A Very Bold Leap (41 page)

“Why not?” she replied, surprised by the question, “ft pays well.”

He found himself unable to refute her logic. He also found himself wanting to spend the night with her, and, after hesitating, told her so.

She laughed. “You’ll catch my cold.”

“I never catch colds.”

“Where do you live?”

“Just around the corner.”

She thought about it for a moment. “All right, because you are kind and a nice guy. Normally I’d have to say no. I’m not supposed to go with clients. If they ever found out, I’d be out the door in two seconds flat.”

As they walked to his apartment, Charles wondered if he should offer her money.
We’ll wait and see
, he decided, not out of pettiness but because he didn’t want to treat her like a prostitute.
Blonblon would try to save her soul. And he’d probably succeed, poor guy!

At the apartment she toured all the rooms, remarking on how nicely he’d decorated them. Charles smiled, thinking she must come from a fairly modest background. She was most impressed by his new computer, which he’d just taken out of its packaging. She asked him to boot it up and sat at the keyboard while Charles bent and kissed the back of her neck, and handed her more Kleenex, as her nose was still running.

“In a year, maybe two, I’m going back to school,” she said, wrinkling her brow with a determined air.

“That’s a great idea,” Charles said, kissing her more fervently.

In bed she was a connoisseuse. Charles could hardly believe that someone with such natural delicacy could be so good at what was essentially a degrading occupation. If he weren’t careful, he’d fall in love with her, which of course would be pure folly.

He awoke early the next morning, because he had an interview to conduct. She was still sleeping, lying on her side, her head resting on one arm, in such a fetching, childlike pose that he couldn’t bear to take his eyes off her.

He placed his lips on hers. “Do you have to get up early?”

She shook her head, keeping her eyes closed but with an easy smile on her lips.

“I’ll let you sleep, then,” he said. “Lock the door when you leave. You can lock it from the inside. Can you give me your phone number?”

“I’ll leave it for you,” she murmured, moving her head slightly and kissing his chin.

He dressed, ate a hasty breakfast, trying not to make too much noise, and went out to do his interview. He thought about her the entire day.

When he arrived home early that evening, his computer was gone, along with a small sum of money he’d kept in a dresser drawer. Nothing else had been touched.

He went to the Bird in Hand and asked to see her, but the owner, as affable as ever, informed him that unfortunately she no longer worked for the establishment.

Charles called her a liar and a thief, banging his fist on the counter. A huge man weighing two hundred and fifty pounds appeared in a doorway. His head was shaved, his moustache hid his mouth, and he flexed his biceps suggestively, inviting Charles to leave on his own steam.

For three days nobody could get a word out of Charles. His colleagues at
Artist’s Life
, rebuffed one after the other, began to tease him behind his back. Only Bernard Délicieux, generous to a fault as usual, brought Charles out of his funk, by offering him his old computer, which he had just replaced with a more up-to-date model.

C
harles became a full-time writer for
Artist’s Life
in a way that was as sudden as it was original.

One morning, when he was in the office to deliver his column, he was chatting over a coffee with Bernard Délicieux when a sudden change in atmosphere descended over the editorial section. Silence fell like a trap door, and all movement ceased.

The editor, sporting a new haircut and an impeccably knotted tie, had just entered the room with a visitor. Vanier was all over the man, smiling and practically bowing before him: the visitor was Pierre Péladeau, the founder of Québécor and the
Journal de Montréal
and the owner of
Artist’s Life
, which was one of the more modest members of his vast empire of newspapers and magazines.

The journalists set to work at their desks with a zealousness that would have earned them the Nobel Prize had they been able to keep it up. Charles merely turned pale and stared at the two men talking as they walked towards him between the rows of desks. An idea had come into his head, and only fear would keep him from putting it into action. Suddenly, under the awe-stricken eye of Délicieux, Charles strode up to the tycoon.

“Monsieur Péladeau,” he said, his voice rendered abnormally loud by nervousness, “could I have a word with you, if you have a minute?”

Every eye in the office was on him.

The businessman interrupted his conversation with Vanier and turned to Charles in surprise.

“And you are …?”

The words were spewed out, jumbled and nearly unintelligible, since Pierre Péladeau always spoke quickly, in a hoarse voice, and always mangled
his words. With an ambiguous smile, he waited for Charles to reply. Charles, however, was struck dumb, trying to put his best foot forward; then, deciding to go for broke, he added in his most deferential tones, “Monsieur Péladeau, if it’s at all possible, I would really like to meet with you.”

“You’re meeting with me now.”

Checked, Charles merely stared at him.

“So, what can I do for you, young man?” the businessman asked in a slightly friendlier voice.

“Er … It’s about… I mean … I’d feel a lot more comfortable talking to you in private … But of course you must be very busy…”

“I am. But I have both my ears with me today, so … Go ahead. What is it? I don’t have all day.”

“It’s about… I would like to work here at
Artist’s Life
full-time.”

“I know a lot of people who would like that, my boy,” Péladeau said with a curt laugh. “But there are only so many jobs available, and that’s a fact. I can’t go adding pages to the magazine just because I like the cut of your jib, can I?” He turned to the editor. “Is he any good?”

“Not bad,” Vanier replied, ticked off at seeing one of his employees going over his head, but treading carefully because he could also see that Charles’s audacity was making a favourable impression on Péladeau. “He does the ‘Letters to Maryse’ column.”

“Really? Then he
is
good. Would there be a place for him?”

“I could take a look.”

“See what you can come up with. If there’s room, we’ll take him on. If not, he’ll have to be content with ‘Letters.’”

Charles thanked the man profusely. Péladeau gave a quick, irritated nod of his head, patted Charles on the shoulder, and moved off hurriedly with the editor.

Bernard Délicieux was blown away by Charles’s boldness. He advised the young man to send Péladeau copies of his best pieces from the
Siren
, along with a copy of
The Silent Rip-Off
and a very well-crafted letter, as soon as possible. It was well-known that Péladeau always answered all letters that were sent to him, even those from ordinary citizens. The next day, Charles mailed off a package to Quebecor’s headquarters on rue Saint-Jacques. Two weeks later,
Artist’s Life
took him on as a staff writer, and the editor of the
Villeray Siren
lost his only journalist so suddenly he didn’t even have a chance to chew him out.

It did not take Charles long to excel at his new job; the editor, who had secretly been hoping that Charles would fall flat on his face, changed his attitude towards the young man. After two weeks of trying, Charles succeeded in landing an interview with the singer Lola Malo, who was reputedly inaccessible behind her barricade of cash; the interview made quite a splash, was printed on the front page, and aroused the jealousy of some of his confrères and a note of congratulations from Pierre Péladeau himself. The next week, his touching tribute to the aging humorist Pierre Lapierre drew an avalanche of letters to the journal and twenty-two offers of support to Lapierre.

From then on, Charles Thibodeau was a force to be reckoned with — at least for as long as he kept bringing in the stories.

Blonblon’s antique shop on avenue du Mont-Royal, however, was going through a rough period. On its distinguished wooden sign, with carved letters that had cost Blonblon a fortune, could be read:

THE OLD ARMOIRE
ANTIQUES
BARGAINS — CURIOSITIES
WE MAKE REPAIRS

Blonblon was working twelve, even sixteen, hours a day, repairing and restoring furniture, dishes, and sundry other items as long as they were old, in the hope of reselling them at a reasonable profit. Sometimes it worked, but not nearly as often as he’d hoped; he also sold furniture and other objects on consignment. Opening his shop had been, in some ways, a return to the repair business he’d begun during his childhood.

“Blonblon hasn’t changed,” his friends and acquaintances would say, smiling broadly.

And everyone seemed happy that he hadn’t.

To save money, he was still living with his parents, who helped him out as best they could, but he was hoping with all his heart to some day share an apartment with Isabel and raise three or four kids. For some obscure reason he had, for a long time now, felt an urgent need to father children, and it
had intensified the love he felt for Isabel. In her, on the other hand, the pro-creative desire was vigorously tempered by practical considerations; she was close to getting her nursing certificate, and she had firmly declared to Blonblon that he would have to get his shop on a solid footing before she would even contemplate popping a succession of babies.

“And don’t expect me to spend the rest of my days up to my neck in housework, either. I am a modern woman. I love children, but I want a professional life. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, that’s all very normal. No surprises there. My mother is exactly the same. She always had an outside job.”

“That’s because your father is an invalid.”

“She would have worked anyway, believe me. Modern women, as you call them, weren’t invented yesterday.”

These days, when he visited his friend, Charles felt as though he were entering a different world, more and more distanced from his own. He reacted to this sense by adopting a cynical attitude towards love and women, always being careful to make sure that Isabel was either absent or out of earshot, because in truth he was ashamed of his views, even though he thought they were realistic and sensible.

Blonblon listened to him with a patient smile and a slightly saddened sympathy. His friend was going through a difficult time; eventually he would return to his old self. It was important to let him express his pain, to expel the poison that was eating away at his entrails. Charles would have liked to discuss his private concerns with Blonblon, even if it meant arguing with him, but he found he could not. After a while, he came to feel that he no longer had much to say to the one person who had been his confidant for so many years.

He felt more and more alone. Bernard Délicieux and his other colleagues at the office could not fill the vacancy left by his friends; his relationship with them was too superficial, and complicated by secret rivalries. Régine Allaire was kind, maternal, and always ready with advice. If only she would be content just being a friend! But each time they got together they ended up in bed, and he always had the impression that he was making love to someone who could have been his mother, an impression that spoke to none of his
fantasies. She picked up on this, of course, and was highly offended; one night, after they had drunk a fair bit of wine, she told him to leave, to go hang around with his young babes, who knew as much about love as they knew about nuclear physics.

He was consumed by bitterness. One night he thought about Steve. It had been a long time since he’d seen him. What good times they had once had! To think he had put him out of his life over a woman! How ridiculous was that!

He hesitated, but in the end decided to give him a call. As far as he knew, the big lummox was still living with his mother. And sure enough, it was Steve’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello. Guess who’s speaking.”

There was a silence, then, “Well, well. Son of a bitch!”

“So, what’s up?”

“Son of a bitch!” Steve repeated, even more astonished.

“What?”

“I was just thinking of you, Charlie boy.”

“Does that mean there was a time when you weren’t thinking of me?” he said, to cover his nervousness.

“I can’t believe it!” Steve said, still stunned. “I’ve wondered a few times if … What do you want, anyway?”

Charles knew that Steve’s rudeness was meant to hide his childlike happiness. He’d seen it often enough in his friend; it was usually followed by a display of absolute tomfoolery, or else a sudden, unexpected sensitiveness.

“I felt like seeing you, believe it or not,” Charles said, somewhat embarrassed.

Steve laughed, and there was a hint of sarcasm in it.

“You’re not pissed with me anymore? What happened?”

“We can talk about it over a pint or two of beer… that is, if you still drink.”

“More than ever, old chum. I’ve got a liver like a watermelon, but I’m always in a good mood.”

Has he turned into an alcoholic? Charles asked himself anxiously.

They arranged to get together in an hour’s time at the Faubourg Saint-Denis, which was close to Charles’s apartment. Steve showed up late. His mother had held him up, he explained; there’d been a mountain of dirty dishes to wash, they’d been piling up for a few days, and it was his week to do the washing up — a stupid thing he’d agreed to two months before. His
mother had threatened to throw him out on the street if he didn’t do them before he left the house.

“I can’t wait to get out of the old lady’s clutches, Charlie my boy,” he sighed, shaking his friend by the hand. “You’ve no idea!”

He hadn’t changed. He did not have sclerosis of the liver, he wasn’t an alcoholic, and he seemed to still be his usual cheerful self. His love life had finally taken off, and then some! He had two girlfriends, whom he saw alternately (without either of them knowing she had a rival, naturally!). It was a cool trick, and one that let him make up for lost time, since he had gone without women for so long. He was even thinking of taking on a third girlfriend, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to avoid fatal collisions in his scheduling.

“But if you could see her, Charles: a real dish, with one of those perfect doll faces … and tits out to here! She gives me a boner that would stretch from here to Sorel!”