A Fine Passage (4 page)

“I don't practise any religion.”

“Neither do I. But from time to time, I walk into a church. Or a temple. Or a mosque. To rest when I've been walking a lot.”

Claudia felt she could fall in love with a man like this. In fact, she wondered if she had not already fallen.

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“You didn't want any?”

“Not particularly. I wasn't against it, but it never happened. Now I don't know.”

The man continues unnecessarily to stir his coffee.

“People have begun to say my paintings are my offspring.”

He removes the spoon from his cup and places it in the saucer, shrugs.

“It's useless to fight against that sort of idea. And you? Do you want children?”

“I don't know.”

“You have a friend? A boyfriend, I mean.”

“No.”

Another silence followed, and once again, Claudia was able to break it. The ease with which she was able to break this man's silences amazed her.

“I did notice you on the plane. From the side. You showed no sign of reading.”

My wife. Yes, even from this hell in which I find myself, I dare to continue calling you that, even though you feel betrayed. The days pass, but your anger does not wane. You make every effort not to let it show in front of our son. And yet you know very well that sooner or later, you will no longer be able to restrain yourself.

I don't know where I found the strength to confess to you that I had a lover. I knew you did not suspect at all. The circumstances of our life allowed me to hide the affair from you. Your absolute confidence in us, in me, made things all too easy.

At first, I was sure it would be a passing fling. A minor glitch. A detour necessary for some reason or other. I felt as though I was experiencing something of no importance, that took nothing away from you. And for that reason, it seemed better not to say anything than to upset you unnecessarily. From one time to the next, I imagined myself putting an end to it, and then, from one time to the next, I couldn't quite do it.

You know that I was coming from her place when I had the accident. That time too, I had every intention of putting an end to it. And again I had not done so. If I had broken it off and then had that stupid accident anyway, she would certainly have told you. She would have had the heart to tell you that, in the end, it was you I chose. That might have afforded you some small comfort. But it didn't happen, because once again that day, I failed to put an end to my bewitchment.

You think I committed suicide to avoid that choice. You think I was that much of a coward. I'd like to think it isn't so. I'd like to think I would have ended up doing the right thing and let you know, deep inside, that it was you I cared for above everyone else. That did not happen either. And today you don't know — and you may never know — that it's in you, and through you, that I wanted to live.

The woman who smokes only in public manages to drag herself out of her sleep. Although she went to bed early last night, she feels quite lazy. She gets up anyway and starts the morning routine that will eventually set her day in motion.

She can tell, however, in all the little things, that she is not her usual self. Objects — a spoon, the cap of a jar of cream, her apartment keys — slip through her fingers and, as though that was not enough, disappear into unreachable corners, requiring strength and contortions to be retrieved. Not to mention, they are making her late, because the morning routine, timed to the second, leaves little room for the unexpected and tolerates not even the tiniest obstacle.

As she manages, with the help of an old wooden yardstick, to retrieve her key chain and several dust bunnies that have attached themselves to it, the woman realizes that she never used to lose patience over such minutiae. She thinks of the time when they still lived together, how he made her life difficult in a thousand little ways and yet she never complained. In fact, that was one of the things she liked about their life together, that knack he had for blurring the edges of the quotidian.

Terry can't sleep. He's thinking about how he would occupy his day if ever, one fine morning, Carmen gave him the slip in Paris. He decides that what he'd like most would be to hang around in the cafés, a bit the way he does in Moncton. The Paris of famous sites, museums, and churches holds little attraction for him. He feels no need to improve himself in that way. He would also take the time to send some postcards, in particular to his father, who had lent him part of the money for the trip. Having heard that travel is the best education for the young, the master body mechanic did not want to deprive his son of just such a profitable experience, although he often had cause to criticize the boy's irresponsible lifestyle. Recently, however, the old man found that his youngest was taking life a little more seriously.

“You mean to say you didn't tell him I was pregnant?”

Carmen couldn't believe it.

“What was the use of getting him all bollixed?”

“He might not have lent you the money.”

Terry shrugs.

“He's got plenty of money.”

“Well, anyway, all I'm saying is you could have told him. That way, at least you would've been honest.”

“All right, all right, then. I'll write him.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“Especially when you can't stop telling everybody else and his uncle.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“It's not the same thing. 'Round here they don't know us, do they?”

“You don't talk much about yourself.”

Claudia was just thinking how open he was about himself. Without his having said much, she felt she already had a pretty clear picture of his life. Not in the details — and perhaps in the details she would not find him so attractive — but at least she had a general idea. She liked this man.

“I haven't much to say.”

“I understand. Nor do I, when it comes down to it, have much to say. The longer it goes, the more I have the feeling that life repeats itself, and the less I have to say about it.”

A woman walks by their table followed by a whimpering boy. The woman is clearly at the end of her rope. So is the boy.

“See what I mean? There are always mothers at the end of their rope and kids whimpering. It's perfectly legitimate and so sad. And there's not much we can do about it. We must be patient. Life is good for that, for exercising one's patience.”

The child is crying louder now. His mother is unable to quiet him. Nothing, neither firmness nor gentleness, seems to work. The man watches discreetly.

“I've half a mind to go over there and try to dis-tract them. Mother and child both. It might change the dynamics.”

“Why not? Go ahead.”

The man rises, approaches the table, says something to the mother, who initially looks slightly hostile but softens bit by bit. Claudia can't hear what is being said. The child, as he watches the man speaking to his mother, gradually calms down. The man who'd shown no sign of reading now addresses the boy. The child doesn't answer, but he is listening.

To live. But what is living? Since that accident — but what is an accident? — I've lost all capacity to understand it. Death truly puts an end to so many things. Do you remember that trip we took to Labrador? It was early in our marriage, when everything was still possible. Remember the day we walked for hours along the river? We felt perfectly happy in the midst of nature, so sure of itself, so much larger than anything. Do you remember the first salmon we saw jump out of the river on its way upstream? We were thrilled. And then a second one jumped, and another. Each time you squeezed my hand harder, and each time I would have wanted to be that salmon for you, forever swimming against the current towards you.

I'm not really sure why I bring up that memory. Maybe because, here in the wing for precise suicides, noth-ing swims upstream any more, nothing struggles, nothing wants anything. All wanting abolishes itself.

Terry awakens after several hours of deep sleep. The idea that had kept him awake for a long time — the idea, eventually, of beating Carmen at her own game — remains with him.

At breakfast, they discuss their plans for the day. They decide to go up to the area around Montmartre, where they haven't been yet. They bend over the subway map, figure out their route, and set out. The weather is fine; the sun warms their faces.

Since the subway is not packed, Terry and Carmen can sit together. They observe the comings and goings of the people at each stop. Terry tries hard to seem perfectly calm, but inside he's ablaze with impatience. Then, at a station of no particular interest, just before the doors of the car close, he leaps to his feet, plants a quick kiss on Carmen's cheek, and steps out onto the platform, where he waves and smiles tenderly at a rapidly vanishing Carmen. He can see from her expression that she did not expect him to take the lead in this thing, but then she laughs and blows him a kiss, which warms his heart. He waits for the subway to be swallowed up in the tunnel then turns towards the escalator.

At work, it takes the woman who smokes only in public a good hour to regain her composure. She's constantly reversing letters on her keyboard, a minor morning dyslexia that doesn't surprise her, since she seems to have floated in to work rather than arrived there by her usual means of transportation. And yet, by the time she stops for lunch, she realizes she's completely shaken off her sleepwalking state and accomplished far more work than she would have thought herself capable. In the neighbourhood restaurant where she likes to eat on Fridays, it takes her a good twenty minutes to emerge from her state of extreme concentration and get back to normal. Relieved not to have made a lunch date, she takes advantage of the break to clear her head.

She returns to work after lunch with the idea of coasting through the last hours of her week. She has already decided to turn down any Friday afternoon invitations to have a drink with colleagues. She'll go straight home, pour a glass of wine, and take her time nibbling on some leftovers and watching television programs taped during the week. Finally, brushing her teeth before bed, she'll try once again to convince herself that she's not becoming completely anti-social.

After emerging from the subway, Terry walks for a solid quarter of an hour before stopping in a café. He watches the local fauna a long time and tops up on second-hand smoke before working up the courage to inquire how to go about telephoning his father. Just before falling asleep in the wee hours of the morning, he had decided to phone rather than write. His decision still holds firm.

The procedure turns out to be less complicated than he imagined, and before he knows it, he hears the voice of his father on the other end of the line.

“Dad?”

“Terry! Where are you?”

“Paris!”

“Is there something the matter, then?”

“No, no, everything's just fine. Only, there was something I wanted to tell you.”

Terry hesitates a moment, unsure how to go on. This gives his father time to worry.

“Well, then, what's going on?”

“Well, I . . . I love Carmen.”

His father, not understanding, waits for more. But there seems to be no more. He thinks maybe they've been cut off.

“Hello?”

“I hear you all right, Dad.”

“Is it to tell me that, you're calling, then?”

“Well . . . it's . . . she's preggers.”

“Already?”

“I mean, she was before we left. Pregnant, I mean.”

“And is it yours?”

“Well, yeah, of course. What do you think!”

Another moment passes while neither father nor son knows what to say. Then Terry makes an effort.

“Carmen thinks I should have told you before. On account of the money.”

“And what money is that?”

“The money you lent me. For the trip. Does it make a difference? For the money, I mean?”

“Will the two of you be getting married, then?”

“I don't know. We've not talked about it. Well, I suppose she might be wanting to get married.”

Third brief silence. And yet, Terry feels strong enough to go on.

“Well, you won't have to pay for that. We'll make do. Is Mum there?”

“She's gone to Mass.”

“You'll tell her, then?”

“How long's it been?”

“Near three months.”

As his father is silent, Terry decides to lean a bit on Carmen.

“She had a bit of the sicks in the beginning, but she's a whole lot better now.”

“She big yet?”

“Naw. Hardly shows, really.”

Terry senses it may not be particularly useful to prolong the conversation.

“Dad?”

“What?”

“Will you be all right, then? I mean, until Mum gets back?”

Having addressed the envelope to the woman he said he loved, the man who'd shown no sign of reading was returning his pen to his jacket pocket when he changed his mind.

“I'd like to give it to you, if you like. As a kind of souvenir.”

Claudia took the pen the man was offering and examined it. It was heavier than it looked.

“Okay.”

Claudia is now searching through her handbag for that pen. She also pulls out a notebook and writes the name and address of the woman on the envelope. She lives in a town Claudia has visited, and to which she might very well return someday.

MONDAY
Dreaming

ONCE AGAIN, THE WOMAN
who smokes only in public can barely pull herself out of bed. It makes no sense: the more she rests, the more tired she is.

She puts the coffee on, goes down to pick up the newspaper, comes back up without having so much as glanced at the headlines, puts the paper down on the edge of the table as she shuffles to the fridge to get her usual breakfast fare. She turns on the radio, a reflex. Goes to the bathroom, comes back, pours the coffee. And so on. A little later, as she dresses, she tries hard not to think of all the work waiting for her, promises herself to take the time to have some fun. But she immediately realizes that she has forgotten how. Dreams a moment of dropping everything and taking off. But she knows it's not time for that yet, wonders if there will ever be a right time. Worries she wouldn't recognize it if it did come. Or worse, would recognize it but let it pass, fail to seize the opportunity. Wonders if there really ever was a time in her life when everything was possible.