Just Fine (11 page)

“This autobiographical temptation is quite widespread today . . .”

“Yes. It's the wretched soul telling his or her story, as Raymond Carver describes it so well in ‘Blackbird Pie.' For my part, I have to admit the autobiographical angle bothers me a bit. I would have preferred to avoid it, but I couldn't manage it. I don't know why, but I didn't want to hide, I couldn't hide the truth, the painful truth, in a fictional character, much as it embarrasses me to expose myself this way.”

“One cannot escape one's time.”

“True. I can't remember who it was that said artists don't have as much freedom as we'd like to think, that freedom is not absolute, that each era gets its share of freedom and even artists must be satisfied with that amount. I remember now: it was Kandinsky, I think.”

XXIII

T
ERRY THOUGHT HE'D told Carmen the whole story of his half-hour with the anxious Frenchman in the helmsman's cabin of the boat. But, as days went by, he realized there were always bits left to tell. “He asked me what the Petitcodiac looks like in winter.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Well, I had to think about it. Never had reason to describe it before. You don't often go describing something everybody can see for themselves.”

“Well, what did you say, then?”

“I said the river doesn't freeze, though it does get filled up with snow and ice all around, and there's something like a big wall of earth and ice going up on either side. And while I was telling it to him, it came to me that that's the time the river's really and truly most beautiful. When it looks like nothing else, just water running along between two walls of earth and ice and sometimes a bit of mist floating just above.”

“You think he could imagine it?”

“Well, I can't say, really. Probably not.”

“. . .”

“But, he did give me his card.”

“His card?”

Terry took out the business card and gave it to Carmen.

She studied it and handed it back. “Better keep it. You never know.”

Terry took the card back and returned it to the little slot in his wallet from which he had taken it. “I wonder where Creuse might be.”

*

Camil had truly enjoyed watching the taping of
Bouillon de culture.
During the rest of our trip, he repeated several times how glad he was he'd agreed to come along with me. “And I really enjoyed listening to you. What you have to say is really interesting. I think you're brilliant. Seriously. I can't believe you really come from our parts.”

“Well, to tell the truth, sometimes it would be a lot easier if I was just normal.”

“Oh, we Acadians have trouble standing out. You'd think we were afraid of shining.”

It was noon and hunger had begun to gnaw at us. We walked into an ordinary-looking café.

“I think I'll just have a hot dog in a baguette.”

“Good idea. When in Paris . . .”

*

After Élizabeth's departure, Hans wandered a while over the surface of the globe and the surface of things in general. He didn't actively seek out new destinations but was content to imagine contexts and atmospheres, climates and sonic backgrounds. He watched life unfold, allowing himself to be swept along and inspired by it. Worlds drifted through his mind. Some called out to him; others let him pass. Life without an ultimate goal seemed worthwhile in itself. There seemed to be value in the very lightness of life, as fragile as it was demanding in its equilibrium. He took the time to enjoy it without really analyzing it, without really attempting to describe it. He allowed himself to be penetrated by whatever sought to penetrate, he veered whenever called upon to veer, and he always ended up somewhere. When all was said and done — several days or several weeks later — he found he liked the fact that the world was round. Quite simply.

*

I was chewing on my merguez sausage and ruminating on our recent conversation. I felt bad about giving Camil the impression I wasn't proud of myself or happy with my lot in life. Of course, I enjoyed his compliments. But I kept remembering a discussion I'd had with the hairdresser who'd cut my hair a few weeks before the trip.

“You write books? Really? Geeeee . . . I had no idea any one was doing that sort of thing round here.”

“Oh yeah, there's a few.”

“Really? Wowww . . .”

The incident made Camil laugh, although it must be said, he laughed easily. It was as though life was always tickling him. “Well, sure. It's true, sometimes the level does get pretty low. So low it crashes.” He ordered two more glasses of wine, and added, “And why do you think I went and changed my name? Just to be different. But I'm not a good model for anyone, I should've gone a whole lot further.” He raised his glass, tapped mine, and made his toast. “To Steppette!”

*

Then places began to spring up of their own accord. As though without cause. They passed rapidly through his mind, like a bolt of lightning over the landscape, without violating logic but suggesting the existence of other realities. Hans didn't want to focus his attention on these sudden apparitions. He was afraid they would disappear if he thought about them too much. He even tried not to wait for them. It seemed to him there was something blinding about waiting; it thrust him into another world and kept him from savouring this one. All this, and undoubtedly much more, put him on a plane to San Francisco. Even on board the plane, his destination seemed unreal, ethereal. It consisted of nothing more than a particular notion he had of light, of colour. In fact, it wasn't even an idea. It was more like a sensation, maybe even a scent or a breath. A breath of light and colour called to him. That was all he knew. But it was enough. It was even a lot.

*

Camil and I were not given seats next to each other on the final leg of our journey, the flight from Montréal to Moncton. Everything had gone so well from the start that this seemed like only a minor setback. I found myself next to a woman from Painsec who was an employment insurance official returning from a training workshop in Ottawa. I sensed from one or two of her comments that she didn't enjoy travelling much and that these few days far from home had dragged on.

“There was a time, we travelled a lot. My husband was a trucker and we'd take off for two or three weeks at a time. We enjoyed it. We went everywhere, to Ontario, to the States. I've been pretty well all over the States.”

“. . .”

“Afterwards, when I couldn't go along anymore on account of the kids, he started taking them. One by one. Was pretty much the only way they'd get to see their dad.”

“. . .”

“Then we bought ourselves a house, and my husband opened a truck stop. The children're all grown up now. The eldest works with him.”

“. . .”

“I like it just fine at home. The youngest plays hockey. They're getting set to go play in some tournament in Switzerland. Makes me nervous. I can't imagine going. I can't imagine leaving these parts. Brrrr . . .”

XXIV

T
HE
Bouillon de culture
program I was on aired two weeks later in Canada on
TV5
. Which meant I was back home to receive comments on my performance. The day after the program, Marie told me that the phone had taken her away from her
TV
for a short time near the end of the program.

“It was my husband. I just about hung up on him. I don't figure I missed much.”

By the time she'd got back to her seat, Bernard Pivot was wrapping up with his famous list of questions to guests. “And when you die, if God exists, what would you like to hear Him say to you, France Daigle?”

Being familiar with the list of questions, I'd had time to prepare my answer. “I'd like Him to say: ‘For an agora-phobe, you managed fine. I kept a place for you near the door, so you can feel free to leave anytime, just in case.”

And Bernard Pivot replied, “Because you think, even in Heaven, you might want to leave? It's true that when you were young, you were attracted by hell: the flames and that Satan's Choice biker, wait, I'm trying to remember his name . . . Chuque. Chuque Bernard. Did he really exist?”

“Yes, Chuck still lives in Dieppe. He's calmed down a bit over the years. Now he wears glasses just like yours.”

*

That evening, Carmen wore her little red dress and her brown leather top. She took longer than usual to get ready. She had amused herself posing in front of the bathroom mirror as though she were being photographed. She was giddy. More than that. She was happy.

When Terry appeared in the doorway, at the foot of the stairs, she saw that he too had made more of an effort to look good. He was freshly shaved and perfumed. His little luxury. She wouldn't make him wait. This was a big night and they were both up for the occasion.

They had chosen a pool hall a little out of the way where there was slim chance of meeting too many friends who would distract them from their game. They were, nonetheless, willing to be distracted a bit. It was part of the dynamic. Each one wanted to win — a matter of minor personal glory — but it was also crucial to be a good loser. Because, one way or the other, they would be going on a trip.

They selected everything that could be selected (the table, the lighting, the cues, the music in the jukebox, the ashtray, the drinks) and abandoned themselves to the rest, to all that they could never control and that they never wanted to control anyway.

Chalking up her cue, Carmen said, “There's just one more thing.”

“What?”

“There'll be three of us.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

Terry couldn't believe it. “You mean it worked! You're pregnant?”

“I never figured you'd dare.”

He bent his elbow, clenched his fist, and pulled down on an imaginary lever with a solid, perfectly controlled Yeesss! Then he walked over to Carmen's side of the table, looked her in the eyes for a second before kissing her on the cheek, and asked, “Do you want to break?”

“No, you break. I'd rather you break.”

Terry looked at the table, studied the balls in their predeltaic grouping, then turned and came back to Carmen. “We'll have to stop smoking, eh?”

“Yeah.”

*

Two or three days after the program aired in Acadia, Chuck Bernard picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I'd like to talk to France Daigle.”

“That's me.”

“France? This here's Chuck.”

“Oh, well, hello!”

“France, can you believe it, the other night I'm zapping away and there you are. I guess it was in France. You were talking about your book. I just caught the tail end really. Then all of a sudden, would you believe, there's this guy who's saying my name . . . Chuque, Chuque Bernard, pronouncing it the fancy French way.”

I had to laugh listening to him. “Yes, it was in Paris.”

“You went to Paris to talk about your book?”

“Yes . . .”

“Well! That's great! I guess I'm gonna have to read it now. It made me curious-like. Where can a fellow buy a copy?”

“Well, I was going to bring you one.”

“Oh, you're nice. You know what, I'm really proud of you.”

“Well, thank you!”

“Oh, and while you're at it, can you bring me an extra copy? That way, I'll have one for home and one for the shop. You know what a show-off I am.”

*

Camil Gaudain was a long way from death's door but he had to watch his health closely and undergo a battery of tests regularly. After his return from Paris, he was in the hospital for an examination when he saw Élizabeth in the snack bar on the ground floor. He was standing next to her, waiting to be served. “Did you have a nice trip?”

Élizabeth looked at Camil, a bit surprised.

“You don't know me. I went to Paris with a friend a few weeks ago — the writer France Daigle, you may have heard of her — and we saw you in the airport.”

Now Elizabeth recognized him.

“You must have wondered what we were up to staring at you like that.”

“No. Not really. I just wasn't sure I recognized you.”

“I guess you see a lot of folks.”

“I see quite a few, yes.”

“Well, anyway, you look well.”

Élizabeth was flattered by the compliment and she accepted it easily. “Thank you.”

“You're not from Moncton .. .”

“I've been here for five years now.”

This information stunned Camil to such an extent that he completely forgot his own situation. “Really! Just goes to show what you miss when you're not sick.”

*

Hans is in no hurry to leave the San Francisco airport. Since he has all the time in the world, he makes an effort not to live too fast. He strolls by a few hallways looking at what the boutiques have to offer. He smiles at the window displays. There's something heartwarming, something human about life's objects presented this way. In one of the windows, he sees a puzzle of his compatriot Bruegel the Elder's
Census at Bethlehem.
In the past, he often and patiently contemplated this painting, and he lets himself look once again at the inhabitants crowding into the Green Crown Inn to pay their taxes to the emperor's men. He lingers over the contents of their baskets, their demijohns, and their crates of fowl, and the peasant slitting a pig's throat in plain view of everyone, his wife collecting the blood in a pan. He reexamines the people bent beneath their loads, walking across rivers frozen from shore to shore to join those who arrived some time ago and have arranged their barrel-shaped wagons filled with grain or wine in the square, and who are now discussing, negotiating, arguing, sharing news. He sees again the chickens in front of the inn pecking at the feet of the artisan who makes and sells his chairs, the three-legged straw seats parents use as sleds to pull their kids along the frozen river. He allows himself to be moved once more by the woman sweeping snow, the man lacing up his skates, the children spinning tops or tussling on the ice. He sees once again the crowd gathered around a fire and wonders if they're roasting wheat. He rediscovers the few people seated in the trunk of a not-quite-dead tree converted to receive the surplus of travellers. He hasn't forgotten that, here and there, people are pushing, pulling, taking care of business, building a cabin, carrying wood. In the courtyard of a small cottage, a peasant woman bends over her cabbages half-buried in the snow. There's also the dog, a few crows, and Joseph carrying a long saw on his shoulder, leading the donkey on which Mary, pregnant with Jesus, is seated. A bullock accompanies them as they prepare to replay the drama of Christianity in this sixteenth century winter landscape.

Hans enters the shop, points to the puzzle, and buys it. Three thousand pieces. While the sales lady prepares the bill, Hans's gaze falls upon the child in his sleigh who propels himself forward with small poles he thrusts into the ice. He also sees again, in the centre of the painting, the abandoned wheel standing frozen in the snow and ice. It still has all of its twelve spokes.

“Thank you sir, and good luck. It's a big one.”

“Thank you.”

Hans leaves the shop and the airport with his suitcase in one hand and the puzzle in the other. He will make his way downtown and look for a room. There are only nine little diamonds left in the pouch on his chest.

*

Sometimes I feel the urge to take a trip. Alone. A trip for its own sake, for the sheer pleasure of travelling. And nothing more. It's an urge that comes often but never lasts long. In general, the urge never lasts long enough for me to make preparations, physically or mentally, especially mentally, to go. Recently, for example, I thought of London. I often think of London since I read Doris Lessing's collection of short stories
The Real Thing.
It's not a genre I care for but I truly enjoyed the atmosphere, what's said and left unsaid, everything surrounding English teatime. And I, whom subways turn to jelly, enjoyed touring London via the Underground with her. I enjoyed seeing through her eyes the many neighbourhoods we crisscrossed above ground. The book survived a recent housecleaning of our bookshelves. It's a book I'd like to read again if I don't take that trip, if ever I don't make it to London, or if ever I do.