Just Fine (9 page)

4
In a Less than Perfect World

IXX

S
INCE THE START
of the school year, Terry's passengers on the
Beausoleil-Broussard
had been mostly students. Everything had been done so that the young people, who showed up at the park excited and jumpy, would emerge from the excursion calm and edified. Which demonstrates how carefully prepared the park guides' presentations had to be.

“You like it with the kids?”

“Well, there's some that stick their nose in everywhere. There was a girl today started to unscrew the name of the boat.”

“A girl?”

“There's no difference anymore. Girl, boy . . .”

“Usually, they just paint the name on . . . it's not some thing you can take apart.”

“I know.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“Just the same, there's some that say kids are smarter nowadays.”

*

In spite of what she'd said to Hans — not that there wasn't some truth to her words — Élizabeth knew very well that this trip, which she'd undertaken on a whim, or almost, would have to end. She did have some room to manoeuvre but it couldn't last forever. And though she'd enjoyed her unfettered wanderings, she wasn't too unhappy to end them. It was her relationship with Hans that perplexed her. Did she want to end it as well, or was there something to prolong? She told herself that the pleasure of their relationship was linked to the fact that they had found each other at a time when they were both free, like dropouts, at an identical moment in their lives. She wasn't certain that there should be something more. The truth was that she wasn't sure she wanted more. Did this mean she wasn't really in love with Hans? And yet, she liked him so very much, and she loved to love him.

*

Terry took other groups on excursions. Sometimes they were business colleagues on a group excursion or convention-goers gathered in Moncton. The tourist season ended in mid-October. Terry would work an additional week storing the equipment. Then he'd look for a winter job or collect employment insurance until the following season. The prospect of a winter without work didn't frighten him. He was used to downtime and, besides, now there was Carmen. She was the first true love of his life.

“I like your apartment. Fact is, I like it a whole lot better than mine. There's more to look at outside.”

“All the same, yours is bigger. I'd like it if mine was as big as yours.”

“Looks plenty big enough to me.”

“Don't know. Feels too small. There's times I thrash about in circles and don't know what to do with myself.”

“Well, those times, why don't you just come over to my place?”

“And what is it you think I do, then?”

*

Élizabeth told herself that perhaps she had mostly loved being loved. It was as though she had discovered the comfort love brings. Or simply comfort itself. She couldn't be sure Hans was the main source of this feeling of comfort. It might already have been within her and she was only now discovering it. Or perhaps she had always known it was within her but she'd never known quite how to channel it or what to do with it. She suspected that deep down she'd never thought it important. At some point, she must have decided comfort wasn't something you could live on. That a sense of well-being was not legitimate. You needed more, to do more. Recently, this feeling of comfort seemed always near at hand, glued to her skin, the same skin Hans had tenderly brushed up against, refreshed, rekindled, awakened, and rocked to sleep. Now she carried all this within her. She was conscious of it. And it brought her a kind of peace.

*

A few weeks before the end of the season, Terry learned that he would be receiving a group of important dignitaries aboard the
Beausoleil-Broussard
: a delegation responsible for the organization of the Francophone Summit in Moncton the following year. The upscale excursion was planned for Friday, October
16
. Normally, tours on the Petitcodiac were terminated several days before then, but the arrival of dignitaries constituted a sufficiently exceptional circumstance to prolong the season slightly.

“They just want to have an idea what it is. Could be they'll make it part of the official program. Imagine that, eh, all those folks on the Petitcodiac?”

“Won't work.”

“On account of?”

“They won't have time. Too much to do. They always make a big fuss over that sort of meeting, then sometimes it lasts hardly two days.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“Well, even so, you never know.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“If the river tides are just right . . . it might fit with their schedule.”

*

Of course, I had to go over and tell Marie how things were working out. This time she was busy putting things away, but she'd just put a
rapûre,
a variation of Acadian poutines, in the oven. “We were down to the Bay last weekend, so I brought some back. You're staying for dinner, I hope.” Marie had married a Surette from Grosses Coques. As the eldest in a large family, he returned to Nova Scotia often on important family occasions. “And when is it you're leaving, then?”

“In exactly twelve days, the fourteenth. A Wednesday. You won't guess who with!”

Marie's eyes were sparkling. I hadn't really intended to make her guess.

“With Camil Gaudain.”

“Camil Gaudain! Now, there's a good idea!”

“I don't even know him, really. It just happened that way, we met and got to talking. One thing led to another and I asked him to come along.”

“He's the perfect fellow! They don't come any nicer. You see, everything's worked out fine. I just knew it would.”

I've said it before: Marie's confidence is boundless. It's beyond even her. “You're lucky to be able to see things the way you do.”

“That's my luck. Others have got something different. You write.”

“I suppose so.”

Marie bristled. “And what do you mean, ‘I suppose so'? They're bringing you all the way to Paris to talk on
TV
! What more do you want?”

I had to admit she was right. “You're right.”

“Darling, you're going to go far in life, whether you like it or not.” And with those words, she reached up to grab a tiny flask stored on top of a cupboard. “Here. It's lavender oil. They say it relaxes you on the airplane. Smells good, too. Look.” She opened the small bottle, held it under my nose. The scent of lavender filled my nostrils, masking for a few precious seconds the delicious odour of
rapûre
that had begun to fill the kitchen.

XX

T
ERRY DIDN'T DARE
admit it to himself but the excursion with the French dignitaries was weighing heavily on his mind. Carmen sensed his nervousness.

“Here, read this, why don't you.”

Terry took the books. They were two Astérix hard-cover comic books. He opened one. “And you think I'll be able to understand it?”

Carmen reached into her pocket. “Oh, and I found this as well.”

Terry extended a hand. “My medal! I never even noticed I'd lost it.”

*

For several days now, Hans has known that Élizabeth's departure is imminent. He's always known they would part but he's tried not to think too much about it. Now, rather than sadness, he feels amazement at the perfection that has led him here, to this room, and into the presence of this admirable woman to whom, when all things are considered, he doesn't want to become attached. This perfection manifests itself each time he removes a piece of clothing from the cupboard to fold and place in his suitcase. Perfection is concealed in the order and logic of the gesture, in the idea that envelops first the gesture, then the object: his folded woollen sweater, his two undershirts. Hans finds comfort in the act, in the clothes (his woollen socks, his two pairs of pants — one thick cotton, the other corduroy — his T-shirts, and his polo shirts), in the pockets of his suitcase, in his Swiss Army knife and its corkscrew, in his next destination, nebulous or unknown though it may be. And then there's his jacket, which he chose so carefully and which he keeps always close at hand, his jacket which, like a suit of armour, pulls him together and protects him from the world.

*

I'd been preparing my bags for Paris for some time. I jotted down items I wanted to bring as they occurred to me. I was especially afraid of forgetting any of the comforting things that might help me in the event of a panic attack on the plane: Walkman and various tapes selected to counterbalance every case of nerves, including a relaxation tape; homeopathic pills; jewellery and other copper knickknacks intended to ground me; a short book about letting go; a bottle of water and something small and healthy to snack on, although the presence of food in my bags can have a perverse effect and induce panic rather than mollify it; tranquilizers, just in case; two paperbacks and a magazine, so that I could at least appear normal; chewing gum, mainly to offer to others; a Game Boy; paper and pens, just in case writing might save me, yet again. All this in one of the big soft-leather bags with multiple compartments I'd purchased to blend in with the crowd, feel fashionable, and ensure a high degree of self-organization. All the same, I couldn't forget the enormity of my camouflage: I could already picture the day when I would deliver myself to the airport, decked out in this disguise of normality which was almost as heavy to carry physically as it was mentally. In spite of myself, I was afraid I'd be unable to board the plane as a complete person or, even better, as a writer whose talent and pertinence had at last been recognized. Instead, I saw myself climbing on with the distinct impression of being nothing more than a walking first-aid kit, a jumble of stopgap solutions.

*

Remote control in hand, Terry spent longer and longer intervals watching the images of
TV5
flicker by. One night, they ran a report on France's rivers.

“Just the same, their rivers sure got weird names. The Somme, the Meuse, the Garonne, the Loire . . . you'd think they were talking in a different French language.” And indeed, once they were out of his mouth, the names went nowhere; they remained suspended in the air, unburdened by any gravity, reality, materiality, image, or preconceived idea.

“I know what you mean. It's as though we weren't made to open our mouths that way.”

“Loire. The Loire . . .”

“Well, it's not as different as all that. It's like the word
gloire.”

“Well sure, but that's not a word we hear too often round here, now is it.”

*

Élizabeth and Hans parted company at the Tel Aviv airport. After Greece, they had travelled here and there, and eventually found themselves on the banks of the Jordan River. Hans was still carrying against his chest the pouch containing the twelve small diamonds, invisible even to the airport metal detectors. Élizabeth had maintained within and around her the sensation of comfort, the impression of no longer being entirely a stranger. A stranger to what? To others? To herself? To the world as a whole? All of the above. Although she was about to leave Hans, she wasn't really leaving him. Perhaps they would meet again. Their paths might cross sooner or later. There was no hurry. This feeling of having rediscovered time was also part of Élizabeth's comfort: time had become a positive thing.

For Hans too, life would go on. Meeting Élizabeth had been a joyous thing, but it had been entirely unexpected. He had watched Élizabeth for a long time, sitting in the terrace of that small restaurant in Corfu before approaching her table and speaking to her. He hadn't come this far, psychologically speaking — the Netherlands wasn't that great a distance from the Mediterranean — to drop everything at the sight of a beautiful woman, no matter how exceptional she was. Hans was looking neither for
a
woman nor for
the
woman. In fact, he wasn't looking for anything in particular. His divestment and his departure lay before him like a long road to something he couldn't know and which, for that very reason, was impossible to seek out. But if he wasn't looking for a woman, what then did his encounter with Élizabeth signify? A test? A trial? A trap? A false start? None of these resonated in any way with Hans. It seemed to him, rather, that this meeting with Élizabeth had been a meeting with himself, a meeting of Hans with Hans made possible through acts of tenderness, beauty, and intelligence, through the soul within the body and the other in oneself. That explains why he had watched Élizabeth for so long at that small table on the terrace before approaching her, in order to love her for herself before loving her for himself.

*

Before I passed the first point of no return, where security agents X-rayed the contents of my bag, Camil Gaudain suggested in a light and friendly way that I let go and enjoy the trip. He couldn't know how much I felt like a Christmas tree loaded down with more or less reliable lights, uncertain whether they would glow . . . or explode.

“You okay?”

“Just fine.”

XXI

I
EXPECTED TO FEEL the first paradoxical effect of my agoraphobia just after takeoff, in full flight, when all possibility of retreat would be cut off. It's always at such times that I'm overcome and submerged by a wave of unpleasant thoughts and sensations, a wave I fear will be fatal. This engulfing invasion has always abated, but not without leaving me shaken, weakened, vulnerable. And so, feverish and confused, clinging to everything and nothing, I am obliged to see life in all its facets, which, I suppose, is not such a bad thing.

Camil Gaudain didn't try to distract me in some superficial way from my temporary insanity. He understood perfectly his role as a life preserver and floated discreetly by my side, ready to intervene should I show serious signs of drowning. He observed everything calmly, occasionally pointing out some curious detail. Some time after takeoff he became more talkative.

“You know, some years back when I was bored with my job, I registered for a night course at the university. I'd always been interested in the classics and, well, one thing led to another and, don't ask me why, I ended up reading Freud, Jung, and all those guys.”

A male flight attendant passed and inquired, with a pleasant smile, if everything was all right. At that moment I could honestly say yes. I was even able to make a bit of conversation.

“I don't know if it's me, but I have the feeling that male attendants are always nicer, more sincerely attentive to passengers than female attendants are.”

“Really?”

“The women seem to march down the aisle without really looking at us. As though, right at the start, they pick out their favourites, usually men, and put all their energy into pampering them through the flight.”

For several minutes, we studied the behaviour of male and female flight attendants. Camil agreed with me.

“You know, I think you're right. The men seem to pay attention to everybody. I never noticed that before.”

But I had no desire to be completely right. “Well, there's one woman over there who doesn't seem to discriminate. But she's the only one. Looks like the others don't want to see a thing.”

*

Unable to sleep that night, Carmen sat up in bed and lit a cigarette. Terry lay a hand lazily on her thigh but he hadn't the slightest intention of doing more.

“What would you say, then, if we were to spend next winter over there?”

“. . .”

She knew Terry wasn't sleeping. “Eh? Well, what do you think?”

“And where might over there be?”

“Louisiana, or France.”

“. . .”

“We can decide over a game of pool. If you win, we go to Louisiana; if I win, it's France.”

At last Terry turned over, but slowly. Then he sat up, as though it were all very serious. “You mean the whole winter?”

“For as long as we can stand it. We could come back in the spring. Unless we stay longer. You never know, could be we won't want to come back.”

Terry looked at Carmen's face. He tried to see if something so important could be decided in such a way. It looked to him like it could.

*

Having spent his entire life by the sea, Camil too was single-minded. He took up the conversation exactly where the friendly flight attendant had distracted us.

“In any case, what I remember from Jung, primarily, is the sacrifice of intelligence. I've often thought about that idea, that it's our intelligence that impedes us. That we shouldn't expect to understand everything.”

“. . .”

“I don't know why I'm telling you this.”

I was mulling over the concept. “Would that be the same thing as holy indifference?”

Camil thought for a moment. “Seems like it might be something like that.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“I don't think Jung was a Catholic.”

And after another brief pause, he added, “It's funny how I've always liked writers. I'm not saying that for your benefit. No, it's true. I find they're not like other folks. They always have something that doesn't work quite right and that's usually what brings them success.” Then, “Well, if I really think about it, I can't honestly say I like them all. But it's as though I'm predisposed to liking them all.” With those words, he burst out laughing and turned to face me squarely. “As you can see, there's a reason I got
AIDS
.”

*

Terry looked straight in front of him and thought about Carmen's proposal while she crushed ashes in the ashtray with her cigarette.

“. . .”

“. . .”

“There's just one thing.”

“And what would that be?”

“If we go to France, you might have to change your name. Over there, they'll be calling you Thierry.”

Terry burst out laughing, letting himself fall back onto the bed. Carmen loved to hear him laugh.

*

In the end, the flight to Paris went very well. Camil's company had been very relaxing and I hadn't had to resort to my first-aid kit. I did, however, pull out the flask of lavender oil from my pocket, just to let Camil have a whiff.

“Marie Surette gave me that.”

“Not Édée's Marie! She comes from down my way, in Bas-Cap-Pelé. A real tiger that woman!”

After the landing, Camil demonstrated an uncanny ease in the airport. He followed the flow of the crowd without thinking too much and led us quite naturally to where we were supposed to go. In the unending series of alleys and corridors, where I would normally have been on the edge of collapse, I advanced instead as though on a cushion of air, wrapped in the warm sensation of having survived the worst.

“Camil, thanks so much for coming along on this trip. I really appreciate it.”

“My dear, don't mention it. It's a real pleasure for me, too.”

We were moving down a glass-encased corridor when I saw a woman I recognized coming toward us.

“Isn't she from Moncton? That woman in the grey-brown coat?”

Camil snuck a look at her. “Are you sure?”

“I think she's a specialist at the hospital.”

“A psychiatrist?”

“No, oncologist, I think.”

“French?”

“Don't think so. But she could well be.”

“Well, she's not too shabby.”

As we passed her, Élizabeth turned her head in our direction and saw us looking at her. She smiled, though timidly.

A few steps farther, out of her sight, Camil added, “She probably doesn't know where we're from.”

“Well, when it comes to that, there's times I'm not so sure I do either.”

*

Terry didn't know what to think. He no longer even knew how to think. “I'm hungry.”

Carmen was butting her cigarette. “I've got everything it takes to make nachos.”

“Even sour cream?”

“Even sour cream.”

“Naturally soured or artificially?”

Now Terry could tell she was pulling his leg. “Well, do you want some or don't you?”

“Can you make me some without the jalapenos? I won't get a wink of sleep tonight if I eat those things.”

“Sleep? And do you suppose I'll be sleeping now, with all the crazy ideas you're putting in my head?”