Just Fine (6 page)

XI

T
HE ENORMOUS POPULAR
success of the Bouctouche dune project encouraged the Irvings to continue to restructure and recreate the world around them. Their gaze turned quite naturally toward Moncton, where the mere acquisition of a hockey team no longer satisfied them. They soon found a challenge worthy of their ambitions: returning the infamous Petitcodiac River to its former glory. A team of top-grade engineers was assembled and supported by biologists, historians, recreationists, and businesspeople. All of these people worked for more than two years to plan the project. Toward the end of the meticulous and ambitious gestation period, heavy machinery began to appear here and there along the banks of the river, waiting to be put to use.

The plan was essentially to enlarge the Petitcodiac riverbed and install ultrasensitive drift controls in order to protect the route tourist boats would take between Beaumont and downtown Moncton. Although the tidal bore had diminished over the years, the currents remained so strong that no boat risked sailing the Petitcodiac anymore for fear of getting stuck in the increasingly invasive mudbanks. The danger was greatest in the area of the river's bend at the juncture of Dieppe and Moncton, where the river makes a ninety-degree turn. The engineers perfected an electronic current-detection system to guarantee safe passage through the drifting currents at all times. The livings were clearly prepared to spend what it took to complete this highly sophisticated technological project, which even attracted the attention of the designers of Montréal's Olympic Stadium roof.

As for the excursions themselves, they would be rewarding in every way. In the boats, natural and technological forces would confront one another on a wall of screens projecting images of both the real and the virtual. The ecology and history of the river would also get their share of attention: the biologists were hard at work preparing presentations while the historical interpreters were busy rehearsing re-enactments of Native life and Acadian settlement, from the arrival of the settlers at the end of the seventeenth century to the final attempts at deporting them in
1758
. The route would be dotted with observation posts and landing spots. A gigantic aboiteau, or sluice gate, large enough for the tourist boats to pass through, would be constructed to educate visitors and Acadians alike about the ingenuity of the ancient dike system constructed to protect the land from devastating river floods. There was even talk that the boat cruises could eventually be extended as far as the Bay of Fundy. In which case, the cruise would last several days and have its first night stopover near the famous Hopewell Rocks, where the Petitcodiac and Memramcook rivers empty into the Shepody estuary. The following day, the visitors would circumnavigate Capes Maringouin and Enrage and camp in Fundy National Park. The proposed voyage would require more imposing vessels than those that sailed exclusively on the Petitcodiac but, in keeping with the corporate philosophy that had brought them success, the Irvings relished the possibility of calling on the services of their Saint John shipyard and ensuring that the wheels of their numerous companies continued to turn.

*

Under the sign of Capricorn, the tenth astrological house is the house of careers or professions, of places of business and employers, of the relationship to authority and the authority one exercises in one's profession. In spite of disruptions, one's professional life may evolve favourably, but it is always subject to reversals and paradoxes. House of major projects and social tests, the tenth house includes all things relating to public life: reputation, popularity, ambition, savoir-faire, credit, prestige, honours, titles, and rank. Professional activities, whether imposed or voluntary, also play a role in establishing one's name and public image. This is the house of what will be remembered of a life's work, of glory and fame, of a career as it contributes to the public image; it's the house of services rendered and of one's love for the world. This house determines one's ability to enjoy life fully. The house of accumulated accomplishments and of the final accomplishment, it also includes, to a degree, the fear of not being able to fulfill our expectations of ourselves. The tenth house represents the work we do to increase our own and other people's self-awareness. From this house, we also get an indication of a child's expectations of her parents.

*

It was her aunt and godmother, Émerentienne Goguen, who on her return from one of her numerous trips (this one to France) gave little Carmen Després a magnificently illustrated book entitled
The Great Deltas.
was always trying to make up for her hedonistic side by engaging and attempting to engage others in things educational. Thus it was that in the months following her group excursion to France, the extravagant Émerentienne Goguen could speak of nothing else but the Bouches-du-Rhône region, which she managed somehow to dip like dry biscuits into every conversation.

Carmen Després did not hold her fun-loving aunt's peculiarities against her. She never imagined her aunt could be otherwise. So she leafed through the book without the slightest reservation, discovering breathtaking aerial views of parcelled lands that seemed to be coming apart but that were actually building their foundations, consolidating from below, in order to emerge one day from the water and take another bite out of the ocean. In an effort to better understand deltas, she stared for hours at the rivulets of water that descended from the mountains to become sometimes docile and sometimes torrential rivers which, more often than not, adopted the longest and least likely routes to reach the sea. At times, she wished she could get right inside the picture to smell the air and spirit of these prodigious waterways.

*

The Irving family's directive was crystal clear: every effort was to be made to provide young people with job opportunities at the planned Petitcodiac River Historical and Ecological Park. Terry Thibodeau was one of the lucky ones since his unemployment dossier perfectly matched the type they were looking for: he had been without work for a minimum of two years and had been on welfare for a long time. They put him through a battery of tests to determine if he had what it took, first, to complete the boat operator's training course and, then, to pass the final test. The title of operator had been chosen over navigator because the latter was judged too strong considering that all the boats were equipped with a steering-assistance system. No one wanted to anger the real captains, the local legends who continued to court true danger and who had a tendency to rise up in anger over the slightest thing.

On his twenty-fourth birthday, December
12
, the twelfth day of the twelfth month, Terry received the telephone call that would at last give his life direction. He was to present himself at the manpower office on Main Street in Moncton, across from Jones Lake, where he would be given all the details of a very interesting job. He went without much hope, underwent all the formalities, again without much hope, was accepted into the training program and completed it, still without much hope; after all, he had had some life experience. But this time was the right time; everything went as smoothly as a knife through butter. And so it was that barely eight months later, on a fine August day, Terry Thibodeau found himself seated in front of the controls of a tourist boat in the middle of the brown river, and was obliged to acknowledge his personal transformation: he had a job that satisfied him, for the time being; he'd learned to talk to people, an activity he no longer scorned even though they were only tourists; and he had begun to read again.

*

Product of the three planes of space and the four cardinal points, the number twelve symbolizes both the internal complexity of the world and the celestial vault, which is divided into twelve sections, the twelve signs
of the zodiac. We find its symbolic power in all the great civilizations, as well as among lesser-known peoples like the Dogons and Bambaras of Mali for whom the three and four correspond to the male and female elements, which together add up to the static number seven and multiply to produce the dynamic number twelve, and thus represent the perpetual becoming of the individual being and the universe. Twelve is the action number, and it represents accomplishments and the completed cycle. We find it often in the Jewish and Christian holy texts, where it symbolizes perfection. Multiplied by itself, the number twelve is said to lead to nothing less than plenitude and paradise.

*

Terry Thibodeau was preparing his boat, the
Beausoleil-Broussard,
for the day's first excursion when a dark young woman appeared at the end of the pier.

“Yoohoo!”

Terry looked up. She looked familiar but he couldn't be sure.

She spoke again. “Not too many people today.”

“August
15
was yesterday.” Terry checked his watch. It was barely nine o'clock and already the site had been cleaned and cleared of the main installations from the previous day's celebrations of Acadia's national day. Though a dozen or so Acadian flags continued to flap in the wind.

“I mean for river cruises.”

“People aren't used yet to coming when the tide is up.”

“Oh.” The young woman studied the site, the greenspaces and flowerbeds, the little concession stands and information panels. “Is it really Irving did all this, then?”

“The park, you mean? Pretty much, yeah.”

“What's the idea?”

Terry didn't think the girl really expected a reply. “Did you want to take the tour?”

“Don't know. It is kind of a nice day.”

“The next cruise leaves in half an hour. You'll have to sign up over there in the little booth.”

The young woman turned to look at the deserted booth. “Is there no one else?”

“All depends. There's some that buy their tickets early and then take a stroll in the streets of Le Coude, have a coffee or something, while they're waiting.”

“Oh.” The young woman looked at the river. She didn't seem in any hurry to make up her mind.

Terry waited a bit before telling her, as politely as possible, “They don't really like you hanging around on this part of the pier.”

“Oh?”

XII

I
KNEW I HAD TO
decolonize myself, to free myself, but I had no idea where to start. I felt enormous and divided, like Africa: weakened, invaded, badly coordinated, primitive, and paradoxical. I didn't even know what to be anymore, what exactly to want. It had become almost impossible to take a step in any direction. Even the streets of my neighbourhood had become alien and menacing, somehow unreal. I got in the habit of going everywhere by car, even to the corner store. Even so, I avoided certain streets during rush hour for fear of being immobilized in traffic and I never dared to leave town alone. I knew my limits. In spite of this though, I managed to live and appear normal. That was perhaps what was most troubling.

*

Three other people approached the
Beausoleil-Broussard
a few minutes before its departure. Terry was relieved. He hadn't been looking forward to doing the entire tour alone with this young woman who had already asked him his name, his age, and his opinion on the book he was reading.

“So what's your name, then?”

His name was sewn on the front of his shirt, but she was too far away to read it. He felt embarrassed somehow about telling her his name. “Terry.”

“Terry what?”

“Thibodeau.”

“Oh.”

Silence. The pause was critical. It put Terry at ease and made him feel like continuing the conversation. “How about you, then? What's your name?”

“Carmen.”

“Carmen what?”

“Després.”

“And where're you from?”

“Grande-Digue.”

“I thought they was all Bourgeois in Grande-Digue.”

“They're a good number. The Després come from Cocagne, really. My father moved to Grande-Digue to get away from his family.”

The ironic reply made Terry laugh. Cocagne was only a few kilometres from Grande-Digue.

There was another pause before she continued, “What's that you're reading, then?”

“Oh, it's just a book.” Normally Terry would have left it at that but today his reply seemed too brief and not particularly bright. He tried to lengthen it a bit. “It's about the number twelve, all the ways that number exists.”

“And do you like it?”

“It's okay.”

Another brief silence. Carmen eyed the expanse of water before her. “How old are you, then?”

“Why?”

“Just to know. I'd say you're twenty-six.”

“Twenty-four.”

“Twice twelve.”

“Exactly.” Terry had answered nonchalantly but this girl made him laugh inside. “And how old are you, then?”

“Thirty. I look younger though, don't I?”

“Well, yeah . . . sort of.”

“Is thirty any good?”

“Thirty?”

“Yeah, thirty. Twice twelve plus six.”

“Oh! Well, I don't know. Maybe. How do you like it?”

“Oh! I like it just fine.”

*

For example, I would never have boarded one of those tourist boats that sail along the Petitcodiac. Not in a million years! I'd only have to set foot on board for their renowned remote controls to break down. But even there, I could pass for normal. So many people boycott or would like to boycott the Irvings that my own resistance would go unnoticed. The fact that they're retrieving a part of our history means nothing. The Irvings could give us back all of New France, we still wouldn't trust them. That's the way it is.

It's no different in Shediac. With all the people on the beach in summer time, I can stay on the sand or go in the water; either way, I look perfectly normal. No one has to know I swim only at high tide because at low tide you have to walk miles (I'm exaggerating) in a foot of water and if I had an episode and fainted, I'd drown. That's a new fear from last summer. New ones crop up like that now and then. When I overcome one fear, another appears. Often I can feel them coming in my stomach. The worst places are those huge multi-floor bookstores they have in big cities. All those books do something to my intestines. When I see them, I wonder why I write.

*

On the return trip, Terry hoped the young woman with all the questions would be quiet for a bit. He liked her offhand manner but earlier she'd stretched him to the limit. He wasn't sure he'd managed all right.

“Do you suppose there might be a way to prove the Petitcodiac is the opposite of a delta?”

Terry wasn't sure he understood what Carmen Després was asking.

She reformulated her question. “I mean, a river that fills up, mightn't it be the opposite of a delta, which is a river that empties into the sea and fills up the sea while it empties itself?” Terry didn't know what to answer, but Carmen Després was determined. “What I mean is that instead of the river filling up the sea, it's the sea that fills the river. That's all, and wouldn't that be the reverse of a delta, then?”

Terry was a bit shaken. She seemed to know what she was talking about. He thought back to all the readings he'd done during his training. “Well, you may be right, only I would've thought the opposite of a delta was an estuary. Like Shepody Bay, for example.”

Carmen Després didn't know how to explain herself, but that didn't stop her from trying again. “Well, alright then, but couldn't it be that a river that fills up with silt . . . if the same thing happened on the edge of the coast, it would be like a delta? Seems to me, a person could prove that.”

“Well, maybe so, I'm sure I don't know. And what would be the point of proving something like that?”

“Don't know. None maybe. Sometimes, you just need to prove something.”

*

Then one day, I decide it's gone on long enough and I make up my mind. I grab my plastic water bottles and get in the car. I'm already up to my neck in this mess, which no one suspects but which has nevertheless become my lot. I cling to every ounce of self-confidence, I gather up all my courage, I start the car; in short, I do all that must be done and I'm off. Before I'm even past the city limits, I've already undone my seatbelt to breathe more easily, to breathe from my diaphragm as all anxiety manuals instruct you to do. A lovely song is playing on the radio. This helps. On the other hand, sometimes it's silence I need. Nothing is predictable. Sometimes neither works. Sometimes every little thing is too much and nothing suffices: an innocent thought, a slight emotion, and I'm gone. So I slow down, I take my foot off the gas. At times, when I have the presence of mind to advance slowly, things fall back into place, take on more reasonable proportions, and it becomes possible to continue going forward. The error may be to want to go too fast, or simply to want too much. This is what I tell myself in the shopping centre, when I lose my courage in those unending corridors, when this thing wells up in me and pushes me once again toward despair. I tell myself everything is all right, everything is fine, I just want to buy myself a pair of socks, I have every right, and there's no hurry.

*

At the end of the cruise, instead of disembarking, Carmen Després stationed herself at the bow of the boat and studied the mouth of Hall's Creek. Terry kept his distance. He was afraid of being drawn into her delta thing again. Not wanting to appear rude by asking her to get off, he pretended to be busy adjusting the
Beausoleil-Broussard's
cathode screens.

After a while, the young woman from Grande-Digue marched to the plank, then changed her mind and turned back toward Terry. “Back there, when you talked about the fish in the river, did you say there were still some?”

“Truth is, there's only the eel, really. There's other kinds but you don't want to go and eat them. Once, there was plenty of smelt and shad, even salmon and trout. All that's gone now, on account of the causeway down there.”

Carmen had been watching Terry while he spoke. She'd measured his profile against the brown of the water, the green of the shore, and the blue of the sky. As a result, she was taken by surprise when silence came so quickly on the heels of his words. Looking at the causeway, she tried to think of something to add, to show Terry that his words hadn't fallen on deaf ears. “Well, I guess so. Those gates aren't exactly wide.”