For Sure (60 page)

“Poor fellow! 'Twas clear as day ee didn't want dat particular camera. Only you could see 'er mind was made up: dat was de exact camera she was after, an' she weren't goin' shoppin' a second longer to find anudder. She's standin' der, stiff as a board, an' not willin' to stand der more'n anudder ten seconds, waitin' on 'im to get used to de idea, an' den she twists her 'ead 'round to check up where de kids had got to, as doh any time soon dey might be knockin' o'er de displays or jackin' up de stereos. Well, der ee goes back to studyin' de tree cameras de salesman pulled out o' de locked case fer 'em. Any child could see ee's only makin' believe ee's interested in dose two udders ee doesn't want, as doh ee's showin' how fair he is, in case she's lookin' at 'im. Not dat ee'd dare to look at 'er, mind you, she's dat biniky an' wid a face like a burnt-boiled boot on 'er. So der ee is, dis fellow — totally in control — tryin' do make sometin' ‘appen dat's got zero chance o' happenin', just like in a movie, right before yer bitter 'alf switches de channel.

A few days later, as he was removing some long, freshly cooked crabs' legs from a bag, Terry had the sudden spontaneous idea to shake them back and forth in front of the children, while making monster noises. Marianne burst out laughing. Étienne refused to eat.

“'Tis too big a subject, to begin wid.”

“Wot do you mean by dat?”

“Der's too many angles.”

“So?”

“So, 'tisn't a proper subject.”

. . .

. . .

“Well isn't dat wot we're wantin'? Sometin' wid a whole lot o' potential?”

“Takes more'n dat.”

“Wot else does it take?”

“A focus.”

“A focus.”

. . .

“A focus. I don't suppose you'd be willin' to explain dat just a wee bit?”

“Look, never mind. Ferget de whole ting.”

There are even collectors of jargons.

The poet seemed about ready to go. Terry watched him try two or three times before managing to get inside his coat, do up a button, then another.

“De way you said de word
nuance
before . . . I tawt you were meanin' to say ‘nuance,' only wot youse said was ‘nouance'. Fer us, Acadians I mean, dat would be like tings
nouquées
, knotted togedder, sometin' like de way our shadows're tied to ourselves.”

As the poet clearly didn't quite follow, Terry continued:

“I mean dat fer de
shadow
poems
, 'twould be better to say
nouances
dan nuances. Dat's my way o' tinkin' anyhow.”

“Nouances? Nou-ances.”

And the poet repeated the word once more to get a better sense of it.

“Yes, it iz perhaps a good word I sink.”

Figure out what constitutes Jules Michelet's obsessional themes.

“Mum, do you fall down off de moon when you's sleepin'?”

“In me dreams?”

Carmen took a moment to think about it.

“No, I don't remember ever fallin' down off the moon.”

“I do.”

“Awh, is that right? Often?”

Now it was Étienne's turn to think a moment.

“A long time.”

“An' wot do you mean, a long time?”

“Well, I fall and I fall and I fall, an' den I wakes up.”

“Hun! When I was a girl, I saw great thick rolls o' carpet in me dreams. Carpets with flowers that unravelled fer a long, long time, as doh they was never gonna stop unrollin', an' then all of a sudden like, oops! I's awake.”

“Mum! We're almost de same, you an' me!”

The king is dead! Long live the king!

“Least ways we agree on one ting, 'tisn't de notes dat make de music. Right?”

“Aldoh you can't do widout dem.”

“Dat's sure. Der's gotta be some notes.”

. . .

“How about de length of de notes?”

?

“Wouldn't dat be a factor, like?”

“No more'n one.”

“You mean to say de length's not so important as all dat neidder?”

“Well, 'tis important, in a way, I suppose. Only 'tis more a question of space.”

“Space?”

“Of how you's puttin' udder notes in dat same space.”

“You mean de number of udder notes?”

“Whatever.”

In the matter of signs and letters, Catalan is unique in its use of the interpunct ( l . l ) to indicate a dark l AKA consonantal sound. Otherwise, Catalan, like French, uses the entire Latin alphabet, along with several digraphs, accents and diacritical letters.

When his customer was ready to go, Terry went round to open the door for him. Stepping out into the fresh air, blue sky, and blazing white snow, the poet declared:

“It iz true for ze poets as well, iz it knots? Zat books, zey are well word whale?”

Then, once he'd figured out which direction to go in, the man took a decisive step, exclaiming:

“And many thanks . . . euh . . .”

“Terry. Terry Thibodeau!”

“Ah! Tibetoh! Yes, I knowing zis name. Tibetoh.
Au revoir
, Monsieur Tibetoh!”

Terry shook the man's extended hand and replied likewise:

“
Au revoir
!”

The impression that speaking is the opposite of writing, that saying and recording are the antipodes of language.

Second yellow: the big
M
of McDonald's.

“Mum, der's a McDonald's over der.”

Carmen had already glimpsed the sign that hovered over the valley, and was clearly visible from a great distance away on the highway.

“Are ya hungry then?”

“Yes.”

“Terrible hungry?”

“Yes.”

Carmen would have preferred to go straight home, less than an hour's drive away. But Étienne had been patient since they'd started out that morning — a return trip Moncton–Halifax — and he deserved a bit of a treat.

“Alright then. We'll stop. I's a wee bit hungry meself.”

Étienne was happy. But mostly he felt older and important, because he had not had to beg to get what he wanted.

Another oddity: a boxing “gala.”

Some evenings, Terry literally threw himself into the void:

“Alright den. Tonight's de night I tells you de story of de pheasant name of Coocoo.”

Étienne let himself sink comfortably into his bed.

“You already seen a pheasant, do you remember? Out back of Grandad Després', dat big bird wid a red head an' a blue an' green neck.”

“Wot does you mean a blue angry neck?”

“Green neck . . . de neck's blue an' green.”

“Awh.”

“An red on de head, right?”

Étienne was eager for the story to get going. Only he wanted to be sure he could picture CooCoo.

“Well den, does ee 'ave a face like an ant?”

Terry looked at the boy — was this word play conscious? — but quickly picked up the story:

“Naw, it's a pheasant, not a face-ant. Dose pheasants is big birds. Like chickens almost.”

“Well, how come den dey calls dem Fez ants?”

At this point, Terry was pretty sure that Étienne was playing with the ‘ant' sound on purpose, but how to be certain without spoiling the fun? He continued:

“Can't say, don't know. Could be on account of when de pheasant starts callin' out he can be a terrible pisant.”

“Does dey call out coocoo?”

“Well, right der dat's de problem! De pheasant in me story was wantin' to be a cuckoo. Only de problem was dat . . . ee was too big to get in de door in de clock. So wot did ee do?”

?

“Ee bought 'imself a membership at de gym.”

From this point on, Terry was confidant he'd find his way.

Proverb for artists: where art fails, chance succeeds.

“Well alright, wot's de basis fer music den?”

“'Tis like I said, 'tis too big a subject.”

“Well, won't you try. If you had to narrow it down, wot would you say?

. . .

“We're in no great hurry. Just tink on it.”

. . .

. . .

. . .

A bell rings ding ding

“No more Shreddies on de shelf?”

“
Ass Jack, ee's out back.
”

Chubby chin an' forked tongue

An' den
Pop! goes de weasel.

“Dis 'ere's me wid me mum in Kouchibougouac.”

Étienne edged closer to get a better look at the mother-­daughter relation.

“Dat was me when I's a baby.”

Étienne moved closer again, but the photograph was as hazy as the boy's idea of his grandmother Després in baby format.

“An' 'ere, dat's Grandad, in de arms of his own grandad.”

Étienne's astonishment grew and grew. For the first time, he realized how much of a past he had in reserve.

“Ol' Nazaire. I never knowed 'im, only dey say ee was a powerful chucklehead.”

Étienne leaned in, stared at the tiny yellowing photograph, trying to make out what a chucklehead looked like.

“Nazaire Després, 'is name's on dat monument next to de petit magasin.”

Granny Després turned the pages quickly, skipping over most of the photographs.

“Dis 'ere's 'is wife Ursule. Yer great-great-grandmudder. Look at de collar on 'er dress. Dat were de fashion in dose days.”

Étienne looked at the collar.

“Dey's awfully old pitchers, eh? Dis one 'ere almost broke in two when I's gluein' it.”

The photo was of a group of men wearing felt hats and long dark coats.

“Old Nazaire again. Along side 'im, dat's de minister was in charge of de roads in dat time. Ee was visitin' the county. Dat didn't happen too often, dat one of dem Ottawa politicians came down to Kent county. I doesn't know who de udder fellers are.”

Even after the album was shut and put away in the bookshelf, the black, white, yellow, and brown of the photographs continued to weigh on Étienne's eyes.

“Does you feel like doin' a bit o' colourin' now?”

Then came yellow towels in a bathroom. But was that enough?

“Wow! Dis one 'ere's awful cute! I can sure see 'er in dis!”

Josse showed the multicoloured dress to Carmen, who also loved the pattern.

“Der's overalls as well!”

Carmen examined the two items:

“Der boat o' dem nice . . .”

“Awh, she'd be terrible cute in dat dress fer sure!”

“Problem is, she's never askin' to wear a dress.”

“You lets 'er decide?”

“Well, yeah.”

Carmen noticed a pair of overalls in another colour, pulled it out of the pile, but Josse preferred the first pattern.

“Awh, no, de udder colour's a whole lot prettier.”

“Yeah, I like it, too. Only de straps on this one're different. You could see wot she'd be wearin' underneath a lot better.

Josse kept rummaging until she found the right model in the right colour.

“Dese, wid de straps like dis 'ere, der callin' dem overalls. Only der callin' de udder pair dungarees.”

“It's gotten so 'tis as complicated as buyin' a pair o' jeans.”

“Yeah, an' deys gone an' copied de price as well . . .”

“I knows it! Let's go over an' take a look at the other collections; there might be sometin' we like even more.”

robin on a branch puffed puffed

eye black beak yellow leg up

tail skyward white rear

red belly winter apple?

perfectly still and waiting

“Doctor Phil says a body's got to be in de mood to be cross-hecklin'. Dat if de boat o' youse aren't in de mood, der's nuttin' doin'.”

“An since when 'ave you been watchin' Doctor Phil, den?”

The Stations of the Cross is the extreme sport
par excellence
. First of all, one must arrange to be condemned to death for a crime falling entirely outside current criminal categories. In other words, one must confound the modern judicial system without its knowledge. Only then can all the necessary mistakes be committed to lead to the death sentence, absolute requirement in order to gain the event's main piece of equipment: the heavy wooden cross, which represents the overwhelming burden of injustice. The event itself consists of 1) collapsing a first time under the weight of the cross; 2) showing oneself to be human, i.e., showing oneself physically and spiritually broken before one's mother; 3) accepting help to carry the cross; 4) having one's face wiped in public; 5) collapsing again; 6) revealing oneself to be superhuman by consoling young women; 7) collapsing a third time; 8) being divested of one's clothes and nailed to the cross; 9) suffering horribly and dying in humiliation without complaining; and 10) rising up from the dead.