The Years of Fire (35 page)

When he finished talking, exhausted, he stared down at a small bump in the dirt in front of him with a pitiful, bitter smile.

“I’m rotten, eh?” he said at last.

“No, Charles, you’re not rotten. You’re the opposite. You’ve shown what a generous person you are, trying to help Papa, more generous than anyone has ever been. It’s just that you picked the wrong way to go about it.”

He laughed bitterly.

“Easy for you to say! There was no other way.”

She said nothing. She followed Charles’s gaze to where he was staring at the ground.

“What are you looking at?” she asked after a moment.

He seemed not to have heard, lost as he was in despair. Then a shiver passed through him; he raised his voice, turning towards her.

“This morning I was on my way to the port to try to get a berth, so I could get the hell away from here as soon as possible. But while I was looking for a cab I thought I’d come here first, to say a final goodbye to my little yellow dog, because I knew I’d never see it again. I hoped it would do me some good, because it always has in the past. I felt so messed up, Céline, so sick of myself, I didn’t know how I was going to make it through the day. So I came here and sat down with what’s left of this pitiful tree and I tried to get calm again. I leaned against the trunk and tried to put my thoughts into some kind of order – but it was hard after what happened last night, and I could feel the cold rising up my legs. And then I
saw … Céline, you won’t believe this, but I’m telling you I saw … it only lasted a few seconds … I saw a kind of yellow vapour rising up out of the ground, out of that little bump you can see there: it looked like a kind of cloud in the form of a small dog … please, Céline, you’ve got to believe me, I wasn’t imagining it! … it rubbed against my leg and then
pffft!
where it went I don’t know. But from that moment I knew that something would happen, so I waited, and … you arrived. It’s amazing, don’t you think?”

What Céline thought was that Charles was a deeply troubled soul. “Those blasted pills,” she thought, “he must have taken some of them himself.”

But she told him she hadn’t the slightest idea what had happened; what was important was that they were together and that they would find a solution, that really difficult problems were always easier to solve when there were two.

He nodded his agreement and his face brightened a bit.

Encouraged, Céline told him what she had been thinking. The first thing they had to do was find somewhere where Charles could rest, even sleep, because he didn’t seem to be in any condition to make decisions at that point. Then they had to find out exactly what had happened to Brigitte Loiseau. In his befuddlement he was behaving as though she were dead, but how could he be sure? If she were still alive, it would change everything.

Charles shook his head like a stunned boxer.

“Either she’s dead or as good as.… You didn’t see her, Céline, you didn’t see …”

“Listen to me! You’ve got her dead and buried already and she might be walking around as alive as you, maybe even more so! Let me at least find out, and stop being so damned stubborn.”

He shook his finger at her.

“Do not ever call the police! I absolutely forbid that. That would finish me!”

“Come on, Charles, what do you take me for, a turkey? I’ll find out, don’t worry.”

That Charles was even listening to her plans was encouraging. But they
had to get out of the yard before the workshop opened and they were discovered. Where could they go?

Charles, all of a sudden, seemed to have pulled himself out of his slough of despair. He walked as though on firm ground, his step back to its normal assurance. Seeing him gather his wits about him so quickly filled Céline with boundless joy. Her love for him grew stronger, if such a thing were possible. She laughed and kissed his cheek. He didn’t respond, lost in his own thoughts.

“There’s a small hotel at the corner of Mont-Royal and de Lorimier,” he said suddenly. “They’ll probably let me have a room. Let’s go there. I’ll go in alone, though; you look too young.”

She looked at him a little crossly and was on the point of asking him how he knew about this hotel, but she thought it wasn’t a good time to be challenging him.

Twenty minutes later they were there. Charles hadn’t said three words the whole way, having slipped back into his despondency. The Blond Angel was surely dead, he knew it. He could feel it. All Céline’s kindness and resourcefulness wasn’t going to change that. Her presence at his side was comforting, of course it was, but it didn’t erase his crime. And even if Brigitte Loiseau were alive, he was still what he’d always be: a miserable dope peddler. He could never forgive himself for that.

“Wait for me in front of that fruit stand, okay?” he said to Céline. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”

She crossed the street and went up to the window of a fruit stand. Inside, a man with a black moustache and a thin, brown face was washing the floor with wide swipes of his mop, his eyes still half closed. He looked up and saw her, and gave her a smile. Another good sign. She felt bubbles of goodness welling up inside her, ready to burst out of her body and float off in all directions, to do battle against all human misery. Charles would be the first to feel the benefits. How wonderful! A feeling of intense happiness invaded her, and she had to lean against the window frame and tap her foot on the pavement in her excitement.

Charles came out almost immediately and crossed over to where she was waiting, making a small sign with his hand to indicate that everything was settled. He seem calmer, relieved.

“You were right, it will do me good to get some sleep. I’m dead on my feet and my brain feels like mashed potatoes. I’m in room 206. Come and get me whenever you’re ready. I’ve told the clerk to let you up.”

And he kissed her on the cheek.

“I’ll make a few inquiries first,” she said, blushing with pleasure.

He gave her Brigitte Loiseau’s address and warned her again to be careful. She left, full of excitement but not having the faintest idea how she would go about achieving her mission.

“I’ll just play the innocent little know-nothing,” she decided after thinking about it for a moment.

A few minutes later she was ringing the door to the actress’s apartment. “There might be someone there who can tell me what happened,” she thought. When there was no response, she rang the bell of the apartment below. A woman with a large, wrinkled nose opened the door. She had a knife in her hand, and her hair was tied back in a nylon net; she smelled strongly of spaghetti sauce.

“Poor little thing,” she said, “you should’a phoned before coming all this way, dear. She’s in the hospital, is our Brigitte, and she won’t be getting out too soon, if you ask me.… They had to take her in an ambulance last night.”

“An ambulance?” cried Céline, feigning surprise. “What happened to her?”

“How should I know? And even if I did I wouldn’t say nothing,” replied the woman, with a caution that contrasted sharply with her earlier loquacity. “I don’t know who you are, do I? It’s everyone for himself in this world, dear. That way no one gets in trouble, eh?”

She turned and went back into her apartment, where her spaghetti sauce was calling.

After a few more inquiries, Céline learned that the actress had been taken to Notre-Dame Hospital. That was all she’d really hoped to find out. She left, feeling encouraged. If the actress were still alive, a terrible catastrophe would have been averted. Now Céline had to find out if that were the case. She ran into a restaurant and telephoned the hospital, pretending to be a friend. She was told that Mademoiselle Loiseau could not receive any visitors at the moment, but she was out of danger and was getting better.

“I can’t wait to give this good news to Charles,” she said to herself when she’d hung up the phone.

She made a second call, this time to her mother, who was sick with worry but had had to go to the hardware store anyway, as she did every morning. She greeted Céline’s call with a volley of reproaches. Céline tried to reassure her, but it took some doing.

“I’m with Charles, Mama. He’s not feeling too good, but I think he’s coming around. He doesn’t want to see anyone right now.… Yes, Mama, of course we’re in Montreal, where did you think we were? … No, he doesn’t want anyone to know where he is.… Yes, I’ll tell you everything, I promise. Even better, he’ll tell you himself. Why am I mixed up in this? Don’t worry, you know me, I’ve always behaved responsibly, haven’t I? I’ll call you back later in the day to fill you in on what’s happening. Tell Papa not to worry, there’s nothing bad going on, nothing to get worked up about. Tell him that, okay? And can you call the school, tell them we’re not coming in today? You’re a dear. Hugs and kisses. See you soon!”

She was eager to get back to Charles, but she thought it better to let him sleep since he was in such a pitiful state. She also realized she hadn’t had anything to eat and her stomach was growling. She asked for a hot chocolate and an order of toast, which was brought to her by an old, grumpy-looking man whose chin was covered with grey hairs, and who was chewing his lips distractedly, trying to discern whether or not his son had been telling him the truth about his car accident the previous night.

She’d never eaten with such appetite. She had just enough money with her to leave a tip, albeit a large one. Through the window she saw rue Rachel bathed in a joyful, wavering light, as though it were shaking in the
warm wind that had begun blowing over the city. She left, saying a cheerful goodbye to the old man, who barely acknowledged it.

Nothing remained of winter but a few long, thin crusts of grey ice melting in black rivulets along the pavement and flowing down the rain gutters. She was walking slowly towards the hotel, taking singular pleasure in flexing the muscles in her thighs and calves, when the troubling thought suddenly occurred to her that Charles, far from sleeping, was probably waiting for her, stretched out on a bed in a hotel room that only the two of them knew about. Still thinking that his actress had died! She was sorry she’d stopped to eat; it was cruel of her not to have hurried back to his side. He’d been counting on her more than anyone else in the world. The thought filled her with a boundless joy and renewed strength, and convinced her that she would overcome any obstacle between Charles and his happiness – and, a small voice added tenderly, her own happiness with him. The blow he had just suffered had robbed him of his peace of mind, and she was suddenly annoyed with herself for taking such a selfish pleasure in helping him to recover from it. “You’re nothing but a little egotist,” she thought. “He was about to run off to South America, and here you are bathing in the milk of human kindness. You should be ashamed of yourself. Hurry, now! Get back to him! Can’t you see he’s suffering?”

Ten minutes later she was in the lobby of the hotel, completely out of breath. It was a small room, with walls covered in pink wallpaper that was peeling in several places. Behind a huge counter with flaking veneer a man with a crisp, mobile, and joyful face, and hair carefully combed over the top of his head to hide his bald spot, was speaking on the telephone; he smiled at her and gave an acknowledging nod of his head.

Stunned and almost put off by his welcome, she climbed a beautiful, massive oak staircase, sumptuously carved but lacking all its banisters. Her erstwhile joy began to fade and turn to dust, crumbling into nothing. What kind of place was this? Were the rooms rented by the hour? How did
Charles know about it? Had he brought girls here? She almost turned and left the building, but her legs continued up the stairs despite her feelings of disgust. She had to tell him about Brigitte. She couldn’t let him run away to the ends of the earth over a misunderstanding.

Suddenly, her mind changed again. Now she couldn’t care less what kind of place this was, or if Charles had brought a hundred or ten thousand girls here. Only one thing mattered: that she see him, take him in her arms, reassure him, console him, and tell him how important he was to her.

The next minute she was standing in front of the door marked 206. Despite the pounding in her ears she registered the silence of the dusty, shabby corridor with its dented walls. At the far end a window was filled with light, which made the place seem slightly less horrid. She waited until her breathing returned to normal, raked her fingers through her hair a few times, and gave three light taps on the door.