For Sure (53 page)

Another irritant: a dozen that ends up being 10. Oranges, for example.

“I didn't know you was sellin' used books 'ere . . .”

As she said this, the woman lay an old copy of Izaak Walton's
The Compleat Angler
on the counter.

“From time to time, folks bring in der boxes o' books dey don't want. I keep dose I figure might sell an' send de rest to Dorchester.”

“I's right happy to find dis one 'ere, aldoh 'twould be a fine book fer de prisoners . . .”

Terry had a feeling he knew this woman, but he couldn't quite place her.

“I already got it in English, but dis 'ere's de first one I seen in French. After yer Bible an Chairman Mao's Little Red Book, dis 'ere book's bin reprinted more often dan any udder.”

“Is dat right!”

Terry picked up the book, examined it more closely. His customer added:

“Awh yes, 'tis de fisherman's classic, written sometin' like 350 years ago.”

At that moment, Terry's gaze fell on a date close to that long ago.

“Says 'ere 1653. Well, dat's old fer real.”

The customer opened her handbag and handed him her credit card.

“Seems to me I seen you some place before.”

Terry wondered if it might not be the credit card that had prompted him to switch from the familiar
tu
to the more formal
vous
.

“Me as well, feels like I seen you somewheres. Does you play golf?”

The question made Terry smile:

“Naw, der's no time fer golf wid two little kids.”

“On account of I used to golf a whole lot. Dese days I prefers de fishin'.”

“Ha! Well, dat's gotta be de first time I meets somebody dat gave up golf. Wot're you fishin' den, trout?”

Again, he found himself switching back and forth between
tu
and
vous. . .

“Yup, mostly de trout. Doh I did fish a bit o' salmon a couple o' times last year. I liked dat fine. You gotta have a bit o' time on yer hands, doh.”

“An' why's dat?”

The woman replied while Terry completed the sale.

“Yer trout bites on account of ee's 'ungry, see. Salmon, well, dey doesn't eat flies.”

“So den, yer fly fishin'?”

“Dat's de way I learned. Dry fly fishin'. On account of der's wet flies as well, dat goes under de water.”

“Awh! An' 'ere's me tinkin' dat all flies was floatin' on de surface. Just goes to show 'ow much I knows about it.”

“I didn't know much meself, when I started.”

Plastic: containers with sealable lids (assorted and non-matching). Jars with screw-on tops. Freezer bags. Utensils, glasses, and disposable straws. Hangers too soft to hold up anything. Dried-up ball-point and felt pens. Greenhouse planting pots, plastic vases. Toothpaste and hair-gel tubes, deodorant applicators, pillboxes. Disposable razors. Repairable toys (irreparable, A.-M. Sirois).

Wrapped in his favourite blanket and curled up alongside his mother, Étienne looked at the pages of the magazine Carmen was leafing through.

“Why're dey laughin'?”

Étienne was referring to an ad depicting a couple in their thirties who looked like they were having a fantastic time preparing vegetables in a sparkling kitchen.

“Must be on account of dey love to prepare supper togedder.”

. . .

“Or could be one o' de two said sometin' funny.”

Étienne sniffled, and studied the photograph more closely.

“Me eyes is itchin'.”

Carmen put her hand on her son's forehead to check for fever.

“I'll be givin' you some more o' dat syrup afore long, an' den I'll rub yer troat wid Vicks.”

Étienne knew that meant he was destined for a nap.

“Can I be lyin' down on de sofa, den? I like sleepin' in de livingroom.”

“Alright, if you promise to try to sleep fer real.”

Étienne nodded; he didn't have the strength to promise out loud. He returned to the photo:

“I tink dey's laughin' on account of dey's happy.”

Happy? It was the first time Carmen had heard Étienne say that word. She laughed and hugged her son closer.

“Yer happy, too, aren't ya Mum?”

PERFICTION:
n. — 2005; the illusion of perfection.
“I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but you've allowed yourself to be duped by a sublime perfiction.”
(Daigle)

When he was sick, Carmen found her son especially endearing.

“I know how come I's got dis cold, Mum.”

“Is dat right?”

“It's on account of you didn't put dat good-luck plant in me room yet.”

This surprised Carmen, who'd forgotten all about the plant.

“You tink?”

“Awh yeah.”

A golfer must never ever cross the path of a shot his or her partner is preparing to take. During a round, golfers are always careful not to negatively affect the others' shots. On the green, a kind of sacred space takes shape between the ball and the hole, a space which partners are careful never to enter, even though thousands of feet have already stomped all over this unpredictable and shifting zone, and will stomp all over it again in the future. Superstition or good manners? Whichever, the point is to spare the other's nerves.

From the middle down to the bottom of the page:

HUITIÈME ÉDITION.

~~~

P A R I S

LIBRAIRIE CLASSIQUE ET ÉLÉMENTAIRE

DE L . HACHETTE,

LIBRAIRIE DE L'UNIVERSITÉ DE FRANCE,

Rue Pierre-Sarrazin, 12 .

~~~

1850

In theory, each fragment refers directly to other fragments within distinct series. This cross referencing lends a multi-dimensional aspect to the structure. Thus, each fragment is touched by and in turn bumps up against at least two others (for a total of four contacts), which creates an incalculable (by me, anyway) number of permutations. Because of this, it becomes virtually possible to read the book in any order. In other words, a reader can read the book his or her way. But these possible excursions based on the fragments are not formally identified here. Rather, they are intended to suggest a possibility that a digital version of the book would actualize.

“Funny how tings change. When I's little an' I'd see an airplane cross de sky above, I tawt 'ow much fun 'twould be to pilot a plane.”

. . .

“Nowadays, I sees de same ting, an' I says to meself, awh, anudder Chinese fellow puttin' in 'is hours.”

A poor dozen, compared to those that add up to 13, as in the illustrious baker's dozen.

Terry and Étienne were waiting for a doctor in the small examining room of the emergency department of the hospital.

“Da_, me t_oat hur_.”

“I knows it. De doctor's on de way. Ee's not far, I can hear 'im.”

. . .

“Why don't you lie down on de bed 'ere?”

Seated on the floor and bent over double, Étienne did not seem to want to budge.

“Madame Léger? I'm Dr. Tremblay. I work with Dr. Cormier. What's the problem? What brings you here today?”

Terry could have covered both ears, he still would have heard Dr. Tremblay's questions clearly.

“Do you feel the blood pulsing in your head?”

. . .

“Squeeze my hand.”

Terry could hear Madame Léger answering the questions, but he couldn't make out what she was saying.

“Can you squeeze my hand?”

. . .

“Squeeze my hand . . .”

“
Squẽeze
!
Squẽeze
yer fingers!”

The husband's voice — or that's whom Terry figured he was — carried as well and as far as the doctor's.

“Can I see your teeth?”

“Open yer mout'! Open yer mout'!”

. . .

“Can you push with your feet?”

“Yer toes! Pick up yer toes!”

. . .

“Your eyes . . .”

“Yer eyes! Open up yer eyes! Open dem!”

. . .

“Look straight ahead.”

“Over der! Over der!”

The longer the examination went on, the more Terry was drawn in.”

“Open it! Leave yer eye open!”

. . .

“Don't be movin' yer eye about! Yer eye! Don't move it about!”

Étienne raised his head to look at his father. Terry tried to encourage him:

“Won't be long now, ee's right next door . . .”

Étienne lowered his head.

“Can you feel this?”

“Does ya feels it when ee pricks ya? Does ya feel 'im prickin' der?”

Terry wondered why the constant repetitions were necessary.

“We're going to have to take a few tests, Madame Léger, to see what's going on in your head . . . to explain this headache.”

Having made his decision, the doctor did not linger in the cubicle.

“'Ow 'bout yer glasses, does ya want dem? Does ya want to put on yer glasses?”

Étienne sniffled and swallowed painfully.

At the ninth hole, the father and son paused to share a can of sardines.

“Madame Haché? I'm Dr. Tremblay. I work with Dr. Cormier. What's the problem here today?”

The doctor was now in the cubicle across from Étienne and Terry.

“Do you feel confused?”

. . .

“Why did you run away from your residence this morning?”

Terry wanted to laugh; he felt he was being offered a bit of entertainment.”

“Why do you think they don't want to keep you?”

. . .

“Are you feeling depressed?”

. . .

“Are you afraid?”

. . .

“Why aren't you eating?”

. . .

“We're going to keep you here, Madame Haché. To run some tests to see what the problem is.”

. . .

“No, we can't let you go. It would be too dangerous.”

. . .

“We have no choice. We'll run some tests to see what the situation is. We have to get you to eat.”

Again, the doctor was quick to leave the examining room.

“Pssst!”

Terry had wanted to attract Étienne's attention, just to offer a word of encouragement, but when he saw his son's tired and watery eyes, he couldn't bring himself to say anything, and merely squeezed the boy's shoulder.

Deep in the ditch (vulture/culture). Again, the same colour (blue) for the words vulture and culture.

“Anudder film on The Deportation? Ferget de popcorn, it's chocolate we'll be needin'.”

Or
Le grand écart
(The Splits).
Something in the idea of the splits must have struck me, but the halo of light seems to have faded since. Splitting of what from what?
Un grand écart
(Splits) rather? Hardly better.

Which renders ultimately
:

With all the catalogues and titles Terry had skimmed, he could have created a bank of titles containing Freudian slips, but he didn't bother to write them down. Such an unwritten list might have included Franz Kowak's
The Secreted Fool on Easter Island
, Albert Simonin's
Don't Teach the Lute
, J.D Watson's
The Double Alice
, Frantz Funck-Brentano's
The Drama of Bison
, Barbara Ketcham Wheaton's
Savouring the Paste
, Jean Montenot's
Sex Afforded to Lucretius
, and Jean Giono's
The Harassment on the Roof.

“Dis mornin' dey was sayin' dat de opposite of love weren't hate.”

“G'wan?”

“Dat's right. Apparently, 'tis indifference.”

. . .

. . .

“An' who is it said dat, den?”

“Don't know, do I. 'Twas on radio.”

“In English or in French?”

“French.”

. . .

“Try as I might, I can't imagine de English talkin' 'bout dat.”

I'm tempted to m(f)ake a Freudian slip and write “we have to get you to earth” instead of “we have to get you to eat.” Again, the words
earth
and
eat
are of the same colour. But a slip can never be intentional. In that case, it becomes a pun.