The Years of Fire (21 page)

“Charles,” said Michaud, smiling and joining the tips of his fingers together under his chin. The coincidence surprised him, as he had just been thinking about Charles himself.

“It’s … it’s about a Christmas present I want to get him.”

“Aha. I see you like to plan ahead. And you want me to chip in for it, is that it?”

“No, no, nothing like that!” she exclaimed, confused. “I have enough money.… I want to give him a book, but I don’t know which one. I thought since you and he know so much about books, and you are always lending them to him, you could give me some advice. It’s not easy to choose a gift for someone,” she said seriously, “when you really want to make them happy.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed the notary, trying to be friendly and warm. “Often we give presents that would make us happy if we got them, and don’t really think of what would make the other person happy. In other words, we remain egotists even when we’re trying to be altruists.”

“Exactly,” Céline said, impressed by the elegant way he had put the problem.

Michaud was consumed by a salacious curiosity. “Do you give him presents like this every Christmas, Céline?” he asked.

“No. In fact, this is the first time. That’s why I want to make sure it’s the right present.”

Her cheeks flushed pink again and she looked away.

“Would I be prying,” replied the notary, in his most mollifying, paternal tone, “if I asked you why you want to give him a present this particular year?”

He took a swallow of coffee to give her time to think about her answer. But she replied instantly.

“Because I love him. And I want to show him that I love him.”

The notary was jubilant. The conversation had lifted him into a state of happiness that made him forget the depths into which his day had plunged him.

“There are less … costly … ways of doing that,” he said pleasantly. Céline gave a little irritated pout.

“I’m not about to throw my arms around his neck, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “What would he think of me?”

“You know, my dear Céline, girls often forget how shy boys can be. I myself was very shy when I was Charles’s age. Sometimes you have to give them a little nudge. Things often go well, after that.”

Céline shook her head, annoyed.

“That’s not like me,” she said. “First I want to give him a present.”

The notary agreed that in matters of the heart it was better to follow one’s own inclinations. The best strategy, after all, was the one that came most naturally.

“How much money do you have to spend?”

“About thirty dollars.”

She had to have been saving her pennies for months, he thought. She probably should keep some of it, but she seemed ready to spend everything she had to show Charles how much she loved him. Michaud was surprised and touched by the candour with which she was speaking to him.

“You love him that much?” he asked.

“I do,” she said, her eyes filling with a dreamy sadness. “Ever since I was young … and especially since he came to live with us. I thought for a while I would get over it, but in fact the opposite has happened. So, what book do you think I should buy, Monsieur Michaud?”

The notary sat back in his chair. “That is the question, as our dear old Hamlet would say.” And he stared at the ceiling, the picture of deep concentration.

But no ideas came into his head. He slid the candy dish towards Céline and offered her a caramel, which she accepted, then took one for himself and put it in his mouth. Then he got up from his chair and sauntered along the rows of books on his shelves, running his eyes over their titles, bending down and standing up with tiny exhalations of breath. Céline watched him, her hands clasped on her lap, with a faint smile of astonishment. She had never met anyone like him in her life. He was gentle, impressive, and a bit ridiculous, all at the same time.

“Got it!” he cried suddenly. “But it might be a tad expensive …”

“What is it?”

“
The Complete Short Stories of Guy de Maupassant,”
he said. “The Albin Michel edition, in two volumes, printed on fine paper. It’s beautiful, a real treasure. They might sell each volume separately. I remember Charles read
The House of Tellier
, a collection put out by Livre de Poche, and liked it very much. Shall I call a bookstore for you?”

He found what he wanted after three calls. The volumes were sold separately, for twenty-two dollars each.

“That’s perfect, then,” Céline decided. “I’ll go get the first one right away. Could they hold it for me, please?”

Excited, she leaped to her feet in a transport of joy and ran her hands along the edge of the desk, as if she were caressing it.

“If you like, I could pick it up for you, my dear. I have to go downtown tomorrow anyway.”

“Are you sure he’ll like it? I mean, really like it?”

“I’m sure, yes,” replied the notary, squeezing his eyes shut with a satisfied smile.

She thanked him effusively, reached into her pocket, and took out three ten-dollar bills. He took two of them.

“Keep some for yourself,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get a discount. I’m a regular customer at Champigny’s, and they sometimes do me favours.”

Céline was on her way to the door when she turned back, suddenly stricken by a horrible thought that brought down the corners of her mouth.

“You promise you won’t tell him about my visit? He would laugh at me, I know it.”

“Céline, my sweet little Céline,” he replied gravely, placing a hand on her shoulder, “at my age one knows love when one sees it. There is nothing so beautiful – or so terrible. Do you think I’d be so mean as to do such a thing?”

Wilfrid Thibodeau hadn’t been heard from for several months. It seemed he had disappeared from the neighbourhood. Had he left the city, or even the country? Charles told himself that the sacrifice of his money might not have been in vain after all. But thoughts of his father continued to haunt him. What hole was he hiding in? Had he gone back north to work? His victory still filled him with pride, but it was beginning to seem a little too easy. He couldn’t believe that his father wasn’t out there somewhere, planning his revenge.

One cold and windy Saturday in March he decided to go to the Amis du Sport, to see if he could find Oscar Turgeon, the elderly gentleman who had given him his father’s address. He was pulling on his gloves in the vestibule, looking out at the gusts of snow sweeping down the street, when Céline came down the hallway, still in her pyjamas (she’d been sleeping in).

“Where are you going?”

Ever since Christmas, when she’d blushingly given him the Maupassant short stories (which he’d devoured in three days), there had been a pact of silence between them. Embarrassed at not having a Christmas present for her, he had waited until New Year’s Day to give her, almost secretly, a handsome silver bracelet with inlaid agates that he’d bought her – after great deliberation and scrutiny and much consultation with Marlene – at Parchemin’s Jewellery Store in the Berri-de Montigny metro station. Céline had worn it every day since.

“I’m going to find out what’s happened to my father.”

“Where?”

“A bar. The Amis du Sport, on Logan.”

He’d told her about his encounter with his father. No one but she and Blonblon knew about the fight. He hadn’t brought Henri in on the secret because he thought Henri was too much of a blabbermouth. Charles had made both Blonblon and Céline swear they’d never say anything about it to Fernand or Lucie; with his hotheaded temper, Fernand would no doubt run off to Thibodeau’s place and force him to return what was left of his son’s fifteen hundred dollars, if anything was left of it at all.

“I’ll come with you,” Céline said. “Give me a minute to jump into some clothes.”

But Charles told her no, she was too young to be allowed into a bar.

Twenty minutes later it was he who was being ejected from the bar. As soon as he’d seen Charles enter, the owner had asked to see some ID, and after looking Charles over briefly he’d told him he couldn’t be served.

“I didn’t come here to drink,” Charles declared, looking around the room. “I’m looking for someone. A Monsieur Turgeon, Oscar Turgeon.”

“He never shows up here before two o’clock on Saturdays. Wait for him outside, my lad. The fresh air’ll do you good.”

And he’d bowed with an elegant, exaggerated arm movement that managed to hint at more direct methods of expulsion.

Charles left, shamefaced, but glad that he had not let Céline come along. According to his watch it was a quarter to one. There was nothing he could do but wait. The wind was blowing hard and pellets of snow were stinging his eyes. It was a damp, heavy wind, merciless and tenacious, freezing his cheeks and his earlobes and making him feel as though icy snakes were crawling all over his body, despite the thickness of his hood and toque and coat. He looked up and down the street, but there was no corner store or restaurant from which he could keep an eye on the bar. There was a bus shelter a few feet away and he stood in that. If he kept perfectly still and straight, with one shoulder leaning against the glass wall of the shelter in such a way that the skin of his legs touched as little of the icy material of his trousers as possible, then after a few minutes a kind of buffer of warm air built up between him and the glacial dampness.

Fifteen minutes passed. Three men entered the bar, one after the other, bent over against the wind and walking quickly, but none of them looked like Oscar Turgeon. Charles shivered but remained stoical. His shoulder was frozen where it touched the shelter wall. The cold chewed furiously at his toes. Maybe the bad weather was a warning, he thought. “Why are you chasing after your father, Charles? Nothing good has ever come from your contact with him.”

A young woman came into the bus shelter with her three young children, numbed by the cold. She looked Arabic. She was wearing a long, heavy coat and her head was wrapped in brightly coloured shawls that encased her face like a shell. Then three adolescents came in, bare-headed, acting excited; one of them had a cat under his coat, which was looking about wildly. A bus stopped with a long squealing of brakes and Charles was alone again, feeling colder than ever. He hiked up his coat sleeve and looked at his watch: it was only twenty after one. His method of trapping calories by not moving was reaching the limit of its effectiveness. It wasn’t
working for his feet at all: he could no longer feel them except for a sort of tingling sensation in the heels. How much longer could he last?

Another bus came and stopped, but when Charles didn’t move it left again with an angry growl, leaving behind the acrid stench of diesel fuel. He coughed, rubbed his frozen shoulder, thought about lighting a cigarette but didn’t have the courage to get one out. “I’ll count to three hundred,” he decided, “and if he doesn’t come by then, I’m out of here.” The storm raged on more furiously than ever. It now had complete possession of the deserted streets. It was crazy to be waiting for someone outdoors in such weather.

He’d almost reached two hundred when a silhouette appeared in the distance, walking in his direction, surrounded by swirls of flying snow that made him stagger and sometimes come to a full stop; the figure disappeared completely in a white cloud, then appeared again on the move, hobbling along with jerky movements. The silhouette seemed familiar. It was a man, that much was clear. Whoever it was turned his back into the fury of the wind to catch his breath, and as he readjusted his hood Charles suddenly recognized him. He ran out of the bus shelter.

“Steve!” he shouted as loudly as he could. “Over here!”

The figure jumped, raised its arms in the air, tried to run but slipped and fell onto the sidewalk. A few seconds later he was sitting beside Charles on the bench inside the shelter.

“I was at loose ends,” he said, brushing snow from his face, “so I thought I’d come downtown and see what was up. Céline told me where you were.… Christ, you sure picked a good day for it!”

And he gave Charles a big smile.

He persuaded Charles to leave the shelter, where they were certainly about to freeze to death, and warm themselves up in the nearest restaurant. His friend’s arrival changed Charles’s mood, and he no longer felt like fulfilling his quest. It had been a long time since he’d seen Steve. Stretched out on a chair, his feet pressed up against a radiator, he told Steve about his last encounter with his father, only slightly exaggerating his courage. Every now and then he cast a glance out the window, where the storm was building up
into a huge spectacle. He’d come down to the Amis du Sport, he explained, because he wanted to be sure that his victory was definitive.

“Forget it,” Steve said, with princely nonchalance. “Fifteen hundred bucks! Can’t you imagine where he is? Curled up in the bottom of a bottle. You won’t hear from him again, I’ll bet my mother’s butt on it! It cost you a bundle, but it was worth it. Bingo! So, what do you say we go down to the Orleans and play a little pool?”

Charles hadn’t set foot in the pool hall since his friend had moved out to the suburbs. He liked the idea of a game. He needed to unwind, and with Steve, unwinding was easy. The guy seemed made for nothing else. They decided to split the cost of a taxi, and one arrived within half an hour.