A Very Bold Leap (4 page)

A young professor, thin, angular, tightly wound, wearing a jacket and tie and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that made him look like a Protestant minister, began attacking the Lévesque government. In a reedy, whistling voice, he accused it of betraying its own electoral base by imposing special language laws so that it could reopen collective bargaining with employees of the State in order to lower their salaries. It was a move towards dictatorship, he declared. He could see Naziism looming on the horizon.

Fernand Fafard broke in. “Hold on, hold on, you’re talking through your hat, my friend. It’s easy to play the rabble-rouser when you stand on the sidelines with your hands in your pockets watching everyone else do all the work! What d’you want the government to do? Keep on going further and further into debt until it’s bankrupt? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in a recession. There’s no money, that’s the goddamn problem! Plus, fifty per cent of our taxes goes straight to Ottawa, where most of it is turned into smoke and mirrors, and the rest is given away to their friends! For crying out loud, we don’t have much of a choice here: if we don’t tighten our belts, our pants will fall down!”

He continued in that forceful vein, defending René Lévesque, but to no avail. His passion drew snickers, and the diminutive, wire-rimmed professor treated him like a myopic innocent. Everyone wanted an early election so they could kick the burnt-out government out of office. Charles sided with Fernand, then suddenly glanced at his watch. A few seconds later he stood up and asked Fernand to excuse him: there were some things he still had to do.

“I’ll come with you,” said the hardware-store owner, finally fed up with the conversation. “Goodbye, my friends! Good night, everyone. I wish you all a nice little Bourassa in your Christmas stockings!”

He strode quickly along the sidewalk, muttering furiously “If we don’t look after ourselves, who’s going to do it for us? Certainly not the English!”

He stopped abruptly and began to sing:

It was a verse from one of Félix Leclerc’s songs, and it put Fernand back in a good mood. He made a face, danced a few steps, then patted Charles on the shoulder and began walking again. Before long they turned onto rue Dufresne.

“Going back to your place?” Fernand asked, stopping in front of his own house.

“Yes. I’ve got to write. Plus there are dishes that need washing.”

“Right, then. See you tomorrow at the hardware store. Eight o’clock?”

“Eight o’clock.”

The two men clasped hands, then stood facing each other, suddenly gripped by emotion, knowing there was more to be said but unable to find the words to express themselves. Despite his broad smile and his way of holding his head high as though about to deliver a speech to a large crowd, the hardware-store owner suddenly seemed old to Charles, and tired, and the younger man remembered the time Fernand had tried to commit suicide.

“You know, Fernand,” he said in a sudden gush of affection, grabbing his arm, “I may never have had a father, but you’re worth two!”

The hardware-store owner looked up quickly, then glowed contentedly, his cheeks reddening.

“It’s awful good of you to say so, Charlie my boy. Makes everything worthwhile. But Lucie did a lot more than I ever did. If it wasn’t for her…”

“I’d jump into a fire to save Lucie,” Charles said. “You tell her that. Tell her that right away, Fernand! It’s thanks to the two of you that I’m still alive. Yes! I know that as well as I know that a dog’s a dog and Trudeau’s an asshole!”

Fernand, delighted by the comparison, shook Charles affectionately by the shoulders. He gave a sudden rueful smile. “You know what?” he said. “You never know about life — as well as being your father, I could become something else, you never know. Your father-in-law, maybe …”

He burst out laughing and shook Charles even harder. Charles laughed too, but his gaiety seemed forced, as though his adoptive father’s words embarrassed him. Fernand noticed and let him go. Charles shook his hand and left.

“You always talk too much, you big windbag,” Fernand sighed as he opened the door to his house. The exhaustion he’d felt earlier suddenly came over him with renewed force. “Why can’t I ever learn to keep my mouth shut! Every time someone hands me a cake, I’ve got to go and stick my finger in it.”

“Well?” Lucie asked anxiously, appearing in the hallway. “How did it go?”

“Very well. That was a good idea you had there. I think we got a few things straightened out. He seems to be quite serious about Céline. I’d have been surprised if he wasn’t, of course, but it’s always good to hear it from him, like you say. I don’t think I said anything stupid until right at the end.”

“Why? What did you say?”

Fernand frowned and waved his large hand in the air.

“Not now, not now, if you don’t mind. What I need first is a hot bath.”

C
harles was on the subway heading to the north end of the city, where Fernand had sent him to see a supplier. He had just closed his copy of
The Red and the Black
with a yawn, unable to concentrate on reading because his mind was racing from lack of sleep, when his eye fell on a page of La
Presse
, which a passenger across from him was reading. The centre of the page was taken up by a large photograph of Brigitte Loiseau, smiling and prettier than ever, and above the photo was the headline:

FILM SERVES UP A TRULY GREAT ACTRESS

He quickly got off at the next station, bought a copy of the newspaper, and read the article twice while standing in front of the kiosk with his temples throbbing, his mouth filled with an acid taste, and seized by a strange desire to burst into tears. So she had defeated her black demons and shown her true potential! For once the hideous law of gravity that dragged so many people to the bottom as they grew older had been suspended! Rather than sink into the poisonous abyss, the Blond Angel had risen, cleansed of the mud that had threatened to drown her, and soared above everyone’s heads, her beauty displayed for all to see. Charles felt such a rush of joy and pride that it brought tears to his eyes. He knew he had played a decisive role in her victory. It was, to some extent, as much a victory for him as for her!

That night he and Céline went to Le Parisien to see
Julie Martin, Cashier
. During dinner, a television movie critic had praised the film, calling it a sentimental comedy with great production values and plenty of verve, and he had especially praised Brigitte Loiseau in the title role, using phrases like “a breath of fresh air,” “great vivacity,” “subtle humour,” and “just the right
tone.” Charles found the actress amazing, and Céline, too, shared his enthusiasm, although she said she found her acting a bit vulgar.

“But that’s what the part called for,” Charles replied.

“The part? But surely you can portray ordinary people without looking like you want to hop into bed with the first turkey who comes along!”

“But she didn’t want to hop into bed with the first turkey who came along. If she’d wanted to, she would have.”

He dropped the conversation, which was on the verge of turning bitter. Céline’s spitefulness surprised him: another minute and she’d be saying that the film was a waste of time, and all because of Brigitte Loiseau’s bad acting.

The next day he went back to see
Julie Martin, Cashier
again, this time with Blonblon and Isabel, who laughed loudly and came out feeling invigorated.

“A week from now everyone will be talking about your Brigitte,” Blonblon predicted. “Before long you won’t be able to turn on the TV without seeing her. She’s on her way, man!”

“On her way? She’s already
zooming
!” corrected Isabel, who liked using unusual phrases. “And all thanks to you, Chuckie my boy! She owes you a ton. In fact, she owes you everything.”

Charles smiled, filled with a sense of calm pride. He toyed with the idea of seeking out the actress and telling her of the important role he’d played on a certain day in her life.

Blonblon didn’t need to be a great Nostradamus to come up with the predictions he’d made. Three days after the film came out, it had broken all the box-office records, and Brigitte Loiseau was the darling of the dailies; shortly after that she signed a contract with TVA-TV to play an important role in a drama series written by the prestigious Guy Fournier. All she had to do was work hard and stay healthy, and her talent would take care of the rest, at least for the next few years.

Meanwhile, Charles was learning to tell at a glance the size of a screw or a nail; he knew the respective virtues of silicon caulking compared to those of thermoplastic, and of oil-based versus latex paint; he could expound on the advantages of battery-powered screwdrivers, and of the durability of a top-of-the-line electric drill over that of one of its run-of-the-mill siblings. By
paying close attention to Fernand, he, too, became adept at advising a home handyman on the correct way to install linoleum, or calming a housewife who’d been showered by sparks from a short circuit, or helping an old man who was confused at not being able to find replacement parts for a lamp he’d bought fifty years before. He found that his earlier days in Blonblon’s workshop now came in very handy. He listened carefully to comments made by the professional workmen and the neighbourhood plumbers and electricians who came into the store for supplies until he gradually became an invaluable encyclopedia of information. He even developed the kind of sixth sense that told him when offering a small discount would clinch a sale, or when being slightly over-attentive would lose one, and he assumed the patience of Buddha when beset by idiotic questions, unhelpful descriptions, hackneyed remarks, and scandalized comments on the price of the store’s merchandise.

Fernand and Lucie were astonished by his resourcefulness and his keenness, and heaped compliments on him daily. Henri, busy with his studies, worked at the store on Saturdays, and even then only when he was needed. He’d never given much thought to taking over the store from his father, but with Charles incurring more and more favour, Henri began to feel jealous — the rightful heir sensing a possibly successful rival claim. To his father’s great satisfaction, he began showing up more often at the store. But the source of his new-found zeal soon became all too apparent, and the effects more and more disagreeable. Henri criticized Charles’s smallest mistakes, took over his customers, and contradicted him in public (even when Charles was right). Eventually, Lucie had to find subtle ways to ensure that the two boys worked together as infrequently as possible.

Charles paid little attention to his friend’s behaviour; his mind was on his books, not on the hardware store. Henri might have viewed Charles as a threat, but the indignities he inflicted were entirely useless, since in this particular battle there was only one combatant.

Charles worked his half days conscientiously, even with pleasure, but no sooner had he walked out the door at one o’clock than all thoughts of screws, nails, trowels, and drills were sent packing, and he returned to his apartment a writer. He fixed himself a quick sandwich or a Kraft Dinner, then sat down at his typewriter, a cup of coffee on the small electric heating pad that Céline had given him, and went to work on the novel.

Several hours would pass in this pleasurable way, and each day the stack
of manuscript pages grew by four or five sheets, written at full speed with no thought given to style or syntax or even spelling; he wanted to get it all down in the heat of his inspiration, as had been Stendhal’s method. It was said of Stendhal that he wrote divinely but not too well, a criticism of his own writing Charles would have welcomed. At five o’clock, his stomach would begin to rumble, and he would feel the need to shake off the leaden weight that settles on the shoulders after a long bout of solitary writing, to emerge from his cocoon, shake the cobwebs out of his brain, and return to the real world; he needed noise, company, movement — or, better still, Céline, naked in his bed. Before getting up from his table, however, he would fondly read through the pages he had written that day. Imagine, all these words flowing from his brain and his alone! All these characters scurrying about, each more insistently than the other, all searching for happiness; none of them would have emerged from the glacial void of nothingness had he not chosen to make them spring from the keys of his typewriter! A wave of pleasure would well up within him. And then his eye would fall on a mistake, a clumsy phrase, a worn-out expression; he’d scribble one or two corrections on the pages, then toss them back on the pile. Tomorrow, he told himself, tomorrow! For now he had to eat, enjoy, live!

He would make himself an omelette, or a plate of spaghetti, and top off his meal with a few Vachon cakes washed down with a glass of milk. Then he’d leave the apartment and go to the phone booth at the corner of the street. Although Céline loved him to distraction, she was still a diligent student and couldn’t join him every night. Her parents wouldn’t allow it anyway. So he would call Steve or Blonblon, suggest they go to a movie, or a tavern, or a pool hall. He’d return home around eleven, and go back to working on the novel into the wee hours. The first warm glow of morning would sometimes be visible through his window, but the even warmer glow he felt from his work would make his fatigue evaporate.

First the autumn and then the winter passed. He had achieved a kind of equilibrium. His manuscript grew a bit each day, his love flared with a passion that seemed inexhaustible, and he was earning some money — not much, but the simple life he was therefore forced to live contented him. The independence
it gave him was well worth the sacrifices, he would say. What did it matter that he ate thin porridge for breakfast; that the images on his black-and-white television jumped and the dialogue was incomprehensible; that he had to go out into the freezing night, a gasoline can in each hand, to buy kerosene for the space heater that was always on the point of running out; that he could afford only cut-rate fruit and vegetables from the corner store; that the springs in his old sofa bed dug cruelly into his backside? What did any of that matter when he
could do as he pleased?
Freedom blew its liberating breath through his brain, made it crackle like a campfire, fanned it with a taste for revolution, and made idiotic Darkness retreat, abashed, before the advancing, joyful flames.