For Sure (44 page)

“I won't hide the fact that I feel I'm Étienne's natural godfather. And because the boy has talent, one might be tempted to imagine the kind of relationship between a painter and his student common in the Middle Ages. Whatever the case, in our case, I can say the master is learning as much from his student as the student from the master.”

The assembled guests were touched by this display of humility from Le Grand Étienne toward the little one.

“But the real reason that I feel myself to be the natural godfather of Étienne lies in the fact that even before I knew them, I heard Carmen throwing up, and saw Terry doing his best to reassure her from our side of the door to the washroom of an airbus flying over the Atlantic. I was waiting for my turn, feeling a bit of sympathy for the poor sick girl, when Terry turned to me and said, ‘She's preggies.'

Several audience members were pleasantly surprised by the accuracy of Zablonski's imitation of Terry's voice and diction.

“I was in no hurry. In fact, I was going nowhere and, in a way, it was Terry and Carmen who, by their simple authenticity — which I continue to admire, by the way — put me back on track.”

Everyone seemed to understand and to approve what Zablonski was saying about Terry and Carmen. But did he intend to go on talking for much longer?

“All this to say that Ludmilla and I find ourselves here in a place that suits us perfectly, and that Étienne is in a way the child that we never had, and that we're honoured to be accepted as his godfather and godmother.”

Zablonski fell silent, but remained standing. Was he done talking? Was he too moved to continue?

“Obviously, Ludmilla and I also have a special place in our hearts for Zed and Chico. Long live Chico, long live Zed!”

“'ere! 'ere!”

“Santé!”

Everyone joined Étienne and Ludmilla in their toast to Chico and Zed, a toast that filled Chico's heart with pride and joy, and that sealed forever for him his adoption pact.

The Y-joint with two shut-off valves allows the connection of two water hoses on a single tap.

Le Petit Étienne spoke only slightly longer than Chico:

“I wanted a godfawder on account of Dad's got one. An' me an' Dad's godfawders are old, but dat doesn't matter on account of when I'm big, I'll be de one to buy 'im presents an' take 'im out fer a stroll, on account of ee'll be too old.”

Then, remembering suddenly that there was also his godmother Ludmilla, he added:

“An' I know me aunty Ludmilla likes me, on account of sometimes she smokes de pipe, but only wid me on account of it's a secret.”

The laughter and applause excited Marianne, who finally stepped out from behind Élizabeth.

Old frames, antique mouldings. Wooden crates, packing boxes, and delivery (mandarines, Ikea furniture). Mouse traps (throw the mouse in the wet garbage bin). Pencils (lead?), old Scrabble game (Mathieu?), popsicle sticks.

Now it was Élizabeth's turn:

“In my case, it's rather simple: one day, a darling little girl I'd never seen before just up and asked me to be her godmother. I hope I won't disappoint her . . . eh, Marianne?”

A down-to-earth statement, whose brevity was much appreciated, and which Marianne applauded along with everyone.

Regarding the contribution and connection to the real: the book once printed has, in a sense, been sterilized, pulverised of all traces of stuttering, spontaneity, erasures, restarts, rejections, hesitations, displacements and other co-existing confusions. But loss is inevitable. It lies at the heart of all our lives, an essential dynamic. And consequently it is also the dynamic of writing. Because we will never be done with recording all those hesitations, all those glimmers of light exiled into a demi-world, all those almost somethings buried beneath the sea. Writing is an enormous attempt at recuperation. Writing is a sounding.

When Marianne realized that she too could address the crowd, she took Élizabeth's hand on one side and Zed's on the other and turned her shining face to the assembled guests.

. . .

Was she really going to say something? Carmen doubted it very much, Terry hoped she might. As for Étienne, like the other guests, he thought she looked sweet just standing there and smiling. Nor did the audience demand more; they began to applaud.

“Bravo!”

“A toast!”

“Thanks everyone, for coming . . .”

“A huge thank you to Sylvia and Lionel . . .”

“'ere, 'ere!”

And with that the celebrations began for real.

CHAPTER 7

It will be achieved by the madman's meticulousness.

Elizabeth Smart,
By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept
, Flamingo, HarperCollins, 1992

The fire purred softly in the small stony cove bordered by Norwegian spruce.

“Fundy
driftwood
's really a whole lot more mellow dan de
driftwood
down at Cap-Pelé.”

Zed's comment made Terry laugh. But Zed was insistent:

“I tell ya troo! I noticed it more'n once. Listen close now! Dis 'ere wood hardly pops at all. All ya hears is a low whistlin'.”

For a moment, everyone turned their listening attention to the fire.

“Luh! De
driftwood
down in Cap-Pelé don't stop poppin' an' spittin' sparks left an' right. Even de wood looks all twisted in pain.”

Terry considered the possibility.

“Might be on account of how much salt's in de water, d'ya tink?

“Dat's wot I's tinkin'.”

. . .

. . .

“How do ya say
driftwood
in French, anyway?”

Until now, Élizabeth, Ludmilla, Carmen, and Zablonski had listened to Zed and Terry without interrupting, but the question turned the three Acadians of Acadian origin to the three Acadians of non-Acadian origin for help.

“I don't know.
Bois de mer
?
Bois flottant
?”

With “seawood” and “floating wood,” Ludmilla had offered a couple of guesses. Zablonski only shrugged. Élizabeth had another idea:

“I've heard the term
bois flotté
.”

Terry liked the sound of Élizabeth's “floated wood.”

“
Bois flotté
. I like dat. On account of it's not as doh it were floatin' still, like in
bois flottant
.
Bois flotté
gets me vote.”

True or false: there's truth in falsity.

Zed had already noticed the particularity of their little group:

“Peculiar all de same. We's tree real Acadians, I mean, born 'ere an' all dat, wid tree who can't be callin' demselves Acadians, not yet, anyway — hope I'm not insultin' anyone sayin' dat? An' de tree Acadians're all pretty young, under thirty-five let's say, an' de tree wot aren't Acadians're all over fifty, right?”

It was true. They all waited to hear the rest. But there didn't seem to be anything more. Terry wondered where Zed was going:

“An' wot does all dat mean, accordin' to you, I'd like to know.”

“Don't know, do I? Only I'd say it's someting extraordinary.”

Terry agreed, but could not explain it either. He turned to his three elders:

“An' wot do youse tree tink about it?”

1. According to you, golf is:

a) A game.

b) A sport.

c) It doesn't matter.

d) I don't know.

e) I have no opinion.

“Hey mary, full of grace, de Lord is wid dee; blessed art dow amongst women, and blessed is de fruit of dy wound, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at de hour of our death. Amen.”

Étienne was mightily impressed by Chico's memorized recitation:

“Was it Granny dat tawt ya dat?”

“I already knowed it. Well, almost de whole ting.”

“Does ya know any udders?”

“Our Fawder who artinheaven, hallowed be dy name, dy kingdom come, dy will be done on eart' a sitizin even. Give us dis day our daily bread, an' forgive us our trespasses as we forgive dose dat trespass against us, and lead us not into tent nation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.

Hearing this second recitation, Étienne realized that Chico was really older than him.

“I'll know dem, too, when I's older.”

Bédéesque
. One can argue that this French neologism meaning “cartoonish” or, to use an English neologism,
Simpsonesque
, is perfectly legitimate according to the authoritative
Besherelle, La Grammaire pour tous
. In the third volume of the
Bescherelle
, in the chapter that explains the difference between grammatical words and lexical words, it is clearly stated in article 300 that anyone, regardless of their nationality or status, can legitimately create new lexical words in response to the needs of a constantly evolving society.

Every spring, Terry cooked up a large cauldron of potatoes, lobster, and horseradish. The preparations for this meal cast a festive mood throughout their home and an irresistible odour into the hallways of the lofts, so that friends — carrying musical instruments and wine — inevitably appeared. Terry meticulously stirred butter, buttermilk, horseradish, and other seasonings essential to the recipe into the pot before delicately depositing large chunks of lobster tails and claws. By the end of the evening, the appetite of the musicians eliminated any chance of leftovers.

1. According to you, golf is:

a) A game.

b) A sport.

c) Other, specify: ______________________ .

d) I don't know.

e) Surveys bore me.

“Alright den, here we go . . .”

Terry did not simply drop the potatoes wrapped in foil into the fire. He took the time to bury each one in the embers, so that they would cook evenly. Zed turned to Élizabeth:

“Terry's our potatoes expert.”

It is difficult to say exactly when a word ceases to be a neologism. Is the word
bédé
, for example, created in 1974 from the letters
b
and
d
for
bande dessinée
or “comic strip,” still a neologism today?

One might argue that hockey — an English word derived from the French
hoquet,
meaning “hiccup” — is a culinary sport. Several decades ago, an effort was made to change the name to
goret
or “piglet,” but no one swallowed that, and we continue to prefer hogging the puck to hogs in a blanket. Nevertheless, listing the ingredients of a good game can be instructive. The coach, a sharp cookie, provides a recipe for victory point blank: primo, a goal tender who's cool as a cucumber, secondo, players who are ready to stir the pot. In other words, dig in, be hungrier than the opponent. Even in the locker room, we can sense this team will not settle for scraps. The players are up and off their haunches, eager to take a bite out of their opponents; they are full of beans, and they can smell victory. What's more, the coach — who has thrice tasted the champagne from the cup — knows this is his bread and butter: he must bring home the bacon. Creative and crafty, he knows how to whip up his proteges, how to use the carrot and the stick, separate the wheat from the chaff, and promise the fruits of victory. The temperature is rising: while some try to curry favour, others are warned there's no such thing as a free lunch. The goalie dons his waffle pad and prepares to deny the opponents starved for goals, especially the wingers eager to fatten their statistics by pouring shots into the net. Sometimes, though a loss will force the players to eat humble pie, it can shake up the team and show the players they need to wake up and smell the coffee. To have his lunch handed to him can give a player a taste for vengence, a willingness to pull the fat from the fire, to pepper the opposing goaltender and put some mustard on his shots. With the puck stuck to his stick, he'll dribble into the crease and beat the goalie. Even if he's slashed or speared, a player holding the blue line against two giant-sized opponents will rejoice in the prospect of whipping the cream of the crop in the quarter-finals. The fear of losing his meal ticket gives a team wings, whips them into shape, so that they get out there and dish it out. It was in a game like this that a tough bruiser — who's recently had a tendon sliced from his thigh to replace a ligament — scored the winner for his team. It must be said that a juicy victory can light a fire under the team as well or better than an indigestible defeat: two matches* in hand will ignite the team and, rather than settle on their lees, the players want to crush their opponents and tip the cup. On the other hand, nothing is more deflating and bitter than an icing call when the other team is already living high on the hog, determined to get out of the cellar and take advantage of home ice. Nor is anything more humiliating than to have everything go pear-shaped at home, with the visitors laying it on thick and the home team slower than molasses going uphill. In the end, when the smoke clears, the head coach refuses to cry over spilt milk, and without throwing in the towel, or any hint of sour grapes, he admits the team lacked some key ingredients to pull it off. Perhaps they bit off more than they could chew and wound up with egg on their faces. They were flat and collapsed in the end. Fed up with serving up an easy victory to their opponents, and their share of the lead, the players towel off and dress, not bothering to linger or chew the fat in the locker room. Standing before the press, the head cheese admitted they'd made a meal of it, but promised the next game would be a different kettle of fish.

2. Do you enjoy smoking a cigar while you play golf?

a) Yes.

b) No.

c) I play golf in order to smoke my cigar.

d) A cigar is the worst encumbrance.

e) I like to sing while I golf.

2. Do you enjoy smoking a cigar while you play golf?

a) The cigar is an aberration.

b) The cigar is an abomination.

c) This survey is ridiculous.

d) Yes.

e) No.

Étienne lay the coin on his thumb and tried again.

“Luh! I got it!”

“Once you catch it, you gotta turn 'er upside down on yer hand, like dis 'ere.”

Étienne was impressed with Chico's dexterity.

“Who was it showed ya how to do dat?”

“Shawn.”

Étienne tended to forget Chico had had another dad before Zed. In a way, he envied his new friend's slightly disrupted life.

“Awh.”

“Dey calls it heads or tails. On account of de head on dis side 'ere.”

“Awh.”

Chico sent the coin summersaulting into the air again, caught it and slapped it on the back of his hand without taking his other hand off.

“Heads or tail?”

“Tail.”

Chico lifted his hand, revealing the maple leaf this time.

“Tail! You win, only it don't count. We'll be startin' fer real tomorrow.”

The French expression “
but en blanc
” — “point blank” in English — means bluntly or directly. Most likely the head coach made his statement without expecting to be questioned at that moment, or on that subject. Perhaps he was about to be accused of murder when the sports journalist shoved a microphone or pen under his nose to ask him what were the ingredients of a good hockey game. Journalists will do that.

“Kouchibougouac's more us, all de same.”

“De fields, rivers. It's all so much calmer.”

“An' ders a whole lot fewer rocks.”

“Even de forest. It's more like velvety. Can ya say dat?”

“An' why not?”

“De clams, blueberries . . .”

“Clams an' blueberries, can ya tink of anyting more Acadian dan dat, eh?”

Originally, the French expression was written “
de butte en blanc
” rather than “
but en blanc,
” and referred to a marksman standing on a butte or hill and shooting an arrow at the white centre of a target below. The English “point blank” has a similar origin, referring to an arrow shot from such a close distance that the white centre of the target could not be missed. On the other hand, the expression “
faire chou blanc
” means “to draw a blank,” to fail. At first glance, the French expression seems richer than the English, but in the end it promises more than it delivers. A literal reading of “
faire chou blanc
” as “to make a bun white,” might lead one to imagine that the expression referred to that glutton's delight, the French cream puff. Alas, no. Words will do that.

“Dey say you only have to 'it de ball once on wot dey call de sweet spot, an' yer like hooked on de game. De feelin's so wonderful good, ya can't help yerself, you gotta go back an' play again.”

. . .

“Tell ya de troot, I wonder if I've ever 'it dat sweet spot.”

The idea has been there for some time now, lying in wait around the corner, waiting for the right moment to suddenly appear. To impose itself.