For Sure (37 page)

“Hey! Where is dat
Isère
den?”

“In France.”

Terry had suspected as much, but where in France?

“I gotta haul on out, I got no time to chat!”

“Wot? Has Carmen brought her whip out, den?”

But Lydia was already too far away to hear him, and the door slammed shut on Terry's question.

“Yoye!”

To put it simply, the real is beyond reach. It's the bottom of a bottomless well. It's the chicken or the egg. It's the only egg we've got, and once dropped, it breaks. It lies there, a splatter on the floor, impossible to gather up. Such is the real. It escapes us, forces us to speak, to fall back on the symbolic and the imaginary. Someone lays an empty plate before us and says here, here's your egg. We have no choice but to believe it, to understand, and say thank you. Which explains why politeness is a virtue. And just as the real is the bottom of a bottomless well, Hans is a character like the bottom of a bag with a false bottom.

All that was missing was a good dictionary, a real one.

“Seems to me de Babar could afford it.”

Carmen couldn't believe it: Josse talking about buying a dictionary!

“Was a fine idea you had, bringin' in dose crosswords.”

Carmen did not want to take credit for something she didn't deserve.

“Well, I wasn't really tinkin' of it dat way . . .”

“Anyhow, I tink it brings us all together like, when we's workin'. Gives us sometin' to tink on aside from de job.”

Jean-Pierre agreed:

“So more it was! It's like our ting. Our trademark.”

“It's gotten so folks're bringin' dem in to us! Yesterday, Serge brought one in he picked up on Air France. Friggin' hard, you ask me.”

“Awh ya? Where is it den?”

snowflake on your cheek

a drop falls from the sky and

will go its own way

The integration of new employees was not always smooth.

“Me, I'd be puttin' it a wee bit higher.”

“Naw, all de way up der, folks'd be bangin' der foreheads all day long.”

“How about movin' er over dat way, den. Over der, she won't be in de way.”

“Now we's de ones'll be slammin' into it when we'se turnin' de corner.”

The carpenter had been kind enough to stop by the Babar along his way because he'd been told it was only a minor job ten minutes at most.

“I tawt you people knew wot youse wanted . . .”

“We know wot we wants, we just don't know where we wants it.”

“I can see dat.”

At last the new employees agreed on a spot to install the shelf that would henceforth hold all the reference books.

“Hey! We ought to put a couple of de crossword books up der fer de customers! It'd give folks sometin' to do while's dey's havin' a beer or a coffee. An dey can be usin' de dictionaries as well.”

. . .

“Well, den. Wot do you tink?”

Two senior employees exchanged glances. Were they prepared to let the newcomers take over?

“Can't say really. We never done it before.”

“Well . . . on account of why not?”

. . .

“Eh? Well, what do you tink?”

“Not sure meself. Does we have to go an' decide right now?”

To leaf through a book in search of a passage that beautifully expressed something. When you first encountered it, you neglected to underline it, or scribble a note in the margin, or bend the corner of the page, so sure were you that you could never forget the source of such a brilliant thought. You can still see the exact placement of the passage on the page, you know it was the recto rather than the verso, or vice versa, and approximately where in the book the passage is located. To search, and search, and search again, but never to find it again.

A few days later, Terry and Carmen were also beginning to think that Marianne was taking an awfully long time to decide who she wanted to be her godmother.

“Really, it oughtn't it be 'er who decides. We were never de ones to choose”

“But we was just two weeks in de world, we wasn't two years old goin' on tree.”

. . .

“An' havin' come dis far, 'twould be hard to force 'er to take someone.”

. . .

“Well? Wot do ya think?”

Carmen was fast asleep.

In French, we say of a spoiled child who gets whatever he or she wants,
il fait la pluie et le beau temps
— he or she can make it rain or shine. The lexicologist Robert defines the expression more kindly as simply meaning someone who has great influence. But, as Melchior Mbonimpa explains in
Le dernier roi faiseur de pluie (The Last King to Make Rain)
, in Kibondo, Tanzania, to make rain or the sunshine is a highly important role that requires negotiating with the heavens to ensure the earth receives the rain essential for life. Once a highly important function. Until the Pink Faces stuck their noses in.

In the end, Monday night became official crossword night at the Babar. Anyone could bring their reference books and participate in the contest, in which all participants were given the same puzzle to solve. Whoever completed the puzzle first won the prize, a book from Didot Books. Sometimes only five or six people showed up, other times as many as a dozen or more.

“Wot did you choose?”

“
Belle du seigneur
by Albert Cohen. Even doh, most likely, I won't be readin' it until I retire.”

“An' when's dat gonna be, den?”

“In about ten years.”

“Well, dat's wot's so wonderful 'bout books, wouldn't you say? Dey's made to last.”

All together, among the approximately 5,000 words beginning with the letter
a
in
L'Officiel du jeu Scrabble®
,
there are about 50 French words originating in Belgium, Québec, or Switzerland, and none from Africa. In the
Bescherelle
, about 10 verbs beginning with the letter
a
are identified as coming from Africa, Belgium, or Québec, but there is no mention of any Swiss contributions. In both cases, the proportion of words emanating from elsewhere than France is approximately 1 percent.

Accompanying Élizabeth back to the door of the building, Zed tries to learn more about her. He struggles to find the right tone, not to sound like he's sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong.

“Do you live alone, den?”

“Like a big girl.”

Élizabeth answers without hesitation, which encourages Zed to push on:

“You doesn't even 'ave a cat?”

Again Zed notices his inconsistent use of the informal
tu
and the formal
vous.
Élizabeth laughs. Zed tries to explain:

“I know it. Seems like I can't decide wedder to talk to ya wid de
tu
or de
vous
. One or de udder, I mean, not boat.”

“No, I was laughing because cats and me . . .”

“Naw, me neider . . .”

“Most people who talk to me use
tu
.”

“Most likely dey're not tryin' to make a good impression, de way I am.”

Élizabeth turns to smile at Zed.

“Oh?”

The expression “
à tout bout de champ
(at every end of field)” meaning “at every opportunity” first appeared in 1636, but was preceeded by “
à chaque bout de champ
(at each end of the field)” in the fourteenth century, and by “
à chacun bout de champ
(to each a bit of the field)” in the sixteenth. Another expression, “
ainsi font les coqs à chacun bout de champ
(so go the roosters to each his bit of field),” suggests the introduction somewhere along the way of a confusion between the word
chant
(song), referring to the rooster's song, and the word
champ
(field), referring to the farmer's habitat,
in the metaphorical process (transfer of the spatial to the temporal).

Then, walking Élizabeth to her car:

“I know a small cove on de way to Fundy. A lovely little spot it is, where we could make a fire. I'd like to take you der.”

?

“Wid udder folks, too.”

. . .

“Do you know Étienne an' Ludmilla Zablonski?”

“Only by name.”

“Der real interestin' people. Der loft is on de end over der.”

Élizabeth looked over in the direction Zed was pointing.

“Der yer age, I'd say. An' der's Terry we met earlier, an' his wife Carmen. Terry an' Ludmilla run de Didot bookstore over der, an' Carmen owns de Babar wid a girl from Memramcook by de name of Josse. Terry an' Carmen got two kids. De little one you seen earlier, an' de little feller's called Étienne.”

And then, as though he'd suddenly put two and two together, Zed added:

“Matter o' fact, I'm gonna be Marianne's godfawder!”

“Oh!”

“So, turns out, you and I could end up godfawder and godmudder together . . . if I'm not too far aft.”

Now it was Élizabeth's turn to put two and two together. Zed shook his head:

“She's a strange one, dat girl. One ting's fer sure, she knows wot she wants.”

Zed mentioned all this lightly, as though it were merely an interesting coincidence, but the truth was the possibility thrilled him.

“We could even be cookin' ourselves a supper. In Fundy, I mean. An' I figures you could bring along somebody else, if you had a mind to . . .”

Zed immediately regretted the suggestion; he felt as though he'd taken one step forward and two steps back. But Élizabeth found his slightly sheepish look charming.

“No, that won't be necessary.”

Zed found her reply ambiguous. Élizabeth immediately noticed his discomfort, and reassured him:

“So, you'll call me?”

“Fer de loft, you mean?”

“Or for the supper down in Fundy.”

CHAPTER 6

[. . .
] one more meander is the best thing a river can offer; in fact, that's what we expect of it.

Nicolas Bouvier
,
Journal d'Aran et d'autres lieux (Journal of Aran and Other Places),
Petite Bibliothèque Payot, 2001

Marianne doesn't understand. She's sure she heard Terry talking to a woman a moment ago. How is it then that he's alone in the bookstore, tapping away on the computer as usual, surrounded by columns of books?

“Are ya done drawing den, Marianne?”

Holding tight to a rag of plush that once resembled a snail, Marianne is looking out the door of the store, but sees no one there either.

“Gaw?”

Busy completing an order, Terry repeats a bit mechanically:

“Gone? Who's gone den?”

“Layee gaw?”

“De lady?”

“Layee?”

“Lady? Wot lady?”

. . .

“Awh! De Lady! Yah, de lady's gone.”

True or false: the three linguistic communities of Belgium are the francophones, the Flemish, and the Deutsche gramophones.

Carmen couldn't believe it:

“But, who is she?”

“A woman dat's come in to de bookstore a couple or tree times. Her name's Élizabeth.”

“Élizabeth who?”

“Élizabeth . . . I forget her udder name. She's tinkin' o' buying a loft.”

“An' how did she put it?”

“Well, we's walkin' down de hall, an' we see Zed comin' along wid somebody. An' when we get up close, I see'd it was dat woman. An' de little one starts sayin' ‘De layee? De layee?' . . . So, dat's when it strikes me, dat dis must be de woman she was talkin' 'bout, on account of she'd come by de bookstore afore she went to meet Zed.”

Carmen, her back up against the sink, listened in wrapt silence.

“Dey comes up on us den, an' Zed does de introductions — he doesn't know I already know who she is, see — an' right den is when it happened. Just like dat. She goes right up to her, lifts her wee head to look at 'er square an' she says ‘gawmer?' Den round she turns to look straight back at me an' she says de same ting: ‘gawmer?'”

Carmen could imagine the scene perfectly. Her little girl had always known exactly what she wanted. For an instant, Carmen imagined herself in Élizabeth's shoes:

“And then?”

“So den I explains wot a ‘gawmer' is, an' how we's lookin' fer a godmudder for de wee one. An' she starts laughin', an' bends right down to talk to 'er. She asks 'er name, an' two, tree udder questions, an' in de end she says sure, she'd be right happy to be de godmudder of a little girl like her. Like Marianne.”

Books about love: one of the categories of
La Bibliothèque idéale
is exclusively reserved for the French romance novel, which will greatly please those fond of this nation of love. Interestingly, the word
love
, or any of its derivatives, only appears in 4 of the 49 titles of this category:
Mad Love
by André Breton,
Absolute Love
by Alfred Jarry,
L' Amoureuse initiation (Initiation into Love)
by Oscar-Vladislas de Lubicz-Milosz, and
Swann in Love
by Marcel Proust.

“You have an appointment, you say?”

“Well, I thought I did, anyway. I may have gotten it confused . . .”

“Oh, it could just as easily be him. That's just the sort of thing he's likely to forget. Come in. I'll ring him.”

“I can come back, if this is a bad time.”

“Come in anyway. I'll phone. He's not far.”

I remained by the entrance to the Zablonskis' loft while Ludmilla phoned her husband.

“Hello, darling, everything alright?”

The answer, rather a long one, made her chuckle a bit, then:

“Listen . . . You do know you made an appointment with France Daigle?

(“Yes, why? It's tomorrow, no? Tuesday? Today is Monday isn't it?”)

“Yes . . .”

(“Oh damn! You're right. In the end I preferred Monday. I can't even remember why. Never mind, I'm on my way.”)

“Right. See you soon.”

Ludmilla hung up the receiver.

“He should be here in a quarter of an hour. Can you wait?”

“Dat's alright. I'm in no great hurry.”

I knew Ludmilla in passing, having seen her in the Didot bookstore, but our paths did not cross often, and we'd never spoken.

“And does Moncton still suit you?”

As I said this, I was reminded of the hospital director's dialogue in
Real Life
, when he asked Élizabeth the same thing.

“Yes. We like Moncton very much.”

“Is that so? Really?”

Ludmilla didn't answer. I assumed she hadn't heard my question as she had turned to go into the kitchen.

“Can I offer you something to drink?”

“I wouldn't mind a cup of tea, if you've got some . . .”

“Of course!”

While Ludmilla was occupied in the kitchen, I admired the disorder of the loft. She returned with a tray, saying:

“What I find particular to this place is that it's practically impossible to take oneself seriously.”

To read all the words in
L'Officiel du jeu Scrabble®
not once, but twice.

Marianne couldn't understand what Carmen was asking.

“Is that why, den? On account of she was with Zed?”

The child didn't know what to say, although, yes, Zed being there, a little bit, as well. Carmen continued:

“You know, she hardly knows you. An' we don't really know her. Most times, dads an' mums like to know de godmudder . . . to be certain that they're nice folks who'll treat you well.”

Marianne nodded, smiling. The idea of all these adults treating her well pleased her.

“Yer dad says she seems nice.”

Marianne nodded again.

“An' Zed says so as well.”

Marianne nodded again, adding:

“Goofer!”

“Dat's right, Zed can't wait to be yer godfawder . . . an' I know he'll be doin' a proper job of it!”

As she helped her daughter get into her pyjamas, Carmen momentarily abandoned finding out why Marianne had asked an almost total stranger to be her godmother.

“There, now yer all set! Shall I fetch you a teddy bear?”

Is there a connection between the abundant use of the word
ça
(translated in English as “that” or, in this novel, as “dat”) in Acadian speech, and Freud's
ça
, (“the id” in English)?

Zablonski was seated across from me, and it was time to begin the interview.

“I don't really have any particular questions.”

He looked surprised, but only for a moment.

“Alright.”

He lit a cigarette.

“That's strange, I never imagined you smoked.”

He shrugged, laughing, as though what I imagined or didn't imagine, well…

“It's a little strange to see you in the flesh after all this time.”

He forced a laugh. He could see that I found him good looking. We were quiet for a bit.

“If you have something you'd like to say, or some questions, don't be shy.”

I felt unprepared. I hadn't expected to be so devoid of curiosity, without the slightest intention even. Zablonski tapped his cigarette on the edge of an ashtray. Ashes dropped. Another moment passed. Finally a question came to me:

“Do you think of Claudia sometimes?”

He looked directly at me, smiled.

“Of course.”

“Often?”

“No, not so often. From time to time, she comes back to me.”

. . .

“As she does to you, I imagine. No?”

He was right of course, but I didn't want him to think that everything that happened to him happened to me, too. Even if he had every right to think what he liked.

“You think everything that happens to you happens to me, too?”

Again he shrugged.

“I don't think about it that much, you know.”

“Yes, I know . . .”

And I felt the need to add:

“. . . but there must be some things I don't know.”

He thought about it for a moment, shrugged again:

“Maybe.”

Well, the discussion seemed to be at a dead end. Was I sabotaging myself? I certainly did not want that.

“And your painting, how's it going?”

“Oh, it's really not painting anymore.”

“But you enjoy it at least?”

“Let's say it's . . . astonishing.”

“Pleasantly astonishing? Or troubling astonishing?”

Zablonski thought about it.

“A bit of both. It's new. For the moment, it's hard to say where it will lead.”

“Yes. I understand.”

Terry's mother always gets up earlier than usual on her childrens' birthdays. She firmly believes that a mother should be the first person to wish her child a happy birthday, which she does by telephone, without fail.

Describing Moncton to her friend Brigitte, Élizabeth had explained that Acadians like to establish family relations right from the start, and that they're not satisfied until they've found some shared blood relation or common friend.

“I don't see any problem. Are you afraid or what?”

“Afraid of becoming a godmother?”

“Afraid to be attached, in any way whatsoever. You know, I've always felt that's why you worked with cancer patients. No?”

“There are more and more survivors now, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

The word
avatar
is an absolutely yellow word.

Carmen thought it was an excellent idea. Now Terry hoped everyone would be able to accept an invitation for that very evening. He telephoned Zed:

“We were tinkin' we'd have a meal fer all de little ones' future godfawders an' godmudders.”

“Sure! When's dat, den?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight! Alright!”

“You knows dat lady you was wid yesterday . . .”

Zed felt his pulse quicken.

“She comes by de bookstore from time to time. She's not a bad bit nice, eh?”

“Uh . . . sure . . . on account of?”

“She was tellin' me she was tinkin' she might like to buy a loft. So I gave her yer phone number an dat.”

Zed tried to sound neutral:

“Sure an' dat's why she come by yesterday. Looks like TomTom's goin' off to Montréal, only ee's not ready to sell just now. I suppose she might rent from 'im.”

“Wouldn't be a bad ting to 'ave a doctor in de building. You never know wot can happen. I mean, I'm just sayin'.”

“Naw, I knows it. I's tinkin' de same ting.”

“Anyhow, do ya tink she'd come fer supper as well? I mean, would ya be alright to call 'n ask 'er? Marianne's got it into 'er head dat she's de one she wants fer a godmudder. An' den, if it looks like she's gonna be movin' in, wouldn't be half bad to get to know each udder . . .”

Zed could not have asked for more, but why was Terry asking him to call her? Did he suspect something? Had he guessed? Terry continued:

“Not dat 'twould bodder me to call 'er, I's just tinkin' . . .”

“Tinkin' wot?”

“Well since yer de one dat met 'er 'bout de lofts an' all, you knows 'er better'n me by now. We're inviting de Zablonskis as well, so we'll be a half-dozen, plus de wee ones fer a bit.”

Zed was feeling full of beans, but he struggled to hide it. Was Terry slyly teasing him? Was the whole thing arranged? And if so, what should he say?

Several other books about love are listed in
La Bibliothèque idéale
:
L'amour n'est pas aimé
(
Love is Not Loved)
by Hector Bianciotti;
Love of Perdition
by Camilo Castelo Branco;
A Love Affair
by Dino Buzzati;
The Devil in Love
by Jacques Cazotte;
Les Amours jaunes (Yellow Love Affairs)
by Tristan Corbières;
Sur le fleuve amour (On the River Love)
by Joseph Delteil;
L'Amour la fantasia
(translated as
Fantasia: An Algerian Cavalcade
) by Assia Djebar;
Le Nouveau monde amoureux (The New World in Love)
by Charles Fourier;
On Love: Aspects of a Single Theme
by José Ortega y Gasset;
Five Women Who Loved
by Saikaku Ihara;
A Love of Our Time
by Tommaso Landolfi;
The Game of Love and Chance
by Pierre de Marivaux;
L'Amour de la renarde (Love of the She-Fox)
by Ling Mengchu;
Poems of Love
by Pierre de Ronsard;
L'Amour du narcissisme (Love of Narcissism)
by Lou Andréas Salomé and
First Love
by Ivan Turgenev.

“Did you know der's only eleven punctuation marks in French? Seems like a whole lot more, don't it?”

The one partner who was hitting well enough at this point did not mind engaging in a bit of conversation.