Cycling to Asylum
Page 21
In the morning, everything is calm and quiet. I hear small kitchen sounds and smell something delicious and chocolaty. For a second I think it’s Saturday and Daddy’s making crepes, but no, it’s a weekday. Why hasn’t Mommy come in to wake me up for school?
I walk over to my little window and pull back the curtain that Mommy sewed out of some blue material. I look out, expecting to see fallen leaves but instead there’s a sparkling whiteness. Snow! Our first snowstorm! And it’s still snowing hard! I run into Siri’s room and try to wake her, but she puts her head under her pillow and ignores me. I run out into the kitchen. Daddy’s eating breakfast and Mommy’s looking at the screen.
“Looks like school’s cancelled for you and Siri,” she says. “There must be like three feet of snow out there already, and no sign of it letting up.”
“Centimetres, Janie. Try to think in metres and centimetres,” Daddy says while chewing.
“Um, what’s the conversion again?” Mommy asks.
“If you would think in centimetres, you wouldn’t need to do a conversion. Same issue with French. You have to think in it, not be translating in your head all the time.”
“It’s one inch to 2.54 centimetres, Mommy.” I tell her. “That’s …”
“Don’t tell me! Um, that’s like ninety-one and a half inches, I mean centimetres. OK, restart.” Mommy puts on a fake excited voice. “Look, Simon, look Laek! There’s approximately ninety-one centimetres of snow outside. Isn’t that lovely!”
Daddy shakes his head like he can’t believe Mommy’s acting so dumb, but he can’t stop his lips from smiling. Mommy calls Siri into the kitchen.
“If school is cancelled, why are you making me get out of bed?” Siri asks Mommy.
“Daddy’s working at the bike shop today and I have my French classes and then a rendezvous with career planning. So you need to look after your brother.”
“OK, fine. Can I go back to bed now?”
“Can’t we go out and play?” I ask. “Please?”
“Alright, fine. We’ll go out to the park or something.”
“Come. I made everyone hot chocolate,” Mommy says. “Lucky we got those boots for you guys last weekend. You should put on the long underwear, too. Laek, what about you? What do you have to wear on your feet?”
“I have my work boots.”
“Will that be enough? And why are you wearing your jeans with the holes in them?”
“I’m wearing another pair of jeans underneath. See? That’s why all you see is denim under the holes, instead of my flesh.”
“What will we do in the park, Siri?” I ask.
“Hey, I have an idea,” Daddy says, digging into his pocket. “Here, Siri, you can use this to buy something to glisser … to, to slide on the snow, down the hill.”
“Do you mean ‘sled,’ Daddy?” Siri asks. “Have you forgotten how to speak English?”
“Yeah, sled, sleigh, whatever …”
Now Mommy gets into the act. “Laek, a sleigh has bells and is drawn by horses.” I think she’s getting him back for the centimetres.
“A sled, then. Or one of those sliding things. Here.” Daddy digs into his pocket again and gives Siri whatever he finds in there.
“Mais … c’est tout l’argent que tu as.” Mommy says this while looking around sneakily at me and Siri. I think she’s using French to try to hide what she’s saying from us, which makes no sense, considering I speak French way better than she does. Maybe she’s just trying to hide it from Siri. I look into my hot chocolate and pretend not to be paying attention. I listen, though, as Daddy tells Mommy in French that it’s OK, that he can walk to work and bring some food from home for his lunch, that he doesn’t need any money. That he’d rather the kids have fun, and anyway, he’d like to go sledding too.
I’m not sure if I should say something. I want a sled, but maybe Daddy needs the money more. He did look happy when he talked about sledding, though. I look at Siri, forgetting for a second that she couldn’t have understood what Mommy and Daddy said. She’s watching Daddy get up and throw some stuff from the refrigerator into a cloth lunch bag. Siri puts her lips together and looks at me. I wonder. Could she have somehow understood?
Outside, the air tastes fresh and cold. Puffs of smoke are coming out of our mouths. I stick out my tongue, trying to catch the snowflakes. The world seems quiet, like the snow is cotton in my ears. It’s coming down and down and down, soft but unstoppable.
Siri buys us a red plastic sled. The man is francophone but understands English. I say “merci” to be polite since Siri only talks to him in English. The sled is flat with a curled part in front, but it’s long and light and slick. I just know it’ll fly down the hill faster than anything.
Siri heads for the path into the park, but we decide to walk across the grass part. It’s not grass now, of course, just a big field of snow, white and perfect. Nobody has walked there yet. We’ll be the first, like explorers. We dive into the snow and flip onto our backs, like we’re swimming. Siri grabs a handful of snow, trying to make a snowball. She throws it at me, but it falls apart. I feel bits of it on my cheeks. It’s like she’s thrown cold, white sand at me.
After a while, we find a hill. There are kids already there who came from the other side of the park. They’re sledding down in all kinds of things, like tubes and rafts and saucers, plus real wooden sleds and toboggans, and even things that look like magna snowboards. No one’s sliding down on metal garbage can lids, like we see sometimes in Prospect Park. But then again, it doesn’t snow that much in New York. And when it does, there’s usually rain right after, washing it all away. I hope it doesn’t rain.
After going down the hill about a million times, I ask if we can go over to the playground.
“Why would you want to go to the playground? The equipment will be covered in snow.”
“Maybe we can swing, anyway. Swing really high and jump off into the snow.”
We walk towards where the playground should be. It’s hard to find with all the snow. Everything looks different. I feel like an explorer again. I even see animal tracks.
“Look Siri! Paw prints! In the forest! We need to see where they lead.”
I get down low and examine the tracks. The prints are small. Maybe of a rabbit or a fox. No, I know what it is. It’s a miniature magical panther. I follow the tracks until I lose them in a big mess of human prints, sneakers and boots and stuff. I look up and see we’ve found the playground. There are a bunch of big kids leaning against the fence, smoking. Then I see the creature I’ve been tracking—a small dog with pointy ears and shaggy hair. I lean over to pet him or her as one of the biggest boys comes over.
“If it isn’t little Siri,” he says.
“Don’t call me that,” Siri answers, and then says hello to some of the other kids without walking over to them. “Let’s go, Simon. We need to get home.”
“I wanna pet the dog.”
“You shouldn’t pet strange dogs you don’t know,” Siri says.
“It’s OK. I can tell it’s a sweet doggy.”
“C’est ton chum, ce petit fif?” the big boy says.
Siri answers in English.“He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my brother. Let’s go, Simon!”
“What’s your rush, little Siri? Just because Gabriel isn’t here? Let the little fif play with the dog. It’s a bitch,” he says to me. “Go on, pet her.”
When I bend down, he kicks the dog towards me. The dog starts snapping and barking and I jump back. Then I’m on the kid in a second, kicking and punching him. What a mean thing to do to a little dog! But the kid is much bigger than me. He pushes me off easily and throws me into the snow. Before I can attack again, Siri grabs me from behind and pulls me back.
“Go get the sled,” she orders me. “I mean it, Simon. You better do what I say.”
I’m hyper-mad but I turn to get the sled which we left near a tree. As I’m walking away, I hear what sounds like Siri’s voice cursing the kid out in French.
Teenagers are weird. He doesn’t get mad— just laughs and says he’ll see Siri at school. We walk out of the park. I can’t help feeling impressed by how Siri put him in his place. I’m not even sure of what one or two of the words she used means.
“Siri, what’s débile?”
“It means, like, retard, idiot.”
“And queue? I thought that meant tail. And what’s a fif?”
“You’re too young to know these words.”
“And you’re not supposed to know French at all.”
She stops and looks at me, like she’s trying to figure something out. Then she lets out a puff of air. “OK, fine. If you keep my secret from Daddy and Mommy, I’ll tell you what the other words mean. But I’m serious. You have to swear not to tell about the French.”
“I swear.”
“Alright, then. Queue is a word that can be used to mean penis.”
“And fif?”
She sighs before answering. “Fif is girlie, or, or gay.”
“That’s a stupid way to insult people.”
“He’s an asshole, just forget it.”
“Un trou du cul, right?”
“Right.”
“But why don’t you want Daddy and Mommy to know that you can speak French? I know you’re mad that we moved, but still …”
“Simon, you better not be thinking of going back on your word.”
“No! I just want to know why.”
“How about if you and I get a snack somewhere? We’ll talk about it then, OK?”
“OK, d’accord.” Now that I know she can speak French, I don’t have to stick to English.
Siri takes me on the métro. Even though there’s no school today, our free school métro passes still work. We sing out each stop as we go by, trying to match the exact accent and tone, like we used to do when we first got here: “Prochaine station, Sherbrooke … Prochaine station, Mont Royal.” A lot of grown-ups in the métro are smiling at us. Maybe they think what we’re doing is funny, or maybe it’s the big sled we’re carrying. Or maybe they have off work because of the snow and are happy too.
We go into a small restaurant. It’s hot and steamy inside, the windows all fogged up. We walk up to the counter and Siri orders two “queues de castor.” It’s the first time I’ve gone into a place with Siri and heard her talk in French. But what’s she ordering? I whisper to her.
“Siri, we can’t eat that! We’re vegetarians.”
“This is vegetarian,” she answers.
“Beaver tails? That’s meat, not vegetable!”
Siri laughs. “It’s not an actual beaver tail.”
An even more horrible thought hits me as I remember the other meaning of “queue.”
“Siri, no! We can’t eat the … the thingies of beavers. That’s even worse!”
Now she’s laughing so hard she can hardly talk.
“Trust me, little brother, you’re going to like this. It is not at all what you think.”
It’s true the restaurant smells more like cinnamon and chocolate than meat. And when we get our orders and sit down, I can see it’s not shaped like a penis, although it does look a little like a beaver tail. I take a small, cautious bite.
“Hey, it tastes like fried dough. Like what we get at Little Italy back in New York.”
“Yep, it’s just like that.”
“Only it’s better. It has gobs of Nutella on it, my favourite.”
“I am so sick of all of you talking about how everything is so much better here.”
“Well, lots of things are.” Though even while I’m saying this, I realize I might be wrong about certain things. Up until today, I’d thought there weren’t any bullies in Montréal.
“Don’t you miss Brooklyn? Don’t you miss your old friends and school?” Siri asks.
“I miss Henry, but Mommy says maybe he can visit if everything works out. Otherwise, I don’t miss New York that much. At first I did, but now I’m used to being here.”
“Well I miss … everything. My friends, my neighbourhood, my school, baseball, the way people talk, the way they act. I just can’t believe Daddy and Mommy did this to us.”
“They had to. They said. About how Daddy was in danger.”
“And you believe all that?”
“Sure. Don’t you?”
“Why should I? I mean, maybe if they had told me about it sooner, explained, showed me evidence or something. Now, it’s like they’re just using it as an excuse to do what they want.”
“But …” Maybe I should tell Siri about what really happened this summer. About my finding out how Daddy was beaten with a phaser stick, by that cop, about how he almost died. But this is a secret, right? Otherwise, Mommy and Daddy would have told. And if I tell, Siri will think I can’t keep secrets and won’t ever tell me anything. So I decide not to tell her. I try to think of something else to say, something convincing.
“There may be stuff we don’t know about. You know, like maybe terrorists were after us. At least there aren’t terrorists here.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Back in New York, we had to watch out for terrorists all the time. They talked about them on the newsfeeds and they were always issuing those warnings. You know: ‘Code Amber’ or ‘If you see something, say something.’ Our school had to be checked for bombs and viruses and stuff. I never hear about that in Montréal.”
“Just because people somewhere talk about terrorists, it doesn’t mean there are any. Did you ever run into any terrorists?”
“No, but …”
“And just because you don’t hear about terrorists somewhere else, it doesn’t mean there aren’t any there. Maybe there’s a terrorist in this restaurant right now.”
“I’m done with my queue du castor. We should go home now,” I say, a little nervous.
“OK. But don’t forget, not a word about this to Daddy or Mommy.”
“Don’t worry, I can keep a secret.”
That night, right before bedtime, we hear all these loud noises on the street—beeps and scraping sounds and big, powerful motors. Siri and I kneel on the couch in front of the big window facing the street. Outside, there are like seven different trucks. They’re driving around with attachments that scoop and dip and grab. One truck has a huge tube that looks like it’s for shooting missiles. A mini-vehicle drives hyper-fast onto the sidewalk like it’s a getaway car. A neighbour walking her dog jumps out of the way just in the nick of time. Everywhere, lights are flashing, like some major sweep-up operation back in New York. Only, I don’t see the police. Just the assailants. And what they’re doing is they’re stealing all our snow.
Mommy and Daddy are talking quietly in the kitchen, but I can hear them anyway. Daddy has just told Mommy that his job at the bike shop is over.
“You’ve been there for only a month. I thought… ” Mommy says.
“They hardly have enough work for themselves during the year, with all the improvements in the free bike system. And now that a real snowfall has come early …”
“You’ll find something else, sweetheart, don’t worry.”
“Daddy, Mommy, come here,” I yell.
Mommy comes and kneels next to me. There isn’t enough room for Daddy to squeeze in like that too, so he comes up behind Mommy and wraps his arms around her waist.
“Papa,” I whisper, “Are they terrorists?”
Daddy puts his arm around my shoulder. “No, they’re just city workers.”
“But why are they stealing all the snow? I like the snow.”
“I do too.”
“Even though it means your job is over?”
“So you heard that? Yeah, even though it means my job is over. Snow is beauti
ful. And like Mommy said, I’ll find something else. Don’t worry. And don’t worry about terrorists either.”
“D’accord, Papa.”
I look at Siri. She’s still staring straight ahead like she doesn’t understand. But she does.
“Goodnight, Siri. And thanks for the … for the beaver tails. And everything.”
“I love you, Simon,” she answers.
FORTY
Janie
“81% des femmes sont comblées,” reads the headline. I start looking up the English translation for the word “comblée” but then remember Laek’s scolding and bring up the French-to-French dictionary instead. OK, “combler” means “satisfaire”. Satisfied about what? I find another definition: “remplir un trou,” to fill a hole. A pothole? I don’t get it. I read further on in the article, get to the word “sexualité.” Oh, that kind of hole. So according to this article, eighty-one percent of women in Montréal are sexually satisfied. What I still don’t get is how this constitutes serious headline news. I suppose it’s my own fault for choosing such a lowest-common-denominator news source instead of the more intellectual screen journal that Laek reads. But shit, if I read that, I’d get through maybe one story a day.
I scan some more articles, and learn that seventy-three percent of Montréalais are friendly with at least half their neighbours, that ninety-one percent of local university students want to do more for the environment, and that the popularity of the latest non-tobacco cigarettes has forced the government to install 424 new ashtrays in public spaces throughout the city.
What is this obsession with figures? I’m beginning to hate numbers. Yesterday in class, I was called on to read aloud and was doing just fine until I came to “1999,” forcing me to do a whole string of calculations. Mille, neuf-cent, quatre-vingt-dix-neuf—a thousand, nine hundred, and four twenties plus ten and nine. Next, we’ll be singing about four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. Ridiculous!
Simon comes into the kitchen. “What’s for breakfast?” he asks.
“Would you mind just getting some cereal? I have to do my French homework.”
“Mommy, you should not have left it to the last minute like this. Madame Nathalie says the best time to do your homework is right before supper.”