled if her daughter could get a man as open-minded, curious, and eloquent as he. Manue pretended that the comments went over her head as she noisily sipped her drink.

  “I didn’t plan on entertaining tonight,” Nicole realized abruptly. “I don’t have anything to give you for dinner.”

  “It’s OK, Mom. We’ll figure it out.”

  “If you have some pasta and a few cans of tuna, I could make my famous pasta al tonno,” Fabio proposed shyly.

  “You really don’t have to,” Emmanuelle protested. “We can always go out to eat. We won’t keep you any longer, Mom.”

  “It would be a pleasure,” Fabio insisted. “If it’s OK with you of course, Mrs. Bélanger.”

  “A real Italian cooking pasta in my kitchen! Imagine!”

  Emmanuelle had no choice but to stay for dinner and let her friend cook when she saw how delighted her mother was. As cute as she found Fabio’s offer, she wished he could have shown a little less initiative. It was always a good idea to have an exit strategy so she could leave her mother’s house at a moment’s notice. Now she was trapped. She’d have to stay until dessert, or longer.

  To her surprise, the meal went off without a hitch. Manue continued to keep her omertà, letting Fabio fill the silences with anecdotes of a European on the loose in Canada.

  This was the first time in ten years Emmanuelle had brought a boy home. Either her flings weren’t serious enough to warrant an introduction, or she was too head over heels to risk spoiling everything by throwing her latest boyfriend to the wolves. Nicole would undoubtedly have found some way to humiliate her daughter, sending the new flame running before it was too late.

  With Fabio, it was different. They weren’t dating.

  She had nothing to lose by dragging him in to meet Nicole the Fierce. It could only be a good thing, in fact; either their friendship would come out stronger and she could finally count on someone who truly knew her, who understood where she came from, or the visit to Saint-Nicolas would traumatize Fabio and spell the end of their relationship, saving Manue from investing energy in a dead-end friendship.

  When they got to dessert—vanilla ice cream and stale chocolate wafers—Nicole brought up what she’d been dying to know ever since her daughter arrived.

  “You never told me why you’re in Saint-Nicolas.”

  “True.”

  “Well…? Or are you keeping it a secret?”

  “It was about my goldfish.”

  “Very funny. No, seriously.”

  “I am serious. I lost my fish, Hector. And I’m trying to find him. Fabio agreed to help me investigate.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I’m trying to keep an open mind, as you say, but there are limits. A goldfish? If it got out of its bowl, it’s probably been dead for some time.”

  “But I haven’t been in my bowl for years, and I’m still alive!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Swimming against the current for days, months, whole years, to suddenly wind up on shore, wriggling every which way in the hopes of returning to the river’s comforting moisture. Feeling the oxygen gradually leave the body, gills deflating, drying out, pumping the outside air as if it were sulphuric acid. Watching death creep up, slowly, inch by inch across the pebbles, wishing it would hurry so the agony would end. But no; it stops instead. Unexpectedly. Backs up. Decides to return later. What happens now? Who will come to drag us from the pain if not death itself? We must find another way to end the suffering. Crawling, crawling, crawling over to a rock still glistening with moisture that might slake our thirst. Behind the rock, a puddle of rainwater. A tiny lake, a spectacular oasis. Diving in, eyes closed, relishing the incredible sensation of lifesaving water on bare skin. Believing once again that life is possible, that we will not just return to ashes, that before us stand promising years, oceans ahead of us. Waves, swells, tides. Adrift amid this sea of survival awaiting reinforcements that will never come. We alone can save ourselves.

  When she had learned of Gabrielle’s existence, it was as if Manue, who until that point had only experienced life underwater, had been dragged up to the surface. She had been thrown into the air so roughly it was as if she had been fished from the water just for the thrill of the catch. She thought back to her trigonometry formulas, calculating the trajectory of a trout; if she had paid better attention in algebra class, she might not have felt so lost.

  She had twirled head over heels, not knowing where she would end up, attempting to curl into a ball for protection. Impossible. Each time the wind unfolded her body, forcing her to stand straight. When she finally fell to terra firma, the landing was brutal. She would have to learn how to survive in a world she wasn’t made for. And she wasn’t meant to come alone. Since the beginning, immersed in amniotic fluid, she’d had a partner—her twin, her likeness, her saviour. They were meant to be two. But then someone had thought better of it and snatched her other half. Manue didn’t exactly remember, but deep down she could tell that something—someone—was missing.

  Emmanuelle wished she could find the courage to explain all this to her mother, but the words got caught in her dry throat. Instead, she cringed and took a last gulp of the Ricard.

  “Can I borrow your car, Mom? I’d like to show Fabio around Saint-Nicolas.”

  “Why are you always changing the subject? We were talking about something important.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t feel like talking about it any more. Can I get the keys, please?”

  “OK, but don’t stay out too late.”

  “Mom, I’m going to be thirty next month. I think I can judge how late to stay out, no?”

  “Be careful then.”

  She got up from the table, motioned for Fabio to follow, and went out to her mother’s car. Fabio didn’t ask where she was taking him, but it didn’t matter. He knew that wherever it was, it would be important to Emmanuelle.

  The Spice Route

  the car doors had barely closed behind them before Emmanuelle began to tell Fabio everything she knew about Gabrielle. She hadn’t spoken about this to anyone since she’d moved to Montreal. No one in her new life knew of Gaby’s existence, the existence of her death.

  The keys had been in the ignition for several minutes, but the car hadn’t moved a centimetre. Fabio turned off the engine and wrapped his arms around Emmanuelle. It was only after she brushed against his sweater and caught another whiff of that slight musky odour that Manue began to weep.

  “I wish you never had a reason to get like this, ever,” whispered Fabio. “But at the same time, you’re beautiful when you cry.”

  Manue smiled through her sobs.

  “Do you want to go to the drive-in?” she asked.

  “You have those here?” he answered. “I thought they only
existed in the movies!”

  “Nope! Reality meets fiction in Saint-Nicolas, my friend. Shall we?”

  The movie had already started, but it didn’t matter. Manue was really only there to cuddle up on the back seat, stuff herself with nachos, and watch the soundless images while she made up ridiculous dialogue for the clichéd characters on screen. Despite what one might think, she hadn’t come to engage in an epic make-out session heavy on tongue and saliva. She just wanted Fabio all to herself, to create a kind of guileless bubble around them that would protect against the hostility raging outside.

  The first movie of the double feature was just coming to an end when Fabio’s phone rang. An unknown number. He answered out of curiosity.

  “Hello?”

  “…”

  “Yes, you’ve got the right number.”

  “…”

  “No, it’s not a bad time.”

  “…”

  “Really? That’s great!”

  “…”

  “I’m not in Montreal at the moment. I asked a friend to take care of everything while I was gone. Can I call you when I’m back in the city?”

  “…”

  “It’s not a problem. Have a good evening.”

  Fabio hung up and slipped his phone into the pocket of his jeans. Grinning, he grabbed a handful of chips and turned his attention back to the movie. Emmanuelle was dying to know who had called at this late hour and why the conversation had put him in such a good mood. She wanted to be the only one to contact him out of the blue, the only one responsible for a smile like that. A pang of jealousy tore through her chest. She couldn’t help herself; she had to ask.

  “Who was that?”

  “The owner of the orange kitten!”

  “It’s late to call.”

  “She must be anxious to see her cat; she doesn’t even live in Hochelaga. One of her friends saw my poster. The little guy came all the way from Villeray and ended up in my back alley. Imagine that!”

  “Maybe he wanted to see the river,” Manue speculated, relieved by the news.

  “I thought cats were scared of water.”

  “They don’t like to swim, but they like to watch the current.”

  “Well that’s a theory.”

  “Don’t underestimate it. I think mysterious disappearances should be explained by equally mysterious reasons.”

  “Are you still thinking about your fish?”

  “Naturally. I’m less interested in knowing where he went than trying to understand why these weird things always seem to happen to me. It’s scary, really.”

  “But your life is never boring—isn’t that a good thing?”

  “True. But unlike most people, I’m not looking to spice up my life. I’d actually like mine a bit blander. I’m fed up with spice. All this spice is going to give me an ulcer one of these days.”

  Fabio’s phone rang again. Emmanuelle was starting to think the owner of the kitten was being a little intrusive. But it wasn’t her. This time, an overseas number appeared on the screen.

  “Pronto?”

  “…”

  “Mamma, non ti capisco.”

  “…”

  “Smetti di piangere. Respira.”

  “…”

  “Davvero? Merda.”

  “…”

  “Quando si terranno i funerali?”

  “…”

  “Sì, penso che ce la potrei fare. Ti richiamo domani, OK?”

  “…”

  “Sì, sì, anch’io, mamma. Ti voglio bene. Ciao, ciao.”3

  Emmanuelle wasn’t jealous this time. Though her Italian was limited, she could tell it was Fabio’s mother and that something serious must have happened since it was close to five in the morning on the other side of the ocean.

  “It’s my grandfather,” said Fabio. “He’s dead.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I said.”

  “Was he sick?”

  “For a few years now. We figured he was close to the end, but it would have been nice for him to hang on a bit longer. I haven’t seen him since last year. Cavolo4!”

  Fabio slammed his knee against the back of the driver’s seat. He was angry for being so far away, for having neglected his family over the past few years, for not being there with his grandfather in his final hours. He wanted to cry, but couldn’t. He’d never been good at shedding tears in times like these. He wasn’t insensitive, just the opposite. He was so sensitive, so fragile, so easily heartbroken that he had trouble expressing his feelings. They stuck in his throat like the pointed edge of a sword-swallower’s blade. Not crying was painful.

  “I have to get back to Montreal,” said Fabio quietly. “I have to be in Italy on Thursday.” He looked crushed.

  “You want to go back now?”

  “That would be great, but I doubt the buses run this late.”

  “True, we’d have to hurry… The last one leaves at eleven... I’ll ask my mom if I can borrow her car. I’ll drive you to the airport tomorrow and bring it back here after that.”

  “You really don’t have to.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  Emmanuelle got behind the wheel while Fabio stayed in the back, alone with his pain. She threw furtive glances in the rear-view mirror from time to time to make sure he was OK. Just as Fabio had said Manue was pretty when she cried, so Emmanuelle found Fabio attractive in his grief. Maybe that’s what love is: finding someone whose pain moves us.

  When Emmanuelle asked to borrow the car for two or three days, she was met with an unexpected reaction.

  “Of course. Take the car, sweetie. What sad news. Were you close to your grandfather, Fabio?”

  “Yes, very. At least when I was young. We often grow distant from our family as we get older. It’s a shame. I wish I could have…”

  He stopped, overcome with emotion.

  “You know what?” said Nicole, her face lighting up. “I could come with you to Montreal. That way, Emmanuelle wouldn’t have to do the whole trip twice. I could bring the car back myself.”

  “Uh, are you sure?” Manue asked, doubtful. “What would you do? You hate Montreal.”

  “You’re always saying I never visit, that you’re the one who always has to make the trip. I’m offering to come to you, so now’s your chance!”

  “OK, OK. But I’m driving on the way down. It stresses me out when you go 90 on the highway.”

  The unlikely trio climbed into the car once Nicole had packed her bags. It was 11:23 p.m. when Emmanuelle started the engine. She had never seen her mom so friendly and helpful. Was she acting this way because she had taken a shine to Fabio, or was she trying to make up for something? As long as she kept from flirting, Emmanuelle welcomed this new-found sweetness.

  It was a pleasant trip. The Damien Rice album that Manue had given her mother a few years back was still in the CD player; they listened to it on loop—the perfect soundtrack for such a sad night. Nicole nodded off near Victoriaville. Worried she would fall asleep too, Manue cracked the window and let the wind whip her thoughts around.

  It was the third night she’d spent without sleeping. She had no idea how she managed to keep her eyes open—the instincts of a hunted animal trying to survive. As they approached Saint-Cyrille-de-Wendover, Fabio reached out and rested his hand over the one Manue was using to clutch the stick shift. Her hand relaxed and she shivered, but it had nothing to do with the cool breeze blowing through the open window.

  “Thank you,” Fabio said simply.

  Gratitude. Manue thought she’d rarely experienced such a gesture of thanks. Perhaps she had never been sufficiently appreciative of all the good life had offered her. It hadn’t all been a series of nightmares and disasters, she had to admit. Fabio was probably right: rather than complain,
she should be happy that her life was so full of spice.

  Emmanuelle came to realize something along the way: she wasn’t as unhappy as she believed. And the fact that her mother was coming to Montreal made her much happier than she would have thought. The word “reconcile” floated vaguely around in her head.

  The road from Saint-Nicolas to Montreal: where you discover a trove of good feelings buried under old grievances. Emmanuelle had focused on only the bad memories relating to her mother for such a long time. She had forgotten that it hadn’t all been bitterness and acrimony.

  Under all the dust lay colourful powders with comforting aromas.

  Cinnamon.

  Mixed into Nicole’s pancake batter to make Sunday breakfasts so delicious.

  Cardamom.

  Added to coffee to give it an exotic flavour—Nicole also put it in the barley tea she made for her daughter when she wanted a hot drink in the morning, just like the grown-ups.

  Nutmeg.

  Sprinkled on top of béchamel sauce to infuse Nicole’s vegetable gratin with a special je-ne-sais-quoi.

  Saint-Nicolas–Montreal: the new Spice Route.

  * * *

  3.Hello? … I can’t understand you, Ma. … Stop crying. Breathe. … Seriously? Shit. … When’s the funeral? … Yeah, I think I can do that. I’ll call you tomorrow, OK? … Yeah, yeah, me too, Ma. I love you.

  4.Dammit!

  Amnesty International

  once they got to montreal, Nicole went to go sleep in her daughter’s bed while Manue made coffee for herself and Fabio, who was scouring the Internet for cheap flights. Her Machiavellian side hoped that Fabio wouldn’t find anything under two thousand dollars, forcing him to stay in Montreal. She was afraid he would leave and never come back. That was the way things usually played out with the more interesting, saner men she met.

  Fabio finally found a good deal and bought a return flight. It didn’t guarantee his return, but it did give Manue some hope. Two weeks. He would return to his Berlusconian homeland for two weeks. She’d made it her whole life without Fabio; she could certainly survive fourteen days away from him.