by Su J. Sokol
“Laek, what are you doing?”
“Nothing.” He sounds sullen, like a small boy who’s been caught in the act.
“Nothing?”
“I’m … I’m spinning my knife around.”
“Yeah, OK.”
He stops the spinning, wraps his hand tightly around the blade and closes his eyes.
“Do you want to see it?” He finally asks.
“Sure.” I’m curious because I’ve never examined the knife close up. Philip had asked my permission before giving it to Laek. A courtesy, maybe. Or a second opinion.
Laek passes me the knife, handle first. It’s ornately worked but worn around the grip, obviously well-used. It looks like a family heirloom.
“Beautiful.” That is, if one is inclined to find beauty in a potential weapon.
“Philip gave it to me,” he says quietly. “He … I think he wanted to show he trusted me. To take care of myself. To … to take care of my family.”
I purposely hand the knife back to him blade first. He hesitates and then avoids the blade to reach instead for my hand that’s wrapped around the handle. I leave my hand there for a few moments before gently slipping it out from under his. He brings the blade towards him and carefully closes it before putting it away.
Laek looks up through the tent roof. I lay my head on his chest, just where the knife had been resting, and gaze up too. Through the thin nylon of the tent, we can see bright twinkling lights above us. I watch one of these lights as it seems to fall to the earth. A falling star or just a spark from a campfire? It’s hard to tell. And if it were a shooting star, what would that even mean? A good sign or a bad sign?
THIRTY
Laek
This close to Montréal, it’s hard to hold myself back. Not that I’m impatient to end this trip. I love the quiet, the beauty of the countryside. The freedom and simplicity of our days. It makes me feel calm. Though I’ve had a few bad moments. But as long as I can hold myself to the present, I’m OK.
I crest the hill, standing up on my pedals. Then settle back into my seat to race headlong down into the long, winding valley, cornfields waving me on. There’s no one in front of me as far as I can see, and that is very far. I spread my arms and throw my head back, my chin cutting the wind into two fast streams of air. Flight seems as close as one revolution of my wheel.
Should we stay here instead of going on to the city? Live on a farm or in a campground? I read that Québec has a version of the right to roam. “Everyman’s right”. I repeat the words in French: Le droit de tout un chacun. If that’s true, we could legally camp out on private as well as on public land. For one night, at least. We could be like Janie’s “bicycling family.” Pedalling from place to place. Having adventures that always end well. Winter might be tough, though.
As peaceful as the country is, I do miss being around more people. Maybe I’m a city person. Though I wasn’t born in a city. I think about being in the centre of a big crowd right now. All of us dancing and laughing. To lean against someone’s shoulder. To have someone I don’t even know brush by me and say “sorry,” putting her hand on my back. Not that this is how it always goes down in New York City.
Where is my family?
I crest another hill. Stop. Turn around. I see them far off in the distance. I decide to bike all the way back to them. I’m actually desperate to do that. I speed towards them, pumping hard enough that it makes my ribs ache with the effort. I concentrate on watching for all of the landmarks I just passed. Studying them in reverse. Things look different coming the other way. Almost like I’m covering new ground. Since they’re also biking towards me, our rendezvous doesn’t take long to arrive. I breathe out my relief, passing first Siri, then Simon and then Janie. I turn around again. Bike beside Janie.
“I feel like a wayward sheep,” Janie says.
“What?”
“Like you’re herding us. Next, you’ll start nipping at my heels.”
“Mmm, would you like that?”
“Gross! Can’t you two save that for your bedroom?” Siri says.
I bike up parallel to her. “We have no bedroom right now, Siri. Just the great outdoors!”
“But we’re going to have beds tonight, right?”
“Yes, we have a reservation at a small hotel.”
“In Montréal?”
“Yeah, but we should try to get a move on if we want to get there before dark.”
“How are we getting there?” asks Simon.
“What do you mean?” Janie replies. “On our bikes.”
“But it’s an island, right? So we need to get across the water somehow.”
“Very good, Simon. Siri, you can choose. La navette or le pont Jacques-Cartier.”
“No fair, Daddy,” she complains. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Try to guess.”
“That’s dumb. How can I guess?”
“Come on, Siri. Just pick one,” I tell her.
“Fine. The thing with Jack Cartier sounds like a history lesson. I pick the other one.”
“OK, so it’s the navette. That’ll be fun.” I bike off to the front again.
“But Daddy, what’d I choose?”
“You’ll see.” I feel something small hit me on my back and turn around. Siri’s throwing pistachio-nut shells at me.
We arrive at the pier in Longueuil. When Janie and the kids see the ferry coming, churning the water up white and foamy, they’re too pleased to be mad at me for not telling sooner. Janie is especially excited. She loves the water. She has such a beautiful smile on her face, I want to lean over and suck on her lips. But we have just enough time to buy our tickets and rush onto the boat. We roll our bikes across the ramp. A young guy with a sunburn directs us down to where the bikes are held. Now I’m the one with the big grin on my face. I’ve never seen so many bicycles parked together in one place. It’s like a nest of bikes. Can this really be only the bikes of the people taking the ferry?
“Should we lock them together like we usually do, Daddy?” Siri asks.
“No. It’s OK. No one else is.”
“Come on, Laek. Get your bike settled and let’s go up on deck. I want to feel that spray of water on my face.”
“All those bikes. It’s so amazing. Can I take a picture?” I ask.
“You’re funny. We’ve seen a double rainbow, parachutists, covered bridges, a bike lane lined with carved totem poles, a … another one that runs through a sculpture garden, and a whole holographic jungle. But this is what you want to take a picture of?”
“Yes, Janie. Please give me a screen.”
“Alright, sweetheart. Here’s Siri’s.”
“How is it that both of you lost your screens?” Siri asks.
“Mine’s just broken,” Janie says. “I’ll replace it in Montréal. Come on guys, I guess Daddy will meet us upstairs after he’s taken in the sights down here in the bike storage area.”
I eventually force myself to leave the bikes and the safety below to join Janie and the kids on the top deck. They’re hanging over the rail. Craning their necks at the sights. Simon’s taken out his screen. He seems to be doing a credible job of pointing things out. I hear him try to pronounce “Île Notre-Dame” and “Parc Jean-Drapeau.” Then read out some tourist info on the history of the Biosphere. Siri is mostly fixated on the roller coasters and zero-g cubes in the island’s amusement park.
They motion me to come over. I take some steps towards them, towards the water. I’m stopped by a wave of nausea. Followed by a feeling of suffocation. I back up a few steps. Force the air into my lungs. I drop down onto a bench in the centre of the boat. Wave to my family. Smile carefully. Try not to think about water. About water being poured over my mouth and nose, water entering my lungs. Soon we’ll be on land again.
I still have Siri’s screen, so I call up a holo of Montréal’s bike lanes. I raise the holo to the level of my eyes. Stretch the image horizontally and vertically with my hands. I trace a few routes
. Pinch one between my fingers. Move it to another spot. I trace a route from the pier at Le Vieux Port to our hotel on rue St-Denis, turning it orange. I do the same for another route running from our hotel to 1010 St-Antoine Ouest. Where claims for asylum are made. No, it’s too soon to think about that. I turn the route back to neutral green. Satisfied, I immerse myself in the map. Stroke its surface with my hand. It moves and undulates like the body of a lover.
“What are you doing, Daddy?” Siri asks.
“Looking at les pistes cyclables. The bike paths of Montréal.”
“But why are you petting them?”
“Siri, Simon, have you ever seen so many bike paths in your life? It’s just, it’s just amazing. Janie, come and see too.”
“Very nice. Which one are we going to ride on?”
“All of them! Let’s ride on all of them!” I laugh a little. I know I’m getting a bit carried away. Even if Siri wasn’t giving me that “Daddy’s an alien” look. Even if Janie didn’t seem half amused and half worried. But I can’t believe that in just a few minutes, we’ll be in Montréal! “Look here. This path takes us to our hotel. Hey, let’s get our bikes, we’re almost there.”
Once on the dock, we follow the stream of passengers towards the ramp that brings us to the Old Port. The ramp is very steep. I’m not sure if the kids are going to be able to push their bikes, reloaded with the luggage, all the way up themselves. Simon in particular. I hurry over to try to help him, but someone’s already there. One of the crew, a young woman with spiky, black hair. She’s showing Simon how to place his wheel in a groove at the side of the ramp. The bike jerks twice, then starts moving its way up the ramp on its own. I see it’s a pulley system. Operated by someone else up on top, pedalling a stationary bike.
“Look at that!” Simon says.
I place my bike behind Simon’s. Race up to the top of the ramp ahead of him to help him disengage his wheels. When all four of us have ascended with our bikes, I walk over to the guy operating the pulley. He’s about my age, maybe a little older. Long hair in a ponytail, two earrings on each ear. I try to offer him a tip. He refuses. Insistent, but not offended either.
“C’est mon métier. Ma job, man. Quelle belle vie, eh?”
Yeah, a great job, great life. I want to stay and talk to the guy. See if they can use another pedaller. Part-time, maybe. But it’s starting to get late and I know the kids are tired and hungry.
Just as we’re getting to the bike path leading from the Old Port, I freeze in my tracks.
“Daddy? What is it?” Simon asks.
I shake my head. Don’t understand what to think, what I’m seeing. Janie has come up beside me. Grips my arm tightly.
“What the fuck?” she asks.
What we see is a group of cops. On bikes. They’re in uniform. Sort of. Wearing short-sleeved police shirts, badges, everything. But on the bottom, they’re wearing fluorescent-pink bike shorts. But with all the normal gear. The police are forming a line on either side of the bike path. And on the path are a huge number of cyclists. Men and women. Totally naked.
My heart is racing. Whether from fear or excitement, I’m not sure. One of the naked bikers approaches us. “Voulez-vous vous joindre à nous?” he asks. Before I can figure out an appropriate response to this, Janie answers. This is the first time she’s taken charge of a conversation since we arrived in Québec. Strange that it’s with a naked man.
“Um, parlez-vous anglais? I’m a tourist here,” she says.
“Yes, but of course.”
“Can you tell me … what is all this?”
“This is the vélorution! Every third Wednesday of the month. We ride to create together a more bike-friendly culture and society. More écologique, healthy, safe. Today we are trying to souligner, to … to underline the vulnerability of cyclists. That is why we wear no clothes. To have safer bike paths and traffic rules, to raise awareness of the drivers of cars.”
“Yeah, but why are the cops wearing pink shorts?”
The man turns to me. “Your blonde, she thinks les flics wearing pink is more strange than cyclists who are nude?”
“Why is he calling me your blond?” Janie whispers. “I’m not blond and …”
“It just means girlfriend. It has nothing to do with your hair colouring,” the man answers.
“You say ‘blond’ for girlfriend, even if she’s brunette? Even if she’s black?” Janie asks.
“You are very concerned about colour, I see.”
“Well, we’re from New York.”
“Ah, I understand perfectly. Yes, all girlfriends are blondes, whatever is their actual colour. We do not discriminate. And I will answer your question about the pink too. The police, they are en grève, on strike. For better pay and work conditions.”
“How is wearing pink being on strike?”
“The people notice, as you did. It bothers them. This brings attention to their issues.”
“Are there, are there clashes here between the police and the demonstrators?”
“Clashes?”
“Yeah, like violence, forceful arrests …”
“Oh, no worries. Sometimes, yes, but not so recently. Especially not with the manifestations that are nude. I think the police respect our volontaires to be vulnerable. They do not want to be seen as savage animals, after all.”
“Comment vous appelez-vous, monsieur?” I ask.
“Je m’appelle Luc. Mais pas besoin de me vouvoyer. You do not have to use “vous” with me. You can say the informal “tu.” We are co-militants, cyclists. And, well, I am naked, after all.”
“My name is Laek. And this is Janie. And our children, Siri and Simon.”
“Laek, that sounds a lot like Luc. Is it a common name where you come from?”
“No, not at all. Maybe I’ll call myself Luc here.”
“And do the others want to change their names too? Janie, what do you say? Would you like to be Jeanne? Janine? Simon can stay with Simon, just a different pronunciation. Siri, I don’t know. She will be more difficult.”
“Well, we’ll come up with something,” I say.
“So, Laek who is also Luc, will you join our vélorution?”
I start taking off my shirt.
“Daddy, what are you doing?” Siri asks in an alarmed voice.
“Joining the vélorution!”
“Does vélorution mean getting naked? If so, I don’t think we should join. Mommy, tell him to stop taking his clothes off. It’s embarrassing!”
“There’s a cadre for the children too. La vélorution d’enfants. But the children are with clothes,” Luc explains. “Children are vulnerable already, even clothed, yes? The children ride in front, up there,” he points.
“Will they be safe?” Janie asks.
“Perfectly. The police will be guarding them.”
“The police in pink shorts?”
“Exactly.”
“Siri, Simon, do you want to bike up front with the other kids?”
“If Siri comes,” answers Simon.
“OK. If it’s a choice between that and having to look at your naked butts …” Siri answers.
“Good.” I point to an intersection on the map on Siri’s screen.“We’ll meet there.”
“OK, Daddy, but you better have your clothes back on by then. Otherwise I’m going to pretend I don’t know you.” Luc calls over a clothed woman with long, black dreads. She leads the kids to their part of the rally.
“What do you say, Janie?” I ask, unfastening my shorts. “Are you ready for your first demonstration in New Métropolis?”
She laughs. “Why not?”
I take Janie’s hand. “OK, then. Bring on the vélorution.”
THIRTY-ONE
Siri
“Mademoiselle Siri? You are called Siri Wolfe?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“There is a package for you. We’ve put it in your room.”
“A package? Hyper!” I run upstairs, Simon right behind me.
>
I like the way the people at the hotel don’t treat me like a little kid. Plus, me and Simon have our own room, even if it’s tiny and the bathroom is in the hall. Sure, the couch in the lobby is pretty worn out, but you can stare up at a real old-fashioned chandelier and the only way to go up to our rooms is by climbing a winding staircase!
At first I don’t see any package, but then notice my camp duffel bag next to the wall.
“Hey, why was this sent here?”
“Maybe Mommy thought you needed more clothes,” Simon answers.
I unzip the duffel. Everything seems to be there. I hear Daddy and Mommy coming up the stairs so I open our door. “Look what came, Mommy. My things from camp.”
“Oh, yeah, great,” Mommy says.
“But why did it get sent here and not home? Isn’t our vacation almost over?”
“We may be staying longer,” Daddy says. “Today, after the park, we’re going to a government office to fill out an application.”
“But school starts in just a few days.” And then I’ll get to be with Michael again.
“Since when are you so worried about missing school?” Mommy asks.
She sounds suspicious. Maybe they really do know about Michael and me. In case they’re just trying to trap me into admitting it, I change the subject.“What did you get us?”
“Croissants. Chocolate and plain,” Daddy answers. “Knock when you’re finished eating.”
Daddy walks out and Mommy quickly follows him, leaving us all the croissants.
“But wait, aren’t some of these for you guys?”
“That’s OK, Siri. I’m not hungry right now.”
*
We’re on a bike path with about a zillion other cyclists. Daddy’s just ahead of me, talking over his shoulder. He’s dressed up, wearing a clean, white shirt with brown three-quarter length pants and his nice sandals, like for school. Maybe that’s why he’s in his lecturing mode.
“This is one of the most famous of Montréal’s bike paths. The “Claire Morissette” path that runs along boulevard de Maisonneuve.”
“Claire Morissette?”
“Yeah, a biking and environmental activist. Founded two organizations, wrote books … She accomplished a lot in her lifetime.”