For Sure (75 page)

Terry found that indeed Ulysse knew what he was about.

“Alright, den. Go ahead an' order dem.”

Ulysse wrote a long series of letters, numbers and dashes on the order form to identify the screw in question. Terry felt confident he could trust him, but all the same:

“So den, you'll be phonin'? On account of some folks says dat, only dey never does.”

Ulysse did not take it badly.

“We call as soon as we can. We don't like things to drag on. Parts can get lost.”

Crossing the parking to get to his van, Terry wondered where Ulysse came from to speak such perfect French, but without a discernible accent.

The role of the Fibonacci sequence in determining the price of gold.

“I knows yer de one startin' all dem rumours. Wot is it yer tryin' to prove anyhow?”

I was struck dumb. Josse seemed truly peeved.

“A body'd tink you was lookin' fer trouble . . . as doh you was wantin' sometin' bad to happen!”

Her consternation obliged me to ask myself if, indeed, I wasn't bringing bad luck down on Terry and Carmen. I decided that was not the case.

“No, I'm only tryin' to show the way people are. People like rumours. It gives them something to chew on.”

Josse knew what I meant.

“Well alright den, sure, only why does you 'ave to go usin' Carmen an' Terry fer dat? Anybody else would've done just as well. I can make up stories 'bout anyone you care to name!”

“Exactly, but they're not just anyone. And that's what makes people talk.”

. . .

I tried to reassure her:

“Anyhow, 'tisn't anything serious, now is it? A wee rumour, who cares really?”

“Well, you ask me, yer not bein' fair pickin' on dem like dat. It's on account o' dem dat folks like yer books de way dey do. Dey's de ones're makin' yer livin' fer ya!”

Clearly, Josse was forgetting that, in the first instance, I was the one giving them life, and her too, for that matter. But that was not really important.

“If I can't be writing what I like, 'twouldn't be worth writing at all.”

Josse thought about that for a bit, before concluding:

“Der's times artists rub me nerves right raw. Dey tinks dey can be doin' just wot dey please, go against common sense, go against everytin'. As doh all wot dey do was so wonderful great as all dat! Well, I'll tell you sometin': dey can be burpin' hot peppers all dey like, dey don't scare me one bit.”

“Did you just say burpin' hot peppers?”

“An' don't go tinkin' I's gonna help you wid dat one neider. Go find yerself some udder body to study.”

She was a sight to behold. I knew she didn't mean half of what she was saying, but all the same, there was some truth to her argument.

“Artists frustrate you, is that it?”

“Don't play de shrink wid me, I's got one already an' dat's plenty.”

“Awh, yeah?”

“I suppose yer gonna run home an' write dat down now? See now, dat's exactly wot I's sayin'! Youse can do whatever you please, you always gets de last word. Dat's wot rubs me raw.”

“How come you're seein' a psychologist?”

“Yer' pullin' me leg, I hope . . .”

I still hoped I could win her over, give her back her good humour:

“The main reason you'd have to see a psychologist would be on account of you're too quick to say what you think, right?”

“You oughtta know.”

“I bet you make 'im laugh . . .”

Josse recovered a bit of her good mood:

“You knows it, girl. De way tings are goin' now, dey's de ones ought to be payin' me.”

“Dey? Wot, yer seein' more'n one?”

“G'wan wich ya! Don't go pretendin' you doesn't know!

I thought I'd press her just a wee bit more:

“So den? 'Ow's Bernie?”

“You wants to know if we's still in love?”

Of course, that was exactly what I wanted to know. She blushed a little in answering:

“'Tisn't easy to love one boy atta time. Me, seems like it takes two to make one.”

“You won't be tinkin' dat when yer pregnant.”

“Oh Jesus, don't tell me yer gonna do dat to me!”

“Not me. Him.”

Notice in a building under renovation in Moncton (translated both ways):

We apologize for

any inconvenience.

(Nous regrettons

tout inconvénient.)

* * *

Nous faisons des excuses

pour n'importe quel

dérangement.

(We make excuses

for any disturbances

whatsoever.)

Terry had the advantage of experience; he knew exactly what he was looking for. Standing behind him, Zed had to be content with watching lists, graphs, and tables of all sorts leap on and off the screen.

“Dey's mullin'.”

“Dey wot?”

“Dey's mullin' it over. Means dey're tinkin', waitin' to see wot 'appens.”

“Awh, dey're ponderin'.”

. . .

. . .

“I tink der'll be a late mornin' turnaround.”

Zed decided not to annoy his friend by asking him to explain every bit of the jargon.

“So den, 'ave you told Carmen wot yer up to 'ere?”

“Sort of.”

Terry clicked a couple more times before adding:

“Turns out she's got sometin' she's not tellin' me neider.”

Zed noted the irony of the situation.

“Like, you boat know dat de udder one's got sometin' der not tellin', only you doesn't know wot dat is?”

“Dat's it, on de nose.”

“Geez, dat's kinda funny.”

“Yeah, you knows it.”

“Well, 'twere me, I'd be curious sometin' awful.”

“I is curious sometin' awful.”

. . .

“Only now de whole ting's turned into a wee bit of a game. A couple's bit of a game.”

“Is dat a good ting, den? Fer de couple, I mean.”

Terry didn't have to think about it for long:

“Yah, kind of . . .”

Zed realized that Terry had thought it out, and decided not to pester him about it.

“Well den, are we makin' money or not?”

Open work stitching, which draws the fabric's threads together to create a lacy see-through effect, eventually became the specialty of the women of Dresden. These women, excluded from the all-male Guild of Master Embroiderers, produced embroideries as fine as the silk and gold works of the so-called masters, but for a far lower price. Do open-work embroidery for one's hope chest.

And then, pointblank:

“Mum, wot would you like to be gettin' as a great big present right now?”

Aha! At last the cat was out of the bag. If Carmen had not already been 100 percent certain what it was that Terry was hiding from her, Étienne's question absolutely confirmed her suspicions.

“How big? Like if it was in a box as big as a chair, you mean?”

Étienne looked at a chair, then a different one, but wasn't sure what to think. Carmen tried to help:

“Or do you mean that it could be something a wee bit expensive, only it wasn't all that big, like a pretty necklace, or a pair of shoes . . .”

This time, Étienne's hesitation surprised Carmen, but she shrugged it off quickly, intent on showing her son that she was taking his question seriously:

“Gee, dat's a proper question. Let me think on it a wee bit.”

While Carmen was thinking, Étienne had an idea for the appropriate size of the present.

“I tink the old stew pot would be a good size.”

Carmen wondered if Étienne was suggesting she ask for a pot as a gift.

“Hmm . . . that's pretty big. I guess I'll have to think on it a while longer.”

My meetings with my avatars were becoming increasingly dangerous, letting self-criticism show through.

“Take a gock at dis one 'ere hahaha!”

“Hey! I remember that day. 'Twas at Grand-Pré. Mum had a new camera an' she didn't know how to work it.”

“Dad looks fed up.”

“Well, sure! We'd been der fer upwards on fifteen minutes waitin' on Mum to press de button.”

“Who's de fellow beside dem?”

What is money, if not a sort of permission to continue?

“Me, I's afraid of havin' bin brainwashed.”

“About what?”

“About French.”

“Alright. And what does this fear make you feel?”

“Rage.”

“Can you explain?”

“De udder day, I's searchin' fer the word
snoro
in the Acadian dictionaries, only 'twasn't there. So den I thought to look in de
Robert
dictionary
,
in case it turned out to be a real French word. On page 2099 of dat dictionary, where the word
snoro
would have been if it were a real word, der were forty udder words. An guess wot. Half o' dose words was English! Let me list dem fer you, OK?”

!

“
Slip
(plus der was
string
in bold in de definition),
slogan
,
slow
,
smart
,
smash
(an'
smasher
),
smithsonite
(wasn't sure 'bout dat one),
smocks
,
smog
,
smoking
,
smolt
,
smurf
,
snack
(an'
snack
-
bar
, wid
fast
-
food
in bold in de definition),
sniff
(an'
sniffer
),
sniper
,
snob
,
snober
,
snobinard
an'
snobisme
,
snowboard
,
snow-boot
an'
soap-opéra
. Exactly half de words on de page came from English. Not to mention der were a few words dat came from Arab an' Italian, and from Denmark an' Holland, an' udder places like dat. All in all, der was maybe five words you could say come from French. Dat's five outta forty.”

. . . ?!

! . . . ?? . . . !

? . . . !! . . . ?

!?

. . .

“Well, so den I closed de dictionary, I's half afeared to check de udder pages.”

Ludmilla's quiet elegance with language.

“You sure do measure a whole lot of tings, eh, Dad?”

“Sometimes, dat's de only way you can understand someting.”

Terry and Étienne had been comparing by sight their now partly coloured toenails: relatively speaking, the growth had been approximately equal, except for two nails on both their right feet.

“You've got two dat grew back faster than de udders, as well. And, not only dat, but dey're de same two as mine!”

Étienne was happy to share the same particularities with his father, who was now applying the ruler to his big toe.

“From wot I can see, 'twill most likely take a year before de whole nail on de big toe grows all de way out.”

Terry then measured the polished and unpolished parts of the nails on the four other toes of the same foot.

“Hun! Looks like 'twill only take six months fer dese udders to grow completely out.”

The difference seemed to astonish Terry, whereas Étienne thought it was perfectly normal.

“Well sure, Dad! They're smaller!”

Terry nodded, but his expression showed that he didn't understand.

“You don't understand, Dad?”

“Well, shouldn't all de toes take de same time to grow out der whole length, wedder der big or small?”

Étienne did not reply, absorbed in the realization that for the first time he understood something his father did not.

“Do you see wot I's sayin'?”

Étienne did not dare answer.

“If de nail's smaller, don't dat mean der's less strength fer growin'? An' dat would mean, logically, ee oughtta take about as long to grow from A to Z as de big one.”

Étienne didn't see what A to Z had to do with it.

“De way it looks 'ere, de nail on de big toe's takin' twice as long to grow.”

To Étienne it was obvious:

“Well, it's because it's twice as big!”

Terry could see that, but he couldn't make sense of it. He turned frankly to Étienne:

“Well, boy, you understand it better'n I do . . .”

Étienne wasn't altogether sure he was ready to assume his suddenly massive intelligence:

“It doesn't matter, Dad, even if I's startin' to be smarter'n you. On account of I'm not smarter dan Mum, yet.”

All things considered, in spite of his identity amnesia, Hans has not fared badly as Acadian author France Daigle's avatar. You only need to compare his lot to the woman statue in her
Histoire de la maison qui brûle
(
Story of the House That's Burning
), or the man who drowns in
La Beauté de l'affaire
(
The Beauty of the Thing
), to name but two.

“Do you sometimes think about the possibility that Chico might have similar problems to Shawn's? I mean, that it could be in his genes?”