Читать книгу Métis Beach - Claudine Bourbonnais - Страница 17

“After all these years, we should celebrate a little, no?”

She had so much lipstick on, her mouth was like a caricature. Françoise opened the door to her small house on Rue Principale, decorated somewhat garishly — golden picture frames, heavy wall-coverings, and massive furniture — proud to show me the table she had set for us, a large block of foie gras in the middle of the table; she’d been keeping it for just such an occasion. “It isn’t every day you get a visitor from so far away.” Her tone was exuberant, playful, a troubling contrast with her behaviour a few hours earlier at the store. The wine glass she held in her hand could have contributed to her strangely euphoric attitude. At the sight of five place settings on the table, I froze.

“You expecting others?” I had been hoping we might speak just the two of us.

She gave me a small shrill laugh and shook her head as if it wasn’t what we’d agreed on. I was irritated — it wouldn’t be possible to have a conversation now that her brothers were coming — who else but Jean and Paul could have been invited? And, of course, the doorbell rang.

Jean and Paul. Barely fifty, but they looked like old men. Paul more than Jean, with his sallow cheeks and waxy skin. Jean was a bit plumper, with the hard belly of a pregnant woman. His hair, however, was greyer, almost white. He held out a firm hand, without warmth, giving me a bitter look, while Paul skimmed the wall and foundered into the living room, avoiding my handshake. Years ago I disappointed their sister’s inordinate expectations, and the brothers still held a grudge.

“Come!” Françoise pulled me into the living room. A tray of oysters lay on the coffee table. Her husband Jérôme had picked them up at the grocery store and managed to shuck them in record time. “Without even hurting yourself, right honey?” Jérôme, a delicate man with an embarrassed smile, acquiesced with the same timid nod he’d given me when I arrived and Françoise had said boisterously, scanning me from head to toe, “Look, it’s the coat I was talking about, it suits him well, doesn’t it?

In the living room, on the burgundy velvet couch, Jean and Paul waited in silence as Jérôme worked the minibar, making them a drink. I had hazy memories of Jérôme, the timid eldest son of Roger Quimper, the owner of the general store. Back then, he had the smooth, fearful face of a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old youth, so quiet you sometimes forgot he existed. “Jérôme? He was with us that night? Are you sure?” That was Jean speaking from behind the wheel of his father’s Rambler, one night in Little Miami, as if suddenly waking from a dream, “Hey! Jérôme!” And Jean turned to ask him before noticing he wasn’t in the back seat stuck between Françoise and the door, his usual spot. Even Françoise hadn’t noticed. How we’d laughed that night! Jérôme? Left behind in the bathroom!

Well, so be it. Françoise had decided on this poor, thin boy, his back bent, head retreating into his shoulders, always glancing at you sideways even when you stood right in front of him, as if he suspected you of something. He looked like his father, who inspected us from behind the store’s counter when he’d see us jostling one another in his store, without a dime in our pockets and a strong temptation to grab something.

Jérôme had taken over the family business in 1977 and had recently brought it into “the modern era,” Françoise explained, pride in her voice. “With a nice Metro sign, just like in those ads on TV.”

She was a businesswoman, Françoise was. My mother’s store and a grocery store, not too bad at all.

A rum and Coke for Jean, a beer for me, a glass of white for Françoise, scotch for Jérôme. “And you, Paul, your usual hooch?”

Paul laughed nervously, revealing bad teeth. Jérôme handed him a room-temperature ginger ale in a pint glass, with three maraschino cherries on a toothpick. Paul said, as if apologizing to me, “I quit drinking years ago. No choice. It was that or die.”

“Cirrhosis,” Jean clarified.

I learned that Paul hadn’t worked in years, was living off welfare, and not doing much with his days. As for Jean, with his two children gone from the house, he lived with his wife in Mont-Joli and worked as a civil servant in a local government office, but not for very much longer.

“Retirement at fifty-three. Not bad, eh?”

“And what are you going to do?”

His face lit up, “Nothing! Isn’t that great?”

I shivered and Jean noticed it, sure enough. An awkward silence that, after a few moments, Françoise tried to talk her way out of, talking about everything and nothing, pushing oyster after oyster on us. “Come, eat more! We have to eat them all! Have you tried this sauce? You should taste it! It’s Jérôme’s favourite. There’s ketchup in it!” Without much appetite, we downed the oysters, except for Paul. “My liver, I can’t,” he repeated, holding his stomach every time.

Perked up by a second rum and Coke, Jean began talking about the village and its inhabitants, those who’d died, those who’d left for the old folks’ home, the English of Métis Beach who’d panicked at the idea of a second referendum, though not as much as in 1980. It had been traumatizing nonetheless, there was no doubt about it, especially after Parizeau’s words — money and the ethnic vote — that wouldn’t help, you could be sure about that. Harry Fluke was thinking of selling everything and moving to Ontario.

“Well, better this ending than another,” Françoise rejoiced. “This way, it’s the status quo.”

Jean and Paul’s jaws clamped shut, but both kept their disagreement to themselves, happy enough to let their sister steer the conversation. Squirming in her seat, Françoise told me how the English population was getting older and older, and their children were no longer interested in spending their summers here. “They think it’s too cold. And they’ve got houses elsewhere. In Florida, the Caribbean, the South of France.” Some had even sold their properties to French people. “Who would have believed it? There’s less inequality than before. The English aren’t as rich, and we’re a little bit more so. It isn’t what it used to be, and we’re better off for it.”

This time Jean and Paul rallied to their sister’s opinion and said in unison, almost comically, “Yeah, good for us.”

Then the eternal and predictable questions about my job in Hollywood. Françoise seemed excited by the fact that I had worked with Aaron Spelling on Fantasy Island. She said, “Oh! Tell me everything!” like a little girl about to get a surprise. “What’s the dwarf like? You know, what’s his name again?”

“Tattoo.”

“Tattoo, right! He seems nice.”

“He died.”

“Tattoo?”

“The actor. Hervé Villechaize.”

“Oh? They do say dwarves don’t live very long.”

“He killed himself, two years ago.”

My answer was ignored. She refused to be distracted and went on excitedly, “And the other one, the tall one? Ricardo … Ricardo what?”

“Ricardo Montalbán.”

“Oh, yes! I’d put my slippers under his bed any day!”

Alcohol was making her exuberant, and Jérôme didn’t seem to be enjoying himself, “I’m just kidding around, honey … you know that.”

I told them I only worked on the scripts and, consequently, I’d never actually been on a set or met the actors. Françoise made no attempt to hide her disappointment. I could have won back their attention by telling them all sorts of savoury anecdotes I’d been told by Aaron Spelling himself, like how ABC would have preferred to have the great Orson Welles play Mr. Roarke instead of Ricardo Montalbán (the erstwhile legend hadn’t found work in a while, dragging his two hundred thirty-eight pounds to Pink’s in Hollywood to order nine hot dogs at a time); but what did Françoise and her brothers know about Orson Welles?

No chance in hell they’d talk to me about In Gad. I still remembered a conversation with Josh when we spoke of distribution rights for the first time. The show would be broadcast in Canada, but only out West and in parts of Ontario. Something about cable, antennas, and territories. It wasn’t likely they had heard about it, which reassured me. I had no inclination to launch into fastidious explanations and justifications about Chastity’s abortions and the complaints we had received. I didn’t want to face Françoise’s shocked look. She seemed to have kept a sentimental attachment to the God of our childhood. I’d noticed my mother’s bleeding crucifix, looking like raw meat, hanging above the marriage bed when I’d gone to the bathroom. There were other things that had been owned by my mother in her house too — the silverware, the d’Arques crystal glasses on the dining room table — but I felt no nostalgia, only a twinge of tenderness. But Françoise quickly explained, “Your father gave them to me after your mother’s death. I said no, I couldn’t accept it, but he insisted.…”

My father. Of course he’d given my mother’s things to Françoise. Like the rest of it. Everything was clearer now, Françoise’s discomfort that afternoon, her insistence on giving me the coat and the gloves. I said, without a trace of bitterness, “If I understand correctly, he left you the store as well.”

The colour drained out of her. “If you want, we can figure something out, Romain.”

“Why? He gave it to you. And what do you want me to do with a clothing store?”

“Money. If you sold it.”

“Money? I don’t need any, Françoise.”

“It’s not fair. I tried to reason with him.…”

I burst out laughing. “Reason with the old man?”

“Romain, I don’t want you to think.…”

“Think what?”

“I … well … never mind.”

Perplexed, I watched her turn tragic in her inebriation. What would I do with a store? Jean, protective brother that he was, turned the conversation onto another track and became briefly interested in Gail and her disease, “Cancer?” “Leukemia.” “How old?” “Fifty-one.” Silence, then.

“And Louis?”

I asked the question with a far dryer tone than I’d anticipated, and Jean gave a half smile, as if we were finally getting to the conversation he’d been waiting for.

“What about Louis?”

“He’s probably in prison somewhere, after everything he did.”

“Louis is doing time in Orsainville.”

“Well, there we go!” I exclaimed. “It’s what I was saying, right? And for what? Murder? Did Louis ended up killing someone?”

Jean bit his lip, then swallowed the rest of his rum and Coke — he didn’t drink wine, didn’t like it. “No, not for murder.”

“So for what?”

“Robbery.”

I laughed harshly. “After robbery, it’ll be murder. He’ll get there. Believe me. When you kill animals, that’s the next step. All serial killers begin that way. It’s well documented.”

Françoise became very nervous; her hands trembling. She took our plates, almost knocking over our glasses, but we held onto them. I had the feeling I was the only one around the table to see that something was wrong with her, her moist forehead, visible sweat under her arms, and no one to help her, nobody to say, Are you okay, Françoise?

Jean said, “Louis didn’t kill the Egan dog, if that’s what you think.”

Again a nervous laugh broke in my throat.

“Don’t laugh,” Paul said, “It’s true.”

“Sure it is,” I heard myself say in a voice that was quickly losing its confidence. “The cats, the seagulls, Clifford Wiggs’ swans.…”

“Louis is innocent.”

Françoise stiffened, inexplicable tears in her eyes, and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving a pile of dirty plates on the table. What was happening, good God?

“I was with Louis, that night.”

Paul spoke, his face red with the sudden attention.

“You?”

“Tell him,” Jean ordered. “Tell him so he stops thinking we’re liars.”

Were they making fun of me? I was convinced I’d seen Louis’ silhouette under the almost full moon, his black clothes, the way he had of running with his fists clenched, head forward.…

In a tired voice, Paul began his tale of that evening’s events. The Buick Louis had stolen in Baie-des-Sables, which he drove through the village, bottle of whisky — stolen as well — in hand. Louis was drunk, red, glassy eyes, dumb smile drawn on his face. “Hey, Paul! I’ve got good whisky! Come on, let’s go for a ride!” Paul hadn’t been able to resist the temptation. “I climbed in,” he said. “I shouldn’t have, but I did. I liked to drink in those days. We got on the road to Mont-Joli and went to visit one of his friends. We drank the whole bottle, just the three of us. We were too drunk to get back on the road, and the cops found the car easily. They knocked on the door, nearly knocked it off its hinges, but we escaped through a window, hard to believe, we were so drunk we could barely stand. It was past ten o’clock by then, and it was dark. We roamed around part of the night, avoiding cop cars, and ended up finding a shed in the back of a house, where we slept a little until the next morning. You couldn’t have seen him that night in Métis Beach.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“No?” Jean was speaking now, anger in his voice. “When Paul came back home the next day, our father was waiting for him. Believe me, he got it good. We didn’t forget it.”

“Exactly,” Paul added, with the tone of someone telling a tale of derring-do. “The old man wasn’t big, but he was strong. My eye was like a grapefruit for two weeks. You wouldn’t remember it, you disappeared that day.”

Jean gave me another of his satisfied smiles. “Exactly. You ran away to the States. Just like a criminal.”

I chose to ignore that last comment. “So who killed the dog? One of you?”

Jean laughed unpleasantly. “You really want to know? That’s what you want? Well, sit your ass down because you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you.”

They thought it was me. It was my turn to laugh, “Me? I would have killed Locki? Why?”

“To make sure Louis would be accused of raping Gail.”

I smirked this time. “You know this whole rape thing, it’s a lie. It’s crazy old Robert Egan’s invention.”

“That’s not what people here thought.”

Jean was having fun, that much was clear. He was on his fourth rum and Coke. Jérôme had brought the Bacardi bottle to the table, and Jean was pouring drinks for himself. In an authoritarian voice that clearly annoyed Jérôme, he called out to Françoise in the kitchen. She reappeared, distraught, mascara smudged.

“Françoise, tell him what you heard the next morning at the Egan place. It’ll help him remember, maybe.”

Françoise protested, “It’s ancient history. I don’t think it’s worth us talking about it.…”

“Romain has come all the way from Los Angeles to understand things. He’s an important man over there,” he declared, with undisguised irony. “A man who probably isn’t used to wasting his time. So tell him, tell him what you know.”

“I … I don’t know, Jean.”

“Come now, sis! You know the story by heart. How many times did you spin us that yarn, eh?”

I shuddered. How many times did you spin us that yarn? Like a dirty joke you never get tired of repeating.

“Go on, now,” Jean insisted, “what are you waiting for?”

Françoise lifted her eyes to mine. Discouraged, she began speaking, stuttering slightly. I could feel Jean’s eyes on me, penetrating like the blade of a knife, but I ignored him. Françoise looked tired all of a sudden, weariness dragging her face down.