For Sure (49 page)

“Yes, often enough.”

“I don't know this neighbourhood. So I could not have invented it.”

As I'd suspected, my novelist's preoccupations left her rather indifferent.

“And your parents are well?”

“Which ones?”

!

And there you have it; clearly, it was going to go as I'd feared. The waiter brought our coffees. I took my time pouring milk into mine.

“Was there something in particular you wanted to ask me?”

She addressed me with careless familiarity. I sensed she was in a hurry to get it over with. She almost certainly had somewhere she would rather be. After all, I had neither Zablonski's nor Rodriguez's charm.

“No. I only wanted to see how you were doing.”

My reply appeared to mollify her. I reminded myself that she must be fed up with being the fruit of so many writers' imaginations.

“You have a lot of . . . ?”

She replied with a shrug before I could even finish my question. I waited a bit.

“Have you seen the pope-rabbi again?”

“Why? In your eyes, I'm just a drinking trough full of worn-out proverbs, is that it?”

!

Alright. It was worse than I'd imagined. Really, I barely recognized her. Was she really the same person I'd created? Once timid, she had become hypersensitive; once innocent, now bitter.

“Alright . . .”

I could think of nothing else to say. It was as though all my ideas had suddenly flown right out of my head and there was no way to recapture them. Had I infused her with my illusions back then? And was I now transferring all my disillusionment? I felt myself totally lacking in theory, and in practice. What was I trying to prove?

“But you did agree to meet me . . .”

She shrugged and, fingering one of her earrings, turned her head toward the large room, as she'd done several times.

“Does your earring hurt?”

“I can't hide anything from you, can I?”

I'd had enough. I was only looking for a polite way to end the conversation. I decided to simply tell the truth, and I was on the verge of doing just that when she said:

“I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm such a pain in the ass lately. Do you know?”

pic pac pic pac pic

driftwood down in Cap-Pelé

pic pac sss pit sss

driftwood down in Shippagan

shhhh sssss shhhh murmurs Fundy

When Carmen returns from shopping at Place Champlain, Étienne will barely be able to contain his excitement:

“Mum! Mum! De cloud toilet paper won.”

“Awh, is dat right?”

Carmen will have no idea what her son is talking about, but she'll be disposed to listen.

“Yes, even doh sometimes folks're buyin' de wee kittens on account of you can get dem downeasy off de shelf.”

the parsley's sprightly

and how proud November's leeks

crunchy succulent

winter whistled in the cold

upon an ice-cracked tongue

“I remember we used to call a drawer
une
tirette
instead of
un tiroir
in our house. Doh, really de way we said it sounded more like
tiroué
.”

“I wonders if dat was actually de right word in old French.”

“Now, we says
tiroir
, like everybody else.”

“Der some folks're against dat.”

“Against wot?”

“Losing our Chiac.”

“Well, is dat right? Ask me, dey oughtta make up der mind!”

Books.

“Dat's a poor excuse.”

Étienne didn't understand what Carmen meant, since he had not excused himself at all; he'd merely warned her that he was going to the washroom.

“Don't I recall tellin' you not to come stompin' troo de house with yer boots full o' mud?”

Étienne retreated and removed his boots; he did not like being scolded.

“Are youse playin' in de Petitcodiac river to be gadderin' up all dat sludge?”

Sitting on the pot, Étienne managed to complete his business with a little effort.

“Der's a frog in de canal. Chico wants us to put it in a bottle.”

“A frog in a bottle?”

Was Étienne about to be scolded some more?

“More likely 'tis a toad. Eider way, I don't tink a creature like dat's gonna enjoy livin' in a bottle. A box wid some kind of cover'd be a lot better, seems to me.”

Étienne came out of the bathroom doubly relieved, and waited while Carmen rummaged in the storage room and returned with a crate that had contained clementines, covered with a net.

“'Ere ya go, den. If I was you boys, I'd put some hay in de bottom to block up de cracks.”

Pleased and excited, Étienne put his boots on in a hurry.

“Come an' show it to me when youse caught de poor ting, so's we can tell wot it is.”

“Alright, Mum!”

At the ideal moment, practitioners plant a rare seed in scientifically prepared soil; then they cosset the seedling in such a way as to favour the apparition of the gigantism syndrome. The sport as such consists in lifting and transporting this garden fruit to the site of a particular regional contest. To have a chance at winning a prize, a pumpkin must weigh at least half a ton, which will require impeccable lifting technique (six or seven men) and a vehicle equipped with excellent shock absorbers. Contrary to the pleasing appearance of a normal-sized healthy pumpkin, neither the pallor, nor the cellulitic skin (also called orange skin), nor the caved-in form of this giant cucurbitacea count for anything in the contest. The world record holder of pumpkins weighs approximately three-­quarters of a ton.

“Not so easy is it, me boy?”

Étienne was struggling to grate a potato, with Terry by his side.

“Do you want me to finish 'er fer you?”

Marianne, quiet for once, watched her brother working fiercely to reduce the tubercular into hash.

“Do you wanna give it a try, Marianne?”

. . .

“Come over 'ere, den. You can hold on to de potato an' I'll hold de grater.”

The little one stayed put.

“No? You don't wanna give 'er a try?”

Marianne shook her head no.

“Alright den. You don't have to. Yer dad'll finish up.”

Actually, Terry was relieved. Things always went faster when the kids weren't in the way.

“Yeeeeeeeth!”

“Awh, Marianne does want to grate, does she? Only yer dad tawt Marianne was sayin' no she didn't.”

Terry set the little one up beside him, wondering if sometimes he wasn't too kind. After all, sooner or later the children would have to learn that no meant no.

“An' now, you hold de potato like dis, an' you push.”

Marianne pushed with all her might, and the tubercular dug into the grater, moving maybe a centimetre. And that was about all.

“At a girl, Marianne, dat's exactly how we do it!”

If writing can be compared to slipping on a banana peel, the exultation associated with it corresponds to nothing more or less than the fraction of a second suspended between earth and sky, before crashing into the ground.

“Did you want an intermittent infusion or an intravenous solution?”

“A solution.”

Find the school book in which is told the story of the princess that couldn't cry. That same book also tells the story of another princess, whose necklace falls to the bottom of the ocean. In this case, the young man who brings back the necklace wins the lady's hand. Three giants will come to his aid.

“Dad, will I be growin' a beard as well?”

Étienne was watching his father spread lather on his face.

“Me boy, I knew I'd have to give ya de bad news one o' dese days: fer sure, you'll be growin' a beard.”

Étienne cast a wondering look at his father. Terry explained:

“I don't know too many fellas dat enjoy shavin' every day.”

“On account of?”

“On account of it's a wee bit tiresome. An' it takes up a bunch o' time.”

Terry rinsed his fingers, picked up his razor and adjusted it.

“An' on account of women don't like to find yer hair all over de
sink
. ‘Specially if the hair's black an' de
sink's
white.”

Terry realized he'd been using the English word
sink
.

“An' by de way, a
sink
in French is
évier
.

Étienne admired the perfectly straight stroke Terry had drawn across the lather on his cheek.

“Wot colour will me beard be, Dad?”

“We don't know, do we. Most times it's de same colour as de hair, but sometimes a fella'll 'ave brown hair or black an a brown-red beard, like a brick. Dat means de boy's got a bit o' de Irish blood in 'im.”

Terry rinsed his razor in the sink and got set to tackle his chin.

“Zed's got a beard mower.”

“I know it. I don't like de electric razors meself.”

“On account of?”

“Don't know, really. Seems like it don't shave close enough.”

. . .

“Sure an' it's ‘arder shavin' wid a razor blade like dis one 'ere. A fella's got to be careful not to cut 'imself. But after a while you
get de hang of it
.”

. . .

“Do you understand ‘get de hang,' to get de hang o' someting?”

Terry had used the English expression. Étienne thought about it, and shook his head:

“No. I only know ‘
hang up ton coat dans la closet
.'”

There are any number of useful suggestions relating to the use, preparation, cooking, and conservation of onions. The most astonishing and possibly the least known of these suggestions is that one should not keep an onion that's already been sliced, because it will have lost its vitamins, and the rapid oxidization can even render it inedible.

Chico had separated hundreds of stones according to their colours and collected them in a half dozen large metal cans.

“You doesn't see de colour like dis 'ere. Dey has to be wet.”

Chico put a stone into his mouth, wet it all around, pulled it out, and showed it to Étienne.

“Luh, see?”

Étienne was impressed. No one had ever talked to him about the colour of stones before, not even Zablonski. He rummaged in one of the cans, chose a stone, wet it in his mouth so that he could appreciate its colour properly.

12. Who would you most like to meet in a copse of trees on a golf course?

a) Warren Buffet.

b) Queen Latifa.

c) Tintin.

d) The Dalai Lama.

e) Other: _________________.

People talked in hushed tones — Wednesday evening's excellent and quiet musical selection was having its effect. Pomme, Zed, and Terry, who appreciated the ambience, often met for a drink at the Babar on Wednesdays.

“Me, der's nuttin' I like better dan to start de day wid brand new socks. When you's gotta tear de paper off an' all.”

“Sure. Wot a treat when dey's snug on yer feet.”

“I saw someting de udder day I really enjoyed.”

. . .

“I never noticed dem until now.”

. . .

“I mean does little bums on grape seeds.”

Freudian slips don't only happen in speech. They also occur when we write, listen, and read. Here's an example of a silent reading of a passage from Jean-Paul Manganaro's introduction to Italo Calvino's collection
The Road to San Giovanni
(the reading slips are in parentheses): “We apprehend memory in its recovered present, in its state of purity reworded (poverty rewarded) like an inexhaustible present. In fact, the event that acts as a motor (model) is told in a manner almost distant and remote (remit), a historical event, certainly, belonging to the history of the individual and that individual's collectivity, but not valued, at that moment of remembering (remuneration) for what it is.”

“When you tink about it, wasn't so very long ago, a fellow could've read just about all de books der was . . . like Diderot an' all dem boys in de 1800s. Nowadays? Just readin' all de titles'd take ya years!”

“Well den, I suppose you might say de planet's not such a global village as all dat, after all . . .”

“All depends. Ask me, 'tis a question o' spin.”

“You means she's spinnin' faster dan she used to?”

“More dan dat. She's changed 'er curve.”

TRAMPLETIME:
n. — 2005/2013; from
trample
and
time
and
trampoline
.
♦
With a great deal of irregularity, rushed

sharooshed
. “
All of them women working on trampletime, they brandished a crab in one hand and a herring in the other.”
(Daigle/Majzels)

The first time Chico invited Étienne to come along to his grandmother's in Dieppe, the two boys looked over Chico's collections.