*
Then places began to spring up of their own accord. As though without cause. They passed rapidly through his mind, like a bolt of lightning over the landscape, without violating logic but suggesting the existence of other realities. Hans didn’t want to focus his attention on these sudden apparitions. He was afraid they would disappear if he thought about them too much. He even tried not to wait for them. It seemed to him there was something blinding about waiting; it thrust him into another world and kept him from savouring this one. All this, and undoubtedly much more, put him on a plane to San Francisco. Even on board the plane, his destination seemed unreal, ethereal. It consisted of nothing more than a particular notion he had of light, of colour. In fact, it wasn’t even an idea. It was more like a sensation, maybe even a scent or a breath. A breath of light and colour called to him. That was all he knew. But it was enough. It was even a lot.
*
Camil and I were not given seats next to each other on the final leg of our journey, the flight from Montréal to Moncton. Everything had gone so well from the start that this seemed like only a minor setback. I found myself next to a woman from Painsec who was an employment insurance official returning from a training workshop in Ottawa. I sensed from one or two of her comments that she didn’t enjoy travelling much and that these few days far from home had dragged on.
“There was a time, we travelled a lot. My husband was a trucker and we’d take off for two or three weeks at a time. We enjoyed it. We went everywhere, to Ontario, to the States. I’ve been pretty well all over the States.”
“. . .”
“Afterwards, when I couldn’t go along anymore on account of the kids, he started taking them. One by one. Was pretty much the only way they’d get to see their dad.”
“. . .”
“Then we bought ourselves a house, and my husband opened a truck stop. The children’re all grown up now. The eldest works with him.”
“. . .”
“I like it just fine at home. The youngest plays hockey. They’re getting set to go play in some tournament in Switzerland. Makes me nervous. I can’t imagine going. I can’t imagine leaving these parts. Brrrr . . .”
XXIV
THE Bouillon de culture program I was on aired two weeks later in Canada on TV5 . Which meant I was back home to receive comments on my performance. The day after the program, Marie told me that the phone had taken her away from her TV for a short time near the end of the program.
“It was my husband. I just about hung up on him. I don’t figure I missed much.”
By the time she’d got back to her seat, Bernard Pivot was wrapping up with his famous list of questions to guests. “And when you die, if God exists, what would you like to hear Him say to you, France Daigle?”
Being familiar with the list of questions, I’d had time to prepare my answer. “I’d like Him to say: ‘For an agora-phobe, you managed fine. I kept a place for you near the door, so you can feel free to leave anytime, just in case.”
And Bernard Pivot replied, “Because you think, even in Heaven, you might want to leave? It’s true that when you were young, you were attracted by hell: the flames and that Satan’s Choice biker, wait, I’m trying to remember his name . . . Chuque. Chuque Bernard. Did he really exist?”
“Yes, Chuck still lives in Dieppe. He’s calmed down a bit over the years. Now he wears glasses just like yours.”
*
That evening, Carmen wore her little red dress and her brown leather top. She took longer than usual to get ready. She had amused herself posing in front of the bathroom mirror as though she were being photographed. She was giddy. More than that. She was happy.
When Terry appeared in the doorway, at the foot of the stairs, she saw that he too had made more of an effort to look good. He was freshly shaved and perfumed. His little luxury. She wouldn’t make him wait. This was a big night and they were both up for the occasion.
They had chosen a pool hall a little out of the way where there was slim chance of meeting too many friends who would distract them from their game. They were, nonetheless, willing to be distracted a bit. It was part of the dynamic. Each one wanted to win — a matter of minor personal glory — but it was also crucial to be a good loser. Because, one way or the other, they would be going on a trip.
They selected everything that could be selected (the table, the lighting, the cues, the music in the jukebox, the ashtray, the drinks) and abandoned themselves to the rest, to all that they could never control and that they never wanted to control anyway.
Chalking up her cue, Carmen said, “There’s just one more thing.”
“What?”
“There’ll be three of us.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
Terry couldn’t believe it. “You mean it worked! You’re pregnant?”
“I never figured you’d dare.”
He bent his elbow, clenched his fist, and pulled down on an imaginary lever with a solid, perfectly controlled Yeesss! Then he walked over to Carmen’s side of the table, looked her in the eyes for a second before kissing her on the cheek, and asked, “Do you want to break?”
“No, you break. I’d rather you break.”
Terry looked at the table, studied the balls in their predeltaic grouping, then turned and came back to Carmen. “We’ll have to stop smoking, eh?”
“Yeah.”
*
Two or three days after the program aired in Acadia, Chuck Bernard picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Yes, I’d like to talk to France Daigle.”
“That’s me.”
“France? This here’s Chuck.”
“Oh, well, hello!”
“France, can you believe it, the other night I’m zapping away and there you are. I guess it was in France. You were talking about your book. I just caught the tail end really. Then all of a sudden, would you believe, there’s this guy who’s saying my name . . . Chuque, Chuque Bernard, pronouncing it the fancy French way.”
I had to laugh listening to him. “Yes, it was in Paris.”
“You went to Paris to talk about your book?”
“Yes . . .”
“Well! That’s great! I guess I’m gonna have to read it now. It made me curious-like. Where can a fellow buy a copy?”
“Well, I was going to bring you one.”
“Oh, you’re nice. You know what, I’m really proud of you.”
“Well, thank you!”
“Oh, and while you’re at it, can you bring me an extra copy? That way, I’ll have one for home and one for the shop. You know what a show-off I am.”
*
Camil Gaudain was a long way from death’s door but he had to watch his health closely and undergo a battery of tests regularly. After his return from Paris, he was in the hospital for an examination when he saw Élizabeth in the snack bar on the ground floor. He was standing next to her, waiting to be served. “Did you have a nice trip?”
Élizabeth looked at Camil, a bit surprised.
“You don’t know me. I went to Paris with a friend a few weeks ago — the writer France Daigle, you may have heard of her — and we saw you in the airport.”
Now Elizabeth recognized him.
“You must have wondered what we were up to staring at you like that.”
“No. Not really. I just wasn’t sure I recognized you.”
“I guess you see a lot of folks.”
“I see quite a few, yes.”
“Well, anyway, you look well.”
Élizabeth was flattered by the compliment and she accepted it easily. “Thank you.”
“You’re not from Moncton .. .”
“I’ve been here for five years now.”
This information stunned Camil to such an extent that he completely forgot his ow
n situation. “Really! Just goes to show what you miss when you’re not sick.”
*
Hans is in no hurry to leave the San Francisco airport. Since he has all the time in the world, he makes an effort not to live too fast. He strolls by a few hallways looking at what the boutiques have to offer. He smiles at the window displays. There’s something heartwarming, something human about life’s objects presented this way. In one of the windows, he sees a puzzle of his compatriot Bruegel the Elder’s Census at Bethlehem. In the past, he often and patiently contemplated this painting, and he lets himself look once again at the inhabitants crowding into the Green Crown Inn to pay their taxes to the emperor’s men. He lingers over the contents of their baskets, their demijohns, and their crates of fowl, and the peasant slitting a pig’s throat in plain view of everyone, his wife collecting the blood in a pan. He reexamines the people bent beneath their loads, walking across rivers frozen from shore to shore to join those who arrived some time ago and have arranged their barrel-shaped wagons filled with grain or wine in the square, and who are now discussing, negotiating, arguing, sharing news. He sees again the chickens in front of the inn pecking at the feet of the artisan who makes and sells his chairs, the three-legged straw seats parents use as sleds to pull their kids along the frozen river. He allows himself to be moved once more by the woman sweeping snow, the man lacing up his skates, the children spinning tops or tussling on the ice. He sees once again the crowd gathered around a fire and wonders if they’re roasting wheat. He rediscovers the few people seated in the trunk of a not-quite-dead tree converted to receive the surplus of travellers. He hasn’t forgotten that, here and there, people are pushing, pulling, taking care of business, building a cabin, carrying wood. In the courtyard of a small cottage, a peasant woman bends over her cabbages half-buried in the snow. There’s also the dog, a few crows, and Joseph carrying a long saw on his shoulder, leading the donkey on which Mary, pregnant with Jesus, is seated. A bullock accompanies them as they prepare to replay the drama of Christianity in this sixteenth century winter landscape.
Hans enters the shop, points to the puzzle, and buys it. Three thousand pieces. While the sales lady prepares the bill, Hans’s gaze falls upon the child in his sleigh who propels himself forward with small poles he thrusts into the ice. He also sees again, in the centre of the painting, the abandoned wheel standing frozen in the snow and ice. It still has all of its twelve spokes.
“Thank you sir, and good luck. It’s a big one.”
“Thank you.”
Hans leaves the shop and the airport with his suitcase in one hand and the puzzle in the other. He will make his way downtown and look for a room. There are only nine little diamonds left in the pouch on his chest.
*
Sometimes I feel the urge to take a trip. Alone. A trip for its own sake, for the sheer pleasure of travelling. And nothing more. It’s an urge that comes often but never lasts long. In general, the urge never lasts long enough for me to make preparations, physically or mentally, especially mentally, to go. Recently, for example, I thought of London. I often think of London since I read Doris Lessing’s collection of short stories The Real Thing. It’s not a genre I care for but I truly enjoyed the atmosphere, what’s said and left unsaid, everything surrounding English teatime. And I, whom subways turn to jelly, enjoyed touring London via the Underground with her. I enjoyed seeing through her eyes the many neighbourhoods we crisscrossed above ground. The book survived a recent housecleaning of our bookshelves. It’s a book I’d like to read again if I don’t take that trip, if ever I don’t make it to London, or if ever I do.
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”
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