Behind the eyes we meet

by Mélissa Verreault

  “‘Slack’?”

  “Uh… let go of.”

  “We all need to learn to let go of certain things.”

  “You’re right. With me it’s fish.”

  “And me, birds.”

  “I’ll never know what happened to Hector.”

  “I’ll never be able to bring back Sergio and his pigeons.”

  “We should open a zoo, you and me.”

  •

  When I was five or six, my grandfather took me to the Parco Natura Viva in Bussolengo. Anacondas, pandas, marmosets, tortoises, macaws, camels, wolves, geese, zebras, lemurs, iguanas, storks, giraffes, monkeys, vultures, pumas: animals I’d thought only existed in the bedtime stories my father read to me. The only ones I’d ever seen before were frogs. When I asked Sergio why the animals were in cages, he told me it was so that they wouldn’t attack people.

  “They won’t hurt us if we just leave them alone.”

  “They’re here so we can look at them and better understand them.”

  “Papa always tells Mama he doesn’t understand her. Should he put her in a cage?”

  “We don’t put people in cages. Not unless they’ve done something really bad.”

  “Like kill someone?”

  “Like kill someone.”

  “I’m glad you’ve never killed anyone. I’d be sad if they put you in a cage.”

  Sergio’s eyes filled with water. Back then I didn’t know about the war, or about Russia. It’s only today that I understand why he looked like that. Why he told my mom when we got back home, “The zoo is no place for a child. Don’t ask me to bring him there again.”

  •

  When I was little, I had a jerboa. I cleaned its cage once a week, fed it every evening, and let it sleep in my room even though it made a terrible racket all night. It escaped one day as I was cleaning its cage. It made a break for it, and I’d found it smothered to death between the couch cushions three days later. I mourned my loss for another three.

  Some time later my parents gave me a budgie, which I taught to say ciao, bacio, and cibo66. One morning I found it at the bottom of its cage, cold; it was scarcely three years old. I was devastated. After that, I never had another pet again. I was too afraid it would die and leave me broken hearted. It’s silly. We all die. We can’t live in constant fear of losing someone we love. Maybe that’s why I can’t bring myself to kiss Emmanuelle. I can’t ignore the fact that we’ll both die one day.

  •

  When a zoo animal dies, they replace it with another of the same species. Visitors don’t notice the difference. A lion is a lion, a bear is a bear.

  When we hear on the news that fifty-two people died in a plane crash in the United States, eighteen more perished in an earthquake in China, and three lost their lives in a fire in Villeray, it upsets us. But we don’t notice the difference. A stranger is a stranger, alive or dead.

  The obituary section has family and friends of dozens of the recently departed asking for donations to cancer research or to a hospital foundation as an expression of sympathy. Does anyone really donate after reading the obituaries? Do we ever think, “He seemed like a nice guy. I should give $20 to the Alzheimer Society.” Then one day we come across a familiar face. A childhood friend, a colleague’s father, a neighbour’s wife, our barista over at Second Cup. We are sad for five minutes, remember that one day it will be our turn, and close the newspaper, ready to start our day.

  Until it’s Sergio, Gabrielle, or Yvon. We never truly bounce back from these losses.

  * * *

  66.Hi, kiss, food

  Words That Don’t Exist

  go home, take a shower, pick up the mail that’s been piling up in the mailbox for over two weeks. Existential questions are all fine and good, but at a certain point changing your underwear is more important than changing the world.

  The streets of Hochelaga are deserted, except for the hooker who always works the corner of Adam and Cuvillier. My landlord said he’d leave me an extra key in the geranium planter near the back door. I can’t find it. I have two options: head back to Manue’s or go in through the kitchen window, which is slightly open for some mysterious reason. The kitchen window it is. Manue is probably sleeping, and I’ve asked a lot of her lately.

  Breaking into your own house is easier said than done. Clearly, I am not destined for a career in burglary since I can’t get in through the window without wrecking everything in sight. I’ll have to buy a new butter dish.

  Two white lights sweep the back lane. I hear footsteps approach out on the balcony. Have real burglars come to compete with me?

  “Police! Freeze! We saw you. Get out of there, now. Things will be easier if you cooperate.”

  Cazzo.67 This can’t be happening. The police have caught me trying to break into my own apartment.

  “Do you want me to freeze or get out? I’m confused.”

  “Think you’re a comedian, do you? Don’t be a wise ass. Hands up.”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “Keep that mouth shut or we’ll add a charge of obstructing an officer.”

  “I…”

  “I said shut up.”

  •

  Police station. The coffee tastes like sweetened hot water. Bluish fluorescent lights give the impression you’re living a nightmare. The officer takes his time double-checking the information I’ve given him, interrupting his research to tell a few misogynistic jokes he thinks will charm one of his female colleagues. He casts a few withering glances in my direction, as if I were a serial rapist or child killer. He ultimately decides to contact my landlord to confirm that I’m renting the apartment I tried to break into.

  I’m allowed to make one phone call while he is conducting his investigation. I didn’t want to disturb her, but I couldn’t help calling Manue. I had to tell her about this.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. I swear. I should be out soon. I hope.”

  “I’ll come get you.”

  “Don’t be silly, you don’t have a car. Go back to bed. I’ll walk home. Or I’ll ask my new police officer friend for a ride.”

  •

  Manue is sitting on the steps outside Station 23, right next to a homeless man who is busy rummaging through his plastic bags.

  “‘scuse me miss or mister, could I bum a light?”

  “Sorry, I don’t smoke.”

  “I don’t smoke either. It’s not for a cigarette, it’s to start a fire. I’m hungry and I’ve a mind to cook up a little stew.”

  “You’ve got what you need for a stew in those bags?”

  “No, but if you give me three bucks I can buy a can of Cordon Bleu at the corner store.”

  “You just got out of the police station, too?”

  “Yeah, another goddamn ticket. They say I can’t sleep on the park benches because the parks close at eleven. But I don’t see any doors.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather spend the night in a bed? Get into the taxi. We’ll tell the driver to drop you off at Old Brewery or something, if you want.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “It’s on us.”

  “The stew, too?”

  “The stew, too.”

  “You’re real nice, miss. But won’t your husband mind if I tag along?”

  “He’s not my husband yet. And I’m pretty sure he’ll be fine with it.”

  He’s not my husband yet. Dammit, Manue.

  •

  Amazingly enough, we didn’t have any problem convincing the driver to take our new friend Homeless Jack along. Manue sits up front and waits for him to start the meter. Ahmed, registration number 7654382 according to the ID card hanging from the back of the driver’s seat, closes the trunk of his freshly waxed Mercury on Jack’s plastic bags, appearing to wonder what they co
ntain. I climb into the back, next to Jack. Manue asks how he wound up homelessing. That isn’t a verb, Jack says.

  Just because a word doesn’t exist doesn’t mean the circumstances it describes don’t, either. Reality comes first; then we try to describe it. The words we eventually come up with rarely manage to paint the full picture.

  •

  My real name is Jacques. Jack just sounds tougher. I used to be a philosophy professor at the University of Moncton, but all that time turning the world inside out cut me off from real life, and it ruined me. What my wife had originally been attracted to ended up proving that I wasn’t the man for her—she, the woman who’d adored my overactive imagination and my compulsion for always weighing the pros and cons before every move; she started to criticize my inability to make a decision without spending whole days considering the consequences. She accused me of being irresponsible, unstable, of not being there for her and our family. I have two kids: Wendy, my oldest, and Simon, who’s twenty-three. I haven’t seen them in five years. They’re ashamed of me now, they say I’ve stopped being their father. They prefer Peter, Carla’s new boyfriend. Carla’s my ex. I know I’m sick, but I don’t want the pills they force on me. When I was a professor my area of research was ethics, and the pharmaceutical industry has precious little of those. I refuse to let it prey off my illness, padding its pockets because I’m all jumbled up, manic-depressive or bipolar, call it what you will, it won’t change a thing. I’m an asshole in society’s eyes, a good-for-nothing according to my wife, a fuck-up to my children. And yet, I think I’ve done some good things in my life. I did what was expected of me: I went to school, had children, made money. I lost everything because I wanted more, nothing was ever enough. I thought I had to be the best, the richest, the most sexually fulfilled. It would be easy to say none of this is my fault, to blame my inner demons, to say they drained me of everything, but it isn’t true. They gobbled me up because I let them. Instead of driving them off, I entertained them in a little place next to my anxieties. I was afraid of winding up empty-handed. I never imagined that I’d have nothing at this point, that the street would be my bed, the sidewalk my kitchen, the park my office. But I’ve never had such a good view, I can say that much. Before, my window looked out on a concrete wall, so some things have changed for the better. Maybe one day my circumstances will change and I’ll have an apartment, a job. It’s just that the more time passes, the harder it gets. It’s tough to explain a ten-year gap on a CV. We aren’t allowed to take breaks in life. Taking a breather means giving up a lot. I came to Montreal thinking it would be temporary, that it would be an opportunity to piece myself back together. But you can’t reinvent yourself. My demons followed me here. I felt like the two million people on the island knew that I was an imposter, a traitor, that I’d turned my back on my family and my ideals, that I was a coward. Never let anyone call you lazy because you don’t meet their expectations. Tell them to take a hike. If I’d had the guts to say “screw you” to everyone that deserved it, I probably wouldn’t be here today.

  •

  We listen to Jack without saying a thing. Manue watches him, mouth open, unable to produce any comforting words whatsoever. Ahmed grips the wheel with both hands so that he won’t lose control. Jack catches his breath. I wish I could offer him some water, but I’ve got nothing to give. A hand on his shoulder will have to do. He turns to look at me, smiling.

  •

  It’s just hit me. Manue and I like to think we’re so special, with lives that are full of improbable anecdotes and convoluted destinies. We never realized how normal that is. Everyone has an incredible story to tell. There’s no such thing as a straightforward life. We tend to think that some people’s lives aren’t the least bit interesting. But only because we know nothing of their family quarrels, their heartbreaks, their incurable illnesses, their sudden departures, their lost children, their devastating fires, their squandered fortunes, the noose around their necks. No more than we can know of the great joys that accompany those seemingly satisfied smiles.

  We’ll never understand all the impossible things that lie behind the eyes we meet.

  •

  They say there are only six degrees of separation between everyone on the planet. That any two people are connected by no more than five intermediaries. I’m sure it’s much fewer than that.

  We are all connected, not separated by anything, in our infinite struggle to recognize ourselves in the faces of those marching past us.

  •

  Ahmed listens to Jack’s story and, overcome with emotion, he stops the meter. “I’ll give you a free ride around the city if you’d like. I’ve got a story, too. I arrived…

  •

  in Montreal in 1992. I left Lebanon two years after the civil war ended. I thought I could help rebuild the country, but the country didn’t want to be rebuilt. Things moved so slowly. I’d spent fifteen years enduring the war, I couldn’t spend another fifteen waiting for life to start again. We came here, my wife and daughter, when she was five and I thought we still had a chance to give her a normal life. We put every cent we had into her education and she became a lawyer. I was a dentist but I never had the time, money, or courage to take the exams to get my equivalency. I always put it off until later; it seemed so complicated. Later never came and I’ve been driving a taxi for twenty years. It doesn’t pay well, but it’s better than staying home waiting for a cheque from the government every month. I pay taxes like everyone else, but I’ve been accused of coming here to take advantage of the system at least a thousand times. One night a client came out of a bar and threatened me with a knife. He said, “Go back to your country or I’ll kill you, you fucker, you and your kids.” I filed a police report, but it didn’t do anything. They said that crazy people are everywhere and they couldn’t arrest them all. My wife’s family is wealthy. We were able to come here with the money she inherited from her father. It’s unbelievable when you think about it: you’ve got to be rich to climb out of poverty. Living is expensive. You don’t know how lucky you are to have been born in a country that’s never seen war, where the revolution was quiet, where bombs only go off in October. I read about the history of Quebec before coming so I’d know what to expect. I was so excited to finally live in peace—in the purest sense of the word. I didn’t know that in peaceful countries conflicts are invented and public inquiries are launched to determine whether other people’s religions will end up on top, whether Christmas trees are dangerous to the nation, whether women who wear a veil risk undermining those who don’t. None of these questions makes sense to me. Here Christians don’t kill Muslims, or vice versa. That’s as a good an indication of freedom as any, if you ask me. I’m done bugging you with my story, and we arrived a long time ago. If you’d like, Jack, we have a spare room in the basement. My wife and I would be happy to have you stay the night.”

  * * *

  67.Dammit.

  A Spare Room

  that’s precisely it. I love Montreal, I’m happy here, I’d like to make a life in this city, but I’ll never feel completely at home. I’ll always sleep in the spare room, next to the master bedroom. Cozy and welcoming, but smaller and lacking personality. And since there won’t be enough space in the dresser for all my things, a good bit of my belongings will stay packed in my luggage. I’ll live half out of suitcases, half out of the space I’ve been granted, the space I’ll never own. I’ll never be more than a guest.

  What’s worse is that it will be the same thing when I go back to Italy. I’ll never be completely at home anywhere again.

  •

  “Would it bother you if I spent another night here?”

  “Not at all. I’d actually rather you did. I like it when you’re here.”

  “Me too.”

  “Do you think we’ll ever say it one day?”

  “Say what?”

  “That we want to be together.”

  “Isn’
t that what we’re doing?”

  “Almost. But we’re still talking around it.”

  •

  Manue is making coffee. She’s decided that we’ll be up all night again tonight. “We’ve got a screenplay to write,” she says. She doesn’t seem to realize I’m not twenty anymore, that I can’t pull all-nighter after all-nighter like I used to. But maybe she’s right. I’m probably younger than I think. Asking myself so many questions has aged me.

  I sit down on the old abandoned couch on the back balcony. From here, there’s an incredible view of the alley and its cats, which will stop looking uniformly grey once morning comes. The sky is turning a lighter shade of blue; soon, I’ll no longer be protected by the darkness. People will notice me watching them. I’ll have to hide if I want to continue studying their strange habits. Everybody does what they can. There isn’t one ideal way forward. Judging others only makes us forget the number of times we have stumbled along the way ourselves.

  •

  “Where do we start?”

  “Excellent question, miss.”

  “This could be the beginning.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “The first scene could be us, or rather our characters, trying to write the screenplay to…”

  “Please, that’s way too meta!”

  “You’re right. So what do we do? I’m out of ideas.”

  “First, we have to figure out what the story is about.”

  “Happiness?”

  “Isn’t that ‘cheesy’ as you say?”

  “Yeah, but if that’s the idea, what can we do about it?”

  “Find a way to approach it that isn’t complete rubbish.”

  “Rubbish! You’ve spent way too much time in Europe.”

  “Too much time away from you, yes.”

  “You see? There it is again, but we just won’t say it.”

  “We’re dumb, what can you do?”

  •

  Manue says she’s doing better. That she’s realized all sorts of things since she met me. She decided it isn’t her mom’s fault Gabrielle died. She calls Nicole once a week to check in. She wants us to visit her before mid-October so we can go apple picking in the orchard nearby and get drunk on ice cider while we listen to Richard’s old records in their suburban basement. A trip for the hell of it, just the kind I like. I’m fed up with travelling to get someplace. From now on, I want to move around just for the sake of it.