by Abla Farhoud
Although he went back to Europe quite often for work or to see his family in Quimper, in Brittany, he was always happy to come back home to his place on Hutchison Street.
The mantra of the maudit Français, which he had heard so often, especially at the beginning, didn’t bother him anymore, and sometimes he would use it to make fun of himself or other Frenchmen, or to shut someone up if he didn’t like them or wanted to deny them the satisfaction of letting off steam at his expense. He had learned from experience that the tone could be more offensive than the words themselves. If some idiot said to him, “maudit Français, go back to where you came from,” he would choose between two responses, depending on the person’s tone or his own mood. He could say, “go fuck yourself, you asshole” or, a bit more politely, “I chose to live here although I could have gone anywhere else in the world. I came here by choice and for love, can you say as much, you prick?” The other person would say proudly, “Well, I was born here,” to which Jean-Hugues Briançon would reply, with the nicest of smiles, “You were born here, so what! We are all born somewhere, but very few people choose their country out of love. You have not chosen your country, but I have. So don’t piss me off, and bugger off!”
After the Parti Québécois unexpectedly won the election in November 1976, he was just as happy as the pure laine sovereignists who had withstood cold winters for generations, much longer than he had. When Bill 101, the language law, followed, he felt it was important and essential. He thought Quebec needed to include and integrate immigrants in order to become a country.
Little by little, the cliché “they come and steal our jobs” was disappearing from popular opinion and was replaced by “they should at least speak our language if they want to stay here.” For Jean-Hugues, learning the language of the country you want to live in was the least you could do. He didn’t understand how people could live in a country without being curious about its culture and language, its history and aspirations.
When he first came, he had multiple jobs. He dropped out of his doctorate in linguistics and signed up for a few courses in Quebec literature. He remained optimistic and felt confident that he would find whatever it was he had come looking for. He knew that he would find it, one day. That day came when he met Jean-Marc Gagnon, a crazy young guy with as much ambition as he had, who was as passionate as he was about literature and books. They started their own publishing company. There were lean years, made worse by the departure of Jean-Marc who after eighteen months was fed up with treading water. Jean-Hugues persevered, working as a waiter in a nice café called Aux Gâteries, located a few steps away from the Librairie du Square, a bookstore that was even nicer because of its books and the owner. He stayed the course until he found a manuscript he felt really enthused about. He could sense the author’s voice, style and worldview, and he was blown away. That day, he rushed to the telephone even before he had finished reading the book, hoping that the rights were still free.
They were, and so was the novelist. He made an
appointment to meet her that very day.
That was the most beautiful day of his life. He saw a woman with long, light brown hair as lovely as her sparkling eyes. She walked in wearing a long mauve skirt and a bright green tank top. It was summer and her arms were lightly tanned. He had fallen for the book and was now falling head over heels in love with its young author. Thirty years later he could still remember the contrasting colours of her clothes, the way she ran her hands through her hair, and the way she laughed. she was as excited as he was. Perhaps not for the same reasons, but, still, there were sparks between the two of them. He had just read her book and he felt that he already knew her. And yet, after thirty years, there was still something left to discover in her.
Jean-Hugues Briançon’s life changed dramatically. Not only had he met the woman of his life, but he had also discovered a novelist whose writing he adored and who would make his little publishing house viable. The novel sold like hotcakes, reaching unexpected sales figures. It was pandemonium in the apartment that doubled as a publishing company, where Jean-Hugues assumed all responsibilities, from CEO to receptionist, including making deliveries by bus, metro or taxi since he didn’t yet own a car or have a distributor. He scheduled one interview after another, and also had to reprint the book several times. Not only did the cash drawer begin to fill up for the first time, but his heart throbbed with love. He would sometimes dance around his apartment alone, among the boxes of books. He smoked up his apartment with sage grass that he burned in thanks like indigenous people do, praying for his love to last his whole life.
He didn’t yet know how to manage his success, but he was learning quickly. And he had everything to learn. The best thing he already had going for him, hands down, was his love of books and the people who wrote them. Life had given him a chance. His creativity blossomed as he found a way to take full advantage of this gold mine. JHB Éditeur became a respected and prosperous publishing house. JHB worked very hard to ensure that Quebec literature would be read at home, appreciated abroad and translated. A lot of work was involved, and a lot of jet lag. His love of books and writers was equalled only by his good business sense. He had charm, he had a sense of humour and he was persuasive. The maudit Français had found his niche.
Since leaving home, he had not moved an inch, he had not left his place on Hutchison Street. It was as if a big change, even one that he had wished for, one that he had chosen, had destabilized him so much that he would spend the rest of his life trying to regain a sense of balance, trying to put roots down. And what better way to anchor yourself than to attach yourself to a woman you love, who loves you, and to engage in fascinating work. When he thought about all the things that life had given him, he felt privileged, grateful and humble.
He lived north of Fairmount, a couple of doors up from La Croissanterie (which had changed names a few times, but which had always remained La
Croissanterie to him, the first café in the neighbourhood to make good espressos). His girlfriend lived on the same street, but further up, between Saint-Viateur and Bernard. Although they had been together for around thirty years, they had never lived together under the same roof. They weren’t married and had not had children together. They saw each other several times a week, for business, at his house or at the offices of the publishing company, as well as for pleasure, most of the time at her place. He liked her apartment full of plants and flowers, with the parks of Outremont nearby. He liked to walk with her at his side, crossing the parks and even walking through the cemetery on Mount Royal to get to the mountain. They often had dinner together and sometimes they entertained friends. They would go out to the movies or to see a play, or they would stay at home reading, each of them curled up in an armchair.
The part of the publishing business he liked the best was being the literary editor, even though he actually enjoyed all aspects of the job. In the past thirty years, he had perfected his listening skills, he had learned to ask pointed questions and he had improved his ability to read manuscripts.
Reading the novels of unknown writers, to whom he would respond promptly, with thanks, encouragement and the notes he had made while reading their work, was an important part of his work. He considered it a duty, sometimes a pleasure and even a joy when he discovered a new author.
Reading the latest manuscript of an author he liked, when he knew that the text would become a book in one of the publishing company’s series, was a deeply gratifying experience and a delicate one – if the manuscript turned out to be bad, if it turned out that there were serious shortcomings, how could he tell the author tactfully? The pleasure he always derived from discovering a brand new novel would begin with hairs standing up on the back of his neck, and shivers going down his spine. He would disconnect the telephone, then begin reading. He would deploy all his faculties and focus in. He was like an antenna capturing sound waves, a barometer detecting atmospheric conditions. He read lustily a
ll the way through without taking notes. He had a prodigious memory and could talk for hours about books that he loved.
He got up to pour himself a whisky. He sniffed it, picked up the pile of new manuscripts by unknown authors and went out onto his little balcony. It was nice out. He began to daydream. He remembered Françoise’s smile and the sly look on her face, “You could be a character in my novel, you live on Hutchison Street too. Readers love true stories, that’s what you told me, isn’t it?” He had replied, “How sneaky of you, you’re now going to talk about me in your novel. Don’t forget that I’m your publisher. I have the power of life and death over your manuscript.” She had kissed him, after first pinching his arm, her way of showing affection. This was typical, she had been like this since the beginning. “But you are not the only
publisher, my crafty fellow.” He had brushed his lips against her cheek and whispered, “I am not the only publisher, of course, but I’m the one who’s in love with you.”
He often used the French term ma petite vlimeuse, ever since she had called him mon ratoureux one day when they were having a discussion about signing a contract for the screen adaptation of her second novel. When he learned, quite a while later, that the term “ratoureux” meant “slick” or “crafty” in Quebec, he sent her an enormous bouquet of flowers with a card addressed to my “vlimeuse,” which meant essentially the same thing, perhaps with the added connotation of “mischievous.” He signed the card “ratoureusement vôtre,” or “slickly yours.” Since then the words “ratoureux” and “vlimeuse” had become terms of endearment for the two of them.
He wasn’t able to concentrate. He was thinking about her, about the characters of Hutchison Street. He suddenly wondered how she would depict him if he did become a character in her novel. It made him smile. He was a bit embarrassed. What would she draw attention to, what would she leave out, and, above all, what part of him would she consider a part of herself? He had often heard her talk about the ties that bound her to her characters and how close she felt to each one of them. He had always marvelled at writing and it was no coincidence that he had become a publisher and literary editor. He had boundless admiration for artists. Art in general and writing in particular had always been a mystery to him. No one had ever been able to demystify the process by which a writer can put a few words together to make a whole that can transport us into another world. A world that we were unaware of just hours earlier. He wondered why he had given up writing himself. He had begun several novels, but hadn’t finished a single one. How does someone become a writer, musician, dancer, actor or painter? What accounts for the fact that someone stays on course, despite the challenges, misery, poverty, and lack of recognition and support? Why is it that one person will make it through all that, persist and stay the course, while someone else will give up, and become a publisher or restaurant owner? Was he, Jean-Hugues Briançon, a Frenchman who had been living in Quebec for thirty-three years, a failed writer, as they say about critics, sometimes unfairly? Or rather, could you say that he did not need to define his own existence, fill his existential void, or compensate for his flaws – it doesn’t matter what you call it – in this way?
He thought about the way he had lived his life since he decided to start a publishing company. He thought about his friend Jean-Marc, who hadn’t been able to hang in there, because his passion for books was not as great. For Jean-Marc, seeing a book hot off the press was not the most beautiful thing in the world, it didn’t bring him tremendous joy. How could you overcome all the difficulties if you didn’t think it was the most beautiful thing in the world? When he thought about it carefully, he decided that no, he was not a failed writer, but rather a passionate publisher. He was in the right place. And what a place! He had a seat in the front row of literature.
The Diary of Hinda Rochel
Today, I received a nice big compliment from Madame Genest.
She told me that I was her best student. Not just the best student in the class, but the best one she has ever taught. And Madame Genest is pretty old, so that must add up to a lot of students. She said, “You are a little prodigy, Hinda Rochel.” I didn’t know what “prodigy” meant. So she said, “My dear child, you have a lot of talent. Do you understand the word ‘prodigious’ perhaps?” I nodded. “Prodigy is a word in the same family. Look it up in your dictionary.”
I was very happy and wanted to repeat Madame Genest’s beautiful words to someone. But to whom? No one cares about my life. I’m lucky that I have my diary to write in and that I have Bonheur d’occasion to read over again. The more I read that novel, the more I love it. If I had not found it on the sidewalk while walking home from school …
My mother is calling me.
They never leave me alone. NEVER.
Ron Kowalski
For him, a three-star hotel room was only one step away from a fleabag room and he went from one to the other as if there was nothing to it. He could sleep in the street or a luxury penthouse, and he did both at regular intervals. He went from one way of life to the other, when he was fed up with one or the other. He didn’t make a big deal about it, he didn’t feel sorry for himself. Without delay, without fear.
He was not afraid of God or the devil. The only thing that worried him was his own violence.
All his life, he had felt like punching, breaking, hitting, inflicting pain, killing. He had spent his entire life holding back. And he had erased from his memory moments when he had been unable to hold back. Even though he had always felt this violence coursing through his veins, he did not know where it came from, and he wasn’t the type to dwell on questions like that.
At school, he controlled himself. He could have killed his teachers, but he had killed no one, he had beaten up barely seven or eight children of his own age. He could have killed them, but he had just injured them. The last time that he injured a classmate, although he had held back just enough not to kill him, he had been permanently expelled from school. When his father found out, he had given him a beating, also controlling himself so that he didn’t kill his son, and then he kicked him out of the house. There was no going back. Ron Kowalski was happy. Free at last. No more teachers, no more school principal, no more father. He went to live in the woods. He was happy in the bush, far away from other humans, living with wild animals as his companions. For him, it was the only place where God was not far away. This was God before the Word, this was God as tree, bird, grass, water, sun and moon, a God he wasn’t afraid of, whom he loved. But how could he earn any money in the woods?
So he left the forest. And his battles began all over again. Fighting with himself. A ball of pure rage would often form in his stomach.
He was always in a state of alert, ready to lash out at the next person he saw. He always had his fist clenched, his right hand ready to punch and his left hand wrapped around his right to prevent it from doing so.
If the gods of the forest could erase his rage, action could also distract him a bit. He had a talent for moving around, giving himself a sense of importance, selling, buying, inventing, importing, finding bargains, coming up with thingamajigs that would make money. And it worked, particularly since he wasn’t afraid of anything and he had guts. He had one sentence that he repeated often, “As long as you do something, anything can
happen.” And, miraculously, everything did happen. Money bred money.
But hanging in there, making progress, staying put, that wasn’t for him. When things were working out and everything was going well, he began to get fed up. He would pack up and go, but not before he had destroyed everything he had built. Whether it was a restaurant in Mexico, a window washing company in downtown Montreal, an import-expert business in Park Extension, or a massage parlour. You name it.
When he was on the verge of an explosion, either psychological or physical, he would squander money, which seemed to burn a hole in his pocket. He would literally throw it out the window. A thousand dollars
or ten thousand in small denominations would flutter in the air until it landed on the sidewalk, and he would be as happy as a child flying a kite.
He would then escape to the woods or to a fleabag
hotel.
His ability to launch incredible businesses, which never failed to generate huge profits, was just as strong as his urge for destruction. And just as soon as a business began to prosper, he would make a point of undermining it, sabotaging everything, bringing it all down for fun, just for fun. It was as if he liked to build things up just for the pleasure of knocking them down again.
He didn’t care about anything or anyone. Life itself was of little importance to him. To live or die – it was all the same to him.
He was well aware that if he did not control himself, he could wind up in prison. The frantic control of his violence stemmed from his all-consuming fear of imprisonment. This was the only situation he hated, the only place he abhorred after having had a taste of it for fourteen days and thirteen nights. He was too attached to action, independence, freedom, nature, although he was terrified by promiscuity. To be confined would be worse than death, especially if it hadn’t been his choice.
He liked to be alone. For hours and sometimes days. When he was alone, he didn’t have to try so hard to keep from hitting, breaking and destroying. When he was alone, he would sometimes punch the wall very hard. He would make his knuckles bleed. He was not averse to seeing blood, to feeling his skin burn. At least it was his own blood and he hadn’t harmed anyone, in this Hutchison Street basement where he had been living for just a short while.
He could trash a luxury apartment just as easily as a miserable one-room flat, and then put everything back together again, or pay for the damage and then move. On very rare occasions, he had left without paying. When that happened, the landlord would get a cheque a few months or a few years later. Without a covering letter, without an apology. Words, whether they were written or spoken, were not his forte. His way of being and operating was nonverbal.