Readopolis

by Bertrand Laverdure

  Hands buying, hands touching books, hands leafing through pages. Gaëtan Lévesque and Éric Blackburn grab money, give back change, offer up several copies of a book that only exists in the minds of this novel’s readers from a box under the table. No one is safe from fakes, and if any slaps arise, Gaëtan Lévesque will be the one collecting them on his florid cheeks.

  On the south side of the room, rows of tables, people, conversations merge in the general chaos.

  Pierre Lefebvre and Olivier Kemeid broadcast sharp grunts, which Karine Hubert is translating. Two days later, she will transform this performance into a poem about digestion. At the same table, Louis-Jean Thibault sends a text to his radiologist girlfriend. Then everyone hears Mistral’s thundering voice, as she’s laughing near the entrance and farting like Tiberius, drowning out Oprah, who’s just finishing her song. Mistral then grabs her friend Kevin by the shoulders and says: “This woman is more influential than Bush and Obama put together!” Kevin’s girlfriend smiles and nods.

  Lost in a halo of stage lighting, Gaëtan Dostie is documenting the whole event, his camera practically invisible. At the back of the room, Pierre Nepveu is talking in a low voice with Gilles Marcotte, who never goes out, but who is there today, visibly irritated by all the hubbub. Myriam Brunelle takes the opportunity to ask Nepveu a question. This isolated table resembles a peaceful clearing in a wild wood.

  At the next table, Martine Audet is watching the show with interest, while tenderly sneaking glances at Catherine Mavrikakis, who is taking notes in a spiral notebook. Hanging back but keyed up, Mathieu Arsenault and Marie-Hélène Cabana give each other ironic glances every time Oprah addresses the audience to praise the merits of the nonexistent book. Thierry Dimanche, just back from the bar, is describing his mycological escapade to Annie Lafleur, who is flanked on her left by Renée Gagnon, dressed in black lace and sporting a sexy nose ring.

  In the middle of the room, a dozen tables complete the set. At a table in the back, Geneviève Letarte and José Acquelin are discussing the Banff studios, while Louis Hamelin and Patrice Desbiens drink blond beer and talk up great American authors. In his straw hat, Patrick Poulin is making a paper boat while Marc-Antoine K. Phaneuf is writing two poems at a table, thinking of Philippe Charron and David Duchovny.

  At a table near the central aisle, which divides the room in two, Franz Schürch is recounting a poker feat to Alexandre Laferrière and Pascal-Angelo Fioramore. Claudine Vachon walks towards the entrance, stepping over Mélanie Vincelette’s feet, who starts a conversation with Éric Dupont, fascinated by Oprah’s professionalism.

  Suzanne Myre doesn’t dare go into the Lion d’Or and instead waves at Mélanie Vincelette from a distance, remains frozen by the awe-inspiring aura of the North American alpha female who has deigned to visit the people living north of the forty-fifth parallel. It’s historic, entertaining, and already kitsch. She lets Claudine Vachon enter and goes back outside to soothe her brain, aching from the public heat.

  The usual outsiders are standing outside the Lion d’Or—Alexandre Faustino, Jean-Philippe Bergeron, Véronique Marcotte—reading the menu of a Turkish pizza place. Everyone is having fun. Tania Langlais, Kim Doré, and Geneviève Blais take note of a pasta recipe with artichokes and cream, narrated by the languorous voice of Guillaume Vigneault, who’s just stepped out of his military Cessna. The road is closed off, the security cordon has made amateur photographers pop up everywhere, who snap headshots, coerce hearts, shove faces. A thirteen-year-old photographer catches Nicolas Dickner looking away from the lens, seemingly absorbed by an amusing thought or two about Kurt Vonnegut. Nearby, Antoine Tanguay is talking at length with Sébastien Chabot about the village of Sainte-Souffrance.

  Even the great ancients come to haunt them. Ronfard, Aquin, Ferron, Basile, La Rocque, Bessette, and Gabrielle Roy jump out of taxis, run down the street, then liquefy on the sidewalks. A messy ballet that provokes some nervous laughter. Tania Langlais tries to collect some of Aquin’s mush, quickly freezing in the galvanized winter. Nothing remains in liquid form too long. Only Huguette Gaulin doesn’t freeze, liquefying the black ice around her.

  Back inside, Oprah introduces Denis Villeneuve, who will host the rest of the evening: a dance floor, a cancan, and a chorus of masseuses will be coming up. It’s a chance for the dancers to wake up. Roger Des Roches shakes his hips and moves his mane, Lucie Bélanger follows his pelvic movements. Ollivier Dyens and Elsa Pépin take the opportunity to leap to the dance floor. Spinning with studied, characteristic slowness near the edge, Louis Gauthier mixes into the fray despite himself.

  Violaine Forest and Marie Hélène Poitras shake their inner children, arms raised to the ceiling. Stéphane Dompierre and Patrick Brisebois push the rest of the tables and chairs to the side to make room for more dancers. Behind the mixing console, Mélika Abdelmoumen is having a tête-à-tête with Olivier Choinière, reminiscing about Serge Doubrovsky.

  The chorus of masseuses hijacks the stage and commandeers Pascal Assathiany’s participation, as he happens to be passing by for some unknown reason. Michel Vézina raises his hand and joins the masseuses, lifts his legs, notes the moves of the energetic artists. Maxime-Olivier Moutier, Robert Soulières, and Bernard Pozier join the line, hold on to waists, mumbling the tune, mimicking the beat.

  Stanley Péan, who is entertaining a group of writers composed of Corinne Larochelle, Jean-Pierre Girard, Élise Turcotte, and Andrée A. Michaud, suddenly takes out his trumpet and blares thirds and fourths, accompanies the backing vocalists at the high pitch of their notes.

  Back in the hall leading to the washrooms, Simon Dumas toasts glasses with Brigitte Malenfant as they exchange notes about their experiences in Mexico. Jean-Éric Riopel listens to Clara Brunet-Turcotte, lets Aimée Verret pass by, accompanied by Bertrand Laverdure, who seems to be in hurry to return to the stage and the chorus of masseuses. Verret stops midway, stunned to meet a guitarist from New York, and loses interest in the general atmosphere.

  Oprah comes back onstage and takes up her refrain, talks about her foundation, her schools in Africa, introduces the book that does not exist to a crowd straight out of a B-movie starring Donald Pilon. The music raises arms and pounds temples.

  Guillaume Corbeil is having fun playing pétanque in the dirty snow with Christian Bök. Louise Bouchard and François Charron mutually offer to hang up each other’s coats. Michael Delisle gets himself a Diet Coke at the bar, whispers a few volatile words to his companion, Lise Tremblay, who is drinking a Long Island Iced Tea with two straws. At the same moment, the bartender drops a bunch of change into her already ample tip jar.

  A discernible René Lapierre appears at the back of the stage, whispers a few words to Benoit Jutras and Maude Smith Gagnon, then withdraws to more thoroughly liquefy on the sidewalk outside. Telescopic poems surge up in the darkness, Paul Chamberland pops up around the corner and inhales the formidable odour of the heathen mass electrifying the multitude.

  In the vestibule, Nicole Brossard finishes her scotch, scratches her solar plexus, sniffs a bit. The crowd has spilled over; Denise Desautels drinks her pastis with remarkable presence, as Paul Chanel Malenfant walks over to his two friends, holding his scarf and blowing his nose.

  Outside, Brigitte Caron and Serge Lamothe start talking about sex, surprise themselves, describe their urges in detail: polyamorous relationships and tales of Laval. New friendships, frequent and bracing encounters.

  On three distinct, yellow snowmobiles, Pierre Labrie, Carl Lacharité, and Mario Brassard steer between the guests, for various practical reasons, establish pathways, race up Ontario Street, take Gaston Bellemare home.

  The chorus of masseuses now comes down from the stage into the room, leads the resistant and the unadventurous into an awkward farandole. People rise from the tables, laugh, show signs of depravation, signals of amusing distress. They pray a little (Ouellette, Fr�
�chette), they drink a lot (everyone else). It’s thirst avant la lettre. Hands and plastic forks descend upon the long buffet, elegantly laid out behind the book table. Bernard Andrès tries the gouda; Bertrand Gervais swallows a no-crust, egg salad sandwich; André Vanasse and André Carpentier catch some of the canapés flitting about at the whim of the paths taken by a few designated waiters sporting bowties and linen vests. Simon Harel grabs a mini–goat cheese quiche, exchanges a concentrated look with Jonathan Lamy, who is holding Catherine Cormier-Larose’s hand, herself stunned by a sudden movement—Oprah’s stumbling for a moment before standing straight again. Agitation in the room, everything is suddenly extinguished then lit up again as soon as the hostess in a trance regains her balance. Some grit their teeth. Sylvie Bérard bursts out laughing. Denise Brassard and Francis Catalano walk against the tide, take advantage of the general confusion to work their way towards Stéphane Despatie and Corinne Chevarier, still at the back of the bar, now entwined.

  In front of the mixing console, between the bar and a stool, Dominique Robert and Léon Guy Dupuis are talking to each other. Pierre Samson is waiting for his Bloody Caesar at the bar. Martin-Pierre Tremblay toasts with Tony Tremblay.

  At last, the moment of needless repetition comes. Oprah, excited, electrified by her own radiant energy, tells the crowd: “Keep it up! Always keep it up!” Then sings the evening’s official song for a second time, the ode to the health of the book, the ballad of all happy readers.

  Prosopopoeia. Prosopopoeia. Today, we launch a novel. A book about a parrot and so much more.

  You watch the film on which all novels will be based once again. A film about perdition. You see yourself straying off the beaten path. Only you’ve lost your pole.

  We kiss at the back of the classroom while reading our songs. It’s a great benefit. A novel, you know, is only a line through reason.

  The masseuses seek out the eyes of single people, imitate the ardour of the stars in a Walt Disney cartoon.

  They forget to frown, speak in soft and loud voices, dissect the contemporary trends passing under everyone’s nose. Walking between the tables with his boom microphone, Thomas Braichet records the disconnect between goods and people. Brandishing mics, Catherine Perrin and the Flash team wait impatiently in the wings for Oprah to be free, as Louis Cornellier, Christian Desmeules, and Michel Lapierre scribble notes while standing near the entrance, chatting up the ticket clerk. Everyone’s having the time of their lives. Jean-François Nadeau and Nadia Roy evoke a trip to the States by mentioning Amherst and Emily Dickinson. The vestibule is now full. It’s a mob scene. Hugues Corriveau brushes against David Cantin.

  Ook Chung and Yong Chung are discussing games and Amélie Nothomb. The outer door is jammed. With their elbows on the cloakroom counter, Robert Lévesque and Stéphane Lépine debate a detail of Thomas Bernhard’s life. Danielle Laurin is trying to catch Hélène Dorion to ask her for an interview.

  François Couture spits out an olive pit while shaking Jon Paul Fiorentino’s hand. At the back of the room, the lighting engineer, an older Marie-Paule with sparkling eyes, shakes everyone’s hand. To the side, Isabelle Courteau is talking with Louise Dupré, a glass of wine in her hand.

  Fifty rowdy students swell the aisles, pull up their sleeves.

  Nancy R. Lange braves the careful silence of Jean-Sébastien Huot, who is trying Carl Lacharité’s snowmobile. Outside, it’s snowing. Inside, a head wind is blowing. They use body language. No one laughs without reason anymore; they spy on each other without knowing it, complying with the acrobatics of punishment, slightly afraid of the Dany Laferrière inside them, who scolds while laughing, then takes out a small leather whip and taps the backside of Jacques Godbout, who quickly walks away towards René-Daniel Dubois, talking with Robert Lalonde at a table. They’re trying to outdo each other with cleverness to mark this historic moment, worthy of the sulphurous nights of Sylvain Trudel, who is absent as usual. Saul Bellow is also missing in action. The portrait photographer is missing a model.

  Ghislain doesn’t know where to wander anymore, whom to greet; he thinks about Oprah’s song, his education as a reader, the enormous relief awaiting him once this novel is finished. It’s crazy what one must endure to feel human. In the heat of the moment, Courrège kisses him on the cheek and hugs him close, while letting out a fraternal sigh.

  Who is right, the reader or the writer?

  Ghislain closes his eyes to stop thinking. The end is near.

  A radiant reader, Sophie Asselin, thanks him, praises his insight, and makes him want to reproduce.

  Forty-nine new authors pass through the Lion d’Or, build networks, believe in the added value of their works. Sixty partiers launch into a street song with seven choir singers-masseuses who hurry to the middle of the room. Everyone loves doubly and drinks doubles.

  Everyone accepts the common space while quibbling about the commonness of others. Everyone hides their game. No one’s heard Gilles Archambault, or Louis-Philippe Hébert, or Pierre-A. Larocque (with good reason: the last one is dead). The absent ones turn into ice cubes that the others palm off in their thoughts in the fridge of quotations. Everyone is playing pin the tail on the donkey. No one wears a blindfold; open-eyed, they make out the ears and dunce’s caps.

  Little by little, Ghislain loses his sense of self. Knocking back the booze, he goes to look for a chair in the middle of the Lion d’Or. No chair is free. Courrège searches with him, and they plunder glasses in the process.

  The road to the chair is long. In a skullcap, Hervé Bouchard accompanies them with his six orphans.

  Behind the stage curtain, they find a gimpy, three-legged chair.

  Ghislain balances his buttocks on the chair, engages his muscles in a dance of restraint.

  Courrège sinks to the ground, exhausted. A fog of beer in her eyes, Oprah’s voice in her right eardrum.

  Ghislain, a clown on three legs, says to Courrège, who is somewhat stupefied by the evening:

  —That’s it! I’m taking a rest!

  Tomorrow, a thousand other people will crowd in.

  Proud of his comical timing that falls a bit flat, he repeats:

  —That’s it! I’m taking a rest!

  9.

  Plato’s Octahedron

  style.

  Life style.

  Style kills.

  Style doesn’t kill.

  Style dictates and retracts.

  It is an animal, a machine, a new virus or a morbid algorithm.

  Lucrecios was running in circles in his confusion. Lucrecios wrote to let it out, then dragged his clumsy phrases into the trash and clicked on Empty trash. Tapped, clicked, emptied.

  He was dead. Clinically speaking. A fluorescein eye stain test. A dilated fundus examination. Nothing worked.

  What had happened to him? What had he attempted?

  He needed to forget. Do anything to forget. He needed to erase himself, cross himself out, find some support to bear his new life.

  He limped. Style kills, then flees. Style answers, destroys, and disappears.

  Time to stop. Display of boors.

  Night of forgiveness. Red carpet night. Cold night deprived of autumn.

  * * *

  The architect didn’t complain about people who vanished anymore. His circle of friends resembled a geometric line that was becoming blurry. Less points, more vague.

  How many have been worn down by the accumulation of various frustrations? Roger, the poor character in Douglas Coupland’s novel The Gum Thief, asked himself this universal question: Why am I me instead of another?

  Everyone experiences a moment of dissatisfaction at a certain age.

  Psychologists have terms to describe this impasse, as do anthropologists, also “influential” astrologers and scientists. This impasse is evident, shared, reassuring,
because it strengthens us in our common humanity.

  No one is ever at ease, no one is ever completely satisfied.

  Satisfaction kills.

  Satisfaction doesn’t deserve eulogies. It drives out inventiveness and indulges habits. Why would Greengrass be angry at Lucrecios for giving him the silent treatment for more than a month and a half? Greengrass’s determination had been transformed into respectful waiting. Three unanswered phone calls and two forays into Barnes & Noble had convinced him. Lucrecios’s silhouette didn’t lie. It attested to his presence at work. He seemed well. His secret expedition completed, Greengrass had decided to withdraw into his territory and wait.

  Sooner or later, Lucrecios would think of him, dial his number, send him a funny text, a few words to repair the damage, deny the possibility of disaster.

  In the meantime, Greengrass spent time with his friend Pete. A shy office clerk, an old high school classmate, a bullied guy metamorphosed into a grey-carpet cockroach, a silent-elevator user, a reader of all the Star Wars books, a Bears fan of the Fritos Jalapeño Cheddar Cheese Dip–type.

  Friendship crosses through Alice’s looking glass and tells us of our infinitude.

  There is no recipe for tolerating amicable panic. You just need to train, read a bit more, and take advantage of loopholes, available at anytime.

  Cable television friendship. Wi-Fi friendship.

  * * *

  The video interface.

  The rectangle of the Lumière brothers. The new mini-television that’s turned on by clicking on a triangular button. The imperceptible wait for the upload.

  Lucrecios had had enough. He stamped his feet with impatience. He wanted his life to change. Communicating was no longer an adequate word. He wanted all the cameras in the world to reassure him.

  The Official Wizard of Books would become a famous website.

  He would create his own literary quiz.