A Fine Passage (7 page)

“My things are in Baltimore. With a woman I love.”

Whatever idea Terry had of Baltimore, it is severely shaken at that moment. Carmen, for her part, struggles to conciliate the practices of roaming and love. A few moments of silence pass before the next question.

“What is it you do in your travels?”

The man notes the somewhat baroque formulation.

“I'm a painter, or ex-painter. I don't know any more.”

“Really?”

Terry and Carmen would have liked the man to elaborate, but nothing follows. Terry therefore once again takes up the harness.

“I suppose it must be nice to travel that way. With all there is to see, I mean.”

The man nods his head a bit, to say yes in a way, but mostly no. Then he states flatly: “I needed to be doing nothing special.”

Terry and Carmen acquiesce, instantly grasping the concept.

“I admire your wish to see the Rhone delta. It's been a long time since I had a longing like that, a real, concrete desire. I'm a little odd that way.”

Terry and Carmen feel a great sympathy for the man, whom they don't find all that odd. They exchange a glance. Carmen feels joyful; she nods discreet encouragement to Terry to go on.

“Would you like to come along with us, then? If you've nothing else to do . . .”

The man thanks them for the invitation, saying he can't accept. But no sooner are the words out of his mouth than he is overcome by a sudden impulse.

“Actually, yes. I'd like that. I'd love to come.”

In the restaurant, Claudia's heart is as light as a feather. She feels as though she has gone, without the slightest confusion, from being a young girl to becoming a young woman. It happened smoothly, in a matter of weeks, maybe even days. She knows now that she needs her own secrets, and that's why she wasn't able to tell her parents everything. What would they have understood of the wanderings of the man who'd shown no sign of reading? She preferred not to know. From now on, she needs to maintain her own point of view. This evening, dancing in her father's arms, Claudia, not wishing to precipitate anything, tries very hard to continue to be the young girl she was. Walking towards the table, where her mother sits watching them return from the dance floor, she's far from sure she has succeeded.

SATURDAY
Evaluation

“
DOES HE SEEM
a bit cuckoo to you?”

“Not really. Seems nice to me. You'd think he was one of us.”

“That's true. I know exactly what you mean. He doesn't yap on and on about everything and anything.”

The man who'd shown no sign of reading has left the compartment to get some coffee.

“How long do you suppose he'll stick around with us, then?”

Terry shrugs. “His bag's not very big, is it?”

“I like his coat. That's the sort you ought to have.”

Terry looks at the coat hanging on a hook.

“Looks long to me.”

Carmen grabs a tail between her fingers, rubs the cloth lightly. She gets up and reads the label inside the collar.

“Just what I was thinking. Cashmere.”

Carmen sits back down, takes Terry's hand in hers, and inhales a deep, happy breath as she watches the scenery flow by.

“It's exciting, though, wouldn't you say?”

Hans whistles softly as he takes his time fitting the final bits into the puzzle. Fewer than two dozen pieces lie close at hand. They are coloured blue, grey, and green, and they make up the sky in the top right-hand corner of the image. Since his last appointment with the woman with the chewed-up cuticles, he has devoted virtually all of his waking time to the puzzle. He no longer knows if he is completing it for the sake of pleasure or simply to be done with it. He feels that he has already moved on to something else. The time spent fitting all the pieces together has nevertheless allowed him to think, to let his mind wander. He's watched hundreds of possibilities flare up brightly, only to let them drift off to their separate fates. One of these, however, has continually resurfaced, and Hans knows very well that it is in this direction that he must act.

Claudia finishes emptying her suitcases. She put away most of her things the day after she got back, but she didn't have the heart to eliminate these last traces of her trip.

“Here, it's yours. Humour is almost as important as love. I would say the two often go hand in hand.”

Again the pope-rabbi, and again seated next to her! Claudia had thought she was dreaming.

In the end, because it was easier that way, she had accepted the small book of jokes on the theme of God that the pope-rabbi offered her. He'd read a few pages, smiling, and later burst out laughing. That's when he turned to Claudia to tell her the joke. Claudia, unsure whether she got it, laughed out of politeness, but without really giving the impression that she'd understood.

Then, in a sudden generous impulse, the pope-rabbi had offered her the book.

Someone's at the door. Hans recognizes the knock of his Spanish-speaking neighbour, the one who's always asking to borrow matches. The first time he came, Hans gave him the only matches he had. The second time, a few days later, Hans told him he had none and the fellow had run off in embarrassment, only to return with a packet a few minutes later. Possibly he thought that no one could manage without matches. Through this relationship based on matches, the neighbour and Hans saw each other several times a week. It had become a game, an easy and innocent way to express their friendship, as a result of which Hans had developed the habit of maintaining a provision of matches.

Hans opens the door, steps over to a small cupboard to pick up a book of matches, returns to the half-open door. The neighbour points to the jigsaw puzzle, which needs only four or five pieces to be complete. Hans invites him to take a closer look. The young Hispanophone admires the work, passes a hand over the surface, and, indicating the few loose pieces, invites Hans to complete the puzzle in his presence. Hans does not react. The neighbour insists. Hans resists, shakes his head, and motions no with his hands. The neighbour eyes Hans for a moment, pretends to guess what he is up to, and finally laughs; tapping Hans on the shoulder in agreement, he takes the matches and goes. Alone again, Hans wonders what his neighbour could possibly have concluded.

The man who'd shown no sign of reading is seated with a cup of coffee in his hand.

“So what's Moncton like?”

Terry and Carmen look at each other. Each can see in the other's face the lack of ready-made descriptions. Finally, Terry laughs.

“It's a fine place to look at when it snows. In the evenings.”

The man sitting opposite them traces a quick sketch in his mind.

“Lots of cities are beautiful if one doesn't dwell on the details.”

Terry and Carmen think some more.

“There's some streets have big houses and big trees.”

“At Christmastime, with the decorations and all, that helps.”

“Are the houses made of wood or stone?”

“Folks would say they're wood, I suppose. We don't really think of them that way. They're just . . . houses, is all.”

Terry and Carmen try to think of something else to say, embarrassed at not being able to come up with much. Then Terry finds something he considers significant.

“There's a whole lot of artists, though. Folks who paint, I mean.”

“Is that right?”

“They say the place's special for that. . . . Not that I know much about it.”

“Special how?”

Terry and Carmen exchange another consultative gaze. Carmen tries her luck.

“I suppose it's the colours. You might say they're . . . well, big.”

“Big?”

“Yeah. Big. Thick.”

Terry feels there's more to it.

“Not only that, mind you. There's a whole lot. Artists, I mean. For a such a wee place.”

Carmen risks something more.

“Can't say they're all pretty, though.”

Terry is intrigued.

“And which of them is it you're thinking of, then?”

“Well, the one over at the library, when you're coming down the staircase.”

“Mmm . . .”

The memory of that particular painting propels Terry and Carmen into a moment of deathly silence, but they eventually resurface.

“There's one of them, Yvon Gallant, who can paint anything.”

“That's the truth. That fellow's unbelievable. Not that it's all perfect to begin with, but in the end, you can't help liking it.”

“There's another, Paul Bourque. You might say, he mixes things around. Won't sell his stuff, though. Doesn't want to. Which is why everyone wants to buy them. Pretty sharp, if you ask me.”

“And then there's Roméo Savoie.”

“Hermé.”

“There's a fellow does everything — writes, paints, makes movies, writes plays. Can't think of anything he doesn't do.”

“Those are just the ones best known. There's a whole lot more.”

“Raymond Martin.”

“Raymond Martin, Nancy Morin, Guy Duguay — well, he's dead.”

“There was Denise Daigle too.”

“Yup. Denise.”

“Francis Coutellier . . . Luc Charette . . .”

“Dyane Léger . . . And what's the name of that other one, works next to Yvon in the other room?”

“Lionel Cormier.”

“And what about Alexandria?”

“Alexandria Eaton. English, that one. But she's okay, just the same.”

“Jacques Arsenault.”

“Really, there's a whole bunch of them.”

“Gilles LeBlanc's not too shabby neither.”

“There's always an opening going on somewhere, with wine and bits of food to eat as well. Anyone can go.”

“The more business-minded ones often have the smoked salmon.”

“Lots of them don't have loads of money, but they get by just the same.”

The spontaneous enumeration amuses the man who'd shown no sign of reading.

“Have you bought paintings?”

“Yvon Gallant gave us one. A small one. That time we drove him to Halifax to see an exhibition. He doesn't drive himself.”

“I'd like us to have one of Dyane Léger's for our boy's room. Or girl. We don't know which yet.”

“There's Francis Coutellier as well. His boats are pretty nice too.”

“You see, there again, it's the colour.”

“There's George Blanchette as well.”

“For the kid's room?”

“Well, no. I mean, just to have.”

Hans inserts the last piece of the puzzle without ceremony. He hadn't noticed, before fitting it in, that the shades on this last piece seem to represent a castle or a church. He bends down, examines it more closely. He can't decide if it's a detail intended by the artist or an effect resulting from the angle of the brush on the canvas.

Hans now begins to study the painting in search of other details that may have escaped him. He finds himself enjoying again those elements he had previously admired, and he discovers a few others that also please him. Later, he will continue to glance at the work from a distance while, sitting cross-legged on his bed, he has a bite to eat.

Claudia is cleaning up her desk, putting books and notebooks away, stacking those she will have to open before starting her courses again. She checks her watch, makes a phone call but does not leave a message on the answering machine. She washes up, redials the earlier number. Still no one. She dresses and goes out anyway.

The sun is shining and a warm wind is blowing on the avenue. Claudia lingers in front of a few shop win-dows, goes into a record store, buys something, comes out, walks some more, goes into a café, hails a waiter, sits, pulls a magazine out of her bag while she waits to be served.

“You're a musician?”

“No, not at all.”

“Strange. I could have sworn.”

Claudia found it odd that during the return trip, the pope-rabbi had asked her the same question as had the man who'd shown no sign of reading. She had no idea what it was in her appearance or attitude that would lead people to think she was a musician.

“You're the second person to ask me that recently.”

“Your neck, your shoulders give that impression. Mainly your neck, I think. It seems as though music would pass through there. It's a fine passage.”

With that, the pope-rabbi had fallen silent. Even though he maintained a kind of joviality in spite of everything, Claudia sensed he'd somehow changed in the past two weeks.

“My mother doesn't love my father any more. She's going to leave him. She's thinking of coming to America.”

“It's normal that she'd want to be closer to you. How about your father?”

“He's sad, a little down.”

“He'll get over it, although . . .”

Claudia waited a moment for the pope-rabbi to complete the sentence, but the end did not come.

The more time passes, the less I'm certain of what happened that day. I'm no longer sure what I was thinking when I saw that truck coming from the opposite direction. I remember it was a nice day, but something like an undertow seemed to be pulling down on the idyllic scene. I felt a need to spread myself thin over the surface of things, as though I were repulsed by my need to hold fast. But hold fast to what? In the name of what? I believe I might have thought about giving the wheel that fatal twist, but I also believe I was afraid I'd end up surviving and paralyzed. I wanted to clear my head, put some music on. I looked for Barencourt's
Orphaned Notes
. The cassette wasn't in its usual place. The truck was bearing down.

If I had my life to live over again, although . . .

“Well, weren't you the brainy-sounding one, then.”

“I had to think up something to say, didn't I? I never thought I knew so many artists.”

Carmen had been amused by Terry's observations on Acadian art.