Emerging from Simons department
store, each carrying a bag with a new sweater, Jacqueline and Amelia
stood at the corner waiting to cross the street. A frayed remnant of
a poster on the lamp post fluttered in the gusts created by the high
buildings. The bottom half was concealed by a cheap black and white
photocopy promotion for a punk band, The Paranoids. The
poster underneath was for an old concert of the Orchestre Symphonique
de Montreal, a graphic image of a ship with a black sail on the sea, the music for the evening had been the Prelude to Tristan
und Isolde, and a composition by Messiaen. The rest of the poster
was covered up.
“I remember attending that concert,”
Jacqueline said.
“The Paranoids?”
They both laughed and gently bumped
each other's shoulders as they imagined her in the audience of a punk
band concert. They crossed the street on their way to the book store
for a bit of browsing, their fellow pedestrians seeming so young, so preoccupied with their hand-held devices, some with white wires falling
from their ears like remote tethers to their mothership.
“You would think punk is passé,”
Amelia said.
“Ah, oui. Though I don't remember the
bands that played the punk music in my younger days. It was Beau
Dommage, Harmonium, Paul Piché, Véronique
Sanson. Douce, with melody.”
“Hmm, yes. I haven't heard Beau
Dommage for ages. What was that song they had, 'pour un instant'
or something? It was more my elder brother's age but I remember him
playing the record.”
“Oui, 'Pour un instant' mais
c'etait Harmonium. A very big song for them. Very memorable.
But that too, is passé.”
They reached the large bookstore, a new
advertisement on the window for the Montreal orchestra with a picture
of the conductor, Kent Nagano. Jacqueline held the door for Amelia
gesturing to the picture saying how handsome he was, and enjoyable to
watch. Amelia lifted her eyebrows and and said, “Ohhh, I seeee.”
They followed their light laughter through door and made their way
past the housewares and stationery to the back of the shop to look
at the books in French. They separated and browsed the display
tables, the colourful temptations of text and art vying for their
attention.
Amelia looked down at a provocative, or
'racy' as her Mother would have said, cover of Maleficium by
Martine Desjardins, a Victorian image of a nude woman, arms above
her, with a religious symbol photoshopped onto to her loins. She
picked a copy up and casually read the back cover. A respectful envy
for the translators who gave the author an English voice overcame her
once more. She had read all of the author's books. In French. As she
was placing the book down, Jacqueline came up beside her with a copy
of L'Amour en Kilt and Le
Monde Selon Bertie by Alexander McCall Smith. “A translator's
dream, don't you agree?” she asked. “He writes so many books,
c'est incroyable!”
“I love his work. Poor Bertie,” she
said and laughed sympathetically. “Who is the translator?”
Jacqueline searched for the name and
said, “Elizabeth Kern.” They didn't know much about her, or what
else she had translated. The representation of Bertie on the cover
didn't resemble Amelia's visual conception but she thought the covers
were clever.
After looking at books for fifteen
minutes, Amelia purchased a copy of Espèces by Ying Chen,
while Jacqueline picked Va au bout de tes rêves by Antoine
Filissiadis.
“Commensale?”
“Mais évidement!” replied
Jacqueline, and arm and arm they crossed the busy street for a light
lunch, Jacqueline humming a tune by France Gall.
In the eyes of the man who occupied the
end of a sidewalk bench beneath the second floor restaurant, the two
women approaching could have been sisters. Both had light brown hair
cut in a modern shoulder length style, one slightly taller than the
other—he remembered he was 5' 6” and the taller one was about his
height—both wore glasses, stylish with colours, well-dressed and
probably around forty years of age.
Whenever Duncan lunched with Amelia at
this restaurant, he would like to get a window seat and casually
observe this homeless man. He never pan-handled. He would just sit
there, people-watching in his designer shreds, running his finger
through his stiff 'Edward Scissorhands' hair. Duncan, though
sensitive to the homeless plight, had a number of theories concerning
him. His clothes were so perfectly frayed, so strangely sand brown in
colour, that Duncan often thought the man had just come from wardrobe
for a Dickensian shoot. Perhaps there was a sociological experiment
taking place, secretly filming pedestrians and their reactions to
him. Another of Duncan's theories was he was privately payed by a
competitor across the street, to sit on the bench during the all
important lunch time period to hopefully discourage customers from
entering the restaurant below, thinking no one would enjoy eating
while a rather desperate looking man stares at you as you bring the
fork to your mouth. His third theory was that he was really an
undercover cop or a private detective. Amelia had said he was reading
too many mysteries. A modern Sherlock Holmes in disguise? The Case of
the Recalcitrant Waiter? He too didn't think much of this theory. It didn't hold much weight.
Amelia believed Duncan was suffering
from, P.R.O.F.N.I.D.L.E. : Persistent Reference of Fictional Narrative in
Daily Life Experience. She had jokingly made up this acronym,
telling her husband she was thinking of writing a paper on it, using
him, Mr. Y., as the case subject, and maybe even pitching it to the
CEGEP where she taught a course in translation terminology, so she
could add another course. She could be a Professor of Profnidle.
(Professor Profnidle sounded good too.)
Seated by the window with their plates
half full of cold salads and hot vegetarian selections from the
buffet, they quietly ate and took in their surroundings. An
attractive young women seated behind Jacqueline was talking to her
phone as if it were a video camera; she seemed to be an actress of
some kind discussing with her agent the details of an offer. Amelia
sensed her refined use of language and accent came from Outremont or
possibly upper Westmount. Then again, it could be from around the University of Laval in Québec city.
Soft classical music filtered down from
the ceiling like a calming mist.
“So how did you meet your husband?”
Amelia asked.
“Ah bon, we met on les Îles de la
Madeleine.”
“Making castles in the sand?”
Jacqueline smiled. “No, we weren't
that young. I was interested in the seal pups from having read
about Bridget Bardot's visit back in the 1970s. There was a new
eco-tour during the winter, and I went with a girlfriend. It was
1991. Didier was there with his camera. We met 'on the ice' so to
speak.”
“That is very romantic.”
“Yes, we were staying at the large
brick building on the island, a former convent which had been
converted into a hotel. They were the tour operators. A helicopter
took us out to the ice floes. We got close to the white seal pups, so
soft and vulnerable. We had a marvelous experience. Cold, but
merveilleux.”
“Well, I hope he kept you warm.”
They laughed as they guided their forks
into pieces of Greek Tofu and Chinese Seitan.
“And Didier is involved with
computers?” Amelia asked.
“Yes, he has worked on many projects,
recently his company is developing social media tools for business,
as well as a new side project which examines digital photography for
authenticity. Photography is Didier's great hobby.”
“He seems very talented.”
“Yes, he is, but he works long hours.
Thierry and I often eat alone. So, how did you meet Duncan?”
Amelia looked down at the remnants on
her plate. Her story was very personal. She had only recently met
Jacqueline, and yet she was so at ease with her.
“How about I tell you over coffee and
dessert? A little poppy seed cake with fresh fruit on the side? We
can share," Amelia offered, thinking it would give her time to frame her story.
“Oh, a story and dessert!”
Jacqueline said. They both looked out the large floor to
ceiling windows at the lovely wide street, the sacrificial trees
dropping their first leaves of the season. They noticed that the
homeless man had moved on.
Image and Text © ralph patrick mackay
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