“Yeah, him. Anyway, Faubert was supposed to interview Brigitte Loiseau early this afternoon. She’s one of the principal actors in the play. But, like I said, Faubert is in bed with the flu. Will you do it instead?”
“I’d like to have seen the play first.”
“No one will know if you’ve seen it or not, as you know. Madame Ouellette on rue Montcalm and her neighbour, Madame Duquette on rue Wolfe, do not as a rule frequent the Theatre du Nouveau Monde. They wouldn’t even know how to get there. It’s Brigitte Loiseau who’s important, because of all those television shows. Get me?”
“Got you,” Charles had no choice but to reply.
“Good, it’s all set, then. See you.”
Charles went back to his desk this time with the certainty that he would not be able to regroup his ideas for at least an hour, if not longer. If there was one eventuality that Charles had feared since being taken on at Artist’s Life, it was running into Brigitte Loiseau. There were too many unpleasant memories attached to her; not the least of which was the ridiculous love he’d confessed to her when he was nineteen. He couldn’t, however, turn down this assignment without incurring his editor’s wrath. He decided, therefore, to prepare for the interview by consulting the quite fat file the magazine had on the actress, and even went to the public library to read the play she was in. He wanted to make a good impression.
At two o’clock, he showed up at her apartment on rue Sherbrooke for the interview. As was increasingly becoming the fashion, Brigitte Loiseau lived in one of those furnished condos in a former convent that the Sisters had had to sell off to developers because it had been too expensive to maintain. The developers had attempted to preserve the property’s former cachet. Instead of taking the elevator, Charles went up a huge oak staircase that led to the upper floors, and found himself in a wide, wood-panelled corridor whose atmosphere of calm actually disturbed him. A moment later he was knocking on the actress’s door.
She had hardly changed at all in the six years since he had last seen her. Her face was a bit puffier and her waist had lost some of its slenderness, but she glowed with the same regal beauty that had set her apart from the common run of humanity.
She let him in politely, but with a worried look, showed him into a small room, and asked him if he would wait until she finished her telephone conversation.
She appeared not to have recognized him. He was relieved and disappointed at the same time, even slightly miffed, thinking it could only have been a matter of diplomatic amnesia. “They’re all the same,” he grumbled to himself. “A bit of success on television, page one in the papers a couple of times, and it goes to their heads — or rather, to their hearts.” He was sorry he’d spent so much time preparing for the interview, and decided to write an article that she would not find amusing.
The room was tastefully decorated in the minimalist, Zen style that was all the rage: blank, white walls; low-slung, plain chairs covered in sober-coloured material; a tiny rug in the middle of a wooden floor that had been varnished until it glowed like polished glass; a vase of dried flowers on the sill of the naked window. It had obviously been professionally decorated by someone with austere taste.
Charles could hear her talking on the phone. Muted sounds reached him in a confused murmur. She was talking quickly, nervously, her words punctuated by sharp exclamations: something wasn’t going according to her wishes, and Charles took a certain satisfaction from the fact. Whether you’re a big star or someone who sells vegetables at the market, Life, which in its own way is always just, can throw you a few curves at times — and at the end of the road there waits Death, staring off into space, not caring one bit who winds up in his net.
He was jerked out of these philosophical ruminations by a burst of laughter that shattered them. An instant later, Brigitte Loiseau was in the room, apologizing again for keeping him waiting and sitting on a chair facing his own. As he put a tape in his recorder, she began talking to fill the silence, then suddenly stopped in mid-sentence.
“But don’t I know you?” she said. “Aren’t you … Aren’t you …”
He nodded very slightly, turning red with pleasure.
“Charles Thibodeau, madame.”
“Well, what on earth was I thinking!” she exclaimed. “Charles! Is it really you?”
She jumped up and took his hands, flashing her warmest, most radiant smile. But it was not an untroubled smile, Charles noticed. And it was not difficult to guess the cause.
“Dear Charles, it wasn’t you they told me to expect,” she continued, making him brim with pleasure. “Good gracious, how could I have… How long has it been?”
“Since we last saw each other? Six years.”
“It’s just that you’ve changed so much, haven’t you … But then, no, not so much … I look at you and I still see my little saviour, but also the timid young man I met at L’Express… You are still a handsome young man, I must say. How old are you now?”
Their conversation continued in that vein for a few minutes. When she learned that he had been working at Artist’s Life as a full-time staff writer for several months, she was astonished and begged him to excuse her ignorance; she hardly ever read those magazines, not from lack of interest, she hastened to add, but from lack of time. Her professional life monopolized her time completely. Charles wasn’t fooled by her polite obfuscations but was careful not to let it show, because he thought she was right not to make a big deal of the kind of coleslaw such magazines served up: grated cabbage leaves spiced with stupid gossip and scandals, and held together by mayonnaise.
He began the interview, since he did have work to do, after all. He would have liked to tell her that he had once loved her passionately and that now, seeing her again, he felt his love being reborn, stronger than ever and tempered, this time, with worldly knowledge. But she would have made light of his confession and quickly changed the subject. Who was he but an inexperienced neophyte, in effect, to love a great actress who had managed to remain humble (he had doubted it, but it was true!) and who had just thanked him once again for helping her out during a not-so-glorious episode in her life?
Never before had he conducted such a serious and yet lively interview. He made sure, every time the occasion arose and at the risk of seeming pretentious, to display to her the quality of his mind, his curiosity, his learning, and his attention to detail; he was particularly careful to let her know that he was familiar with the Strindberg text, because he wanted to distance himself in her eyes from the magazine he worked for. It was merely a temporary job; his goals were much higher than that.
They were interrupted several times by the telephone. Each time she left the room rather than let her answering machine take a message; she was waiting for an important call. After an hour he discerned from certain signs that she had other business to attend to.
He stood up and apologized for taking up so much of her time.
“No, no, on the contrary, I really enjoyed our time together.”
She led him to the door and once again took his hand. “I hope we’re going to see each other again.”
“I’d like that very much,” he said simply, turning a deeper shade of scarlet.
She pretended not to notice his discomfort, or perhaps really didn’t notice it, since she stood in the doorway, motionless, her mind apparently elsewhere, as though she were searching for the right words to say something that could be awkward.
“Charles,” she finally said, “would you allow me to… even though I know it’s none of my business — tell you something … actually, to suggest something to you… I don’t quite know how to put this… to give you some friendly advice, let’s say…?”
“Yes, of course,” Charles replied, a bit worried.
“I don’t mean to offend you in any way … You have to promise me you won’t be angry with me because of what I say, because I’m only saying it out of friendship, believe me.”
She reached up to touch his cheek.
“I promise not to be angry,” he said meekly, the hint of a smile on his lips.
“It’s about your work, Charles …”
“You think the magazine I work for is a piece of crap, is that it?” he said with an air of bravado.
“Well, it’s not a very good magazine. It doesn’t seem to me to be the right kind of work for someone like you, who is … You’re much better than that, Charles, believe me … I’ve always known it, even though I didn’t know you very well, but this afternoon it was suddenly very clear to me! You have to quit that place … You’re going to fritter away your talent… You are a very nice person, Charles, and people like you don’t grow on trees. Don’t laugh, it’s true … I’ve only met two or three like you in my life … I would hate it if you sank into the abyss, do you know what I’m saying? … And you could very easily sink into the abyss, you know, I’ve seen it happen … it happened to me, as you know…”
Charles listened to her, ravished. The same “friendly advice” coming from someone else would no doubt have elicited a terse reply, but on Brigitte Loiseau’s lips it was turned into a compliment, the most delicious compliment, one that he would savour for weeks to come and that, though it was not a declaration of love, at least gave him some consolation for love’s absence — which he found to be quite understandable, since he now frilly apprehended the folly of his aspirations.
“Don’t worry,” he said softly, “I have no intention of rotting to death at Artist’s Life, but I do have to make a living, right? And so far nothing better has come along.”
She gave him a long look and smiled, and it seemed to him that there was more than just friendly concern in her expression.
“I’m sure something better will come along, Charles. If I can help in any way, any way at all, just let me know, please. It would give me so much pleasure. After all, I do know a few people.”
She leaned forward and kissed him on both cheeks.
It was the first time in his short career as a journalist that an interview had ended in such a delectable fashion.
At a quarter to five, fate gave Charles his second nudge of the day, this time in a somewhat more energetic and also, to put it plainly, much less agreeable way.
After having spent an hour in a café on rue Van Home, in Outremont, listening to his interview with Brigitte Loiseau and making notes for his article, he walked down to rue de l’Épée to meet with Amélie Michaud, who was now once again Amélie Bourque. She lived in a modest, two-storey apartment building whose main entrance — a simple arch over a varnished wooden door with bevelled squares and a granite casing — announced that the notary’s former wife retained some of the advantages of her former social status.
Charles found her to be terribly aged in her eternal turban. From somewhere in the apartment a raucous voice kept calling, “ASSHOLE!” repeatedly.
“You’re a bit late,” Amélie remarked coldly.
“Didn’t we agree to meet at the end of the afternoon?” Charles said, surprised.
“For me, as for a great many other sensible people, the afternoon begins to end at four o’clock,” she said, motioning him to enter. “But never mind… never mind… It’s all just fly specks.”
“FLY SPECKS! DOG TURDS!” called the raucous voice.
She took a few steps into a room meant to be a sitting room but which had been converted into a kind of storage space, piled with dozens of large cardboard boxes. Then she turned, looked at Charles without speaking, and suddenly a broad smile spread across the wrinkles and ridges of her face, smoothing out her rouged cheeks, and, for several seconds, she looked young again.
“Aren’t you going to give me a hug?” she said.
“A hug? I’m dying to give you a hug,” he replied, putting his arms around her. “I’ve missed you so much, Amélie. I swear it! I don’t know why I haven’t come to see you sooner. You’ve always been so kind to me …”
And she stroked his cheek tenderly.
It had no doubt been some time since a man had shown her such affection. Her face took on a look of delighted astonishment, which lasted for only a brief instant.
“Flatterer, away with you!” she remonstrated, removing herself from his embrace. “You cheeky thing! Women must be falling into your arms by the dozen every day the Good Lord brings.”
“Why do you say that, Amélie?” said Charles, pained. “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be here, would I? Nothing forced me to come, after all.”
“All right,” she muttered, “I know all that.”
Her thoughts drifted off, then she took a good, discerning look at Charles.
“My, how you’ve changed! How much stronger you look! You could be in films, if you wanted to be in films, or giving sermons from a pulpit! You’d convert the world!”
Charles laughed. “Forget the sermons; I’ve had my fill of those, thanks very much!”
“MUCH ADO ABOUT PISS ALL!” called the raucous voice.
“What do you mean?” Amélie asked.
“I worked for a preacher for six months. It cured me once and for all of religion, let me tell you. I’ll tell you all about it some time.”
The old woman was hardly listening, plunged again into her private thoughts.
“You’re more handsome than ever,” she murmured delightedly. “And to think that if I hadn’t called you, I might never have set eyes on you again. You heartless boy! Why haven’t you come to see me?”
“I was meaning to come soon, Amélie, I swear I was. It’s my work, my bloody work! I work like twenty Turks and forty Arabs. I hardly have time to take a shower and get some sleep.” Liar.
“LIAR, LIAR,” shouted the voice, “PANTS ON FIRE!”
There was a series of sharp, dry rattles.
“Ah, Édouard can be a bore at times, and today is one of those times, I’m afraid. He must have been stealing coffee beans from the cupboard. Speaking of which, may I offer you a cup?”
“I’d love one.”
“Good. Come into the kitchen with me. That’s usually where coffee is made, is it not?”
Phew! thought Charles, casting his eyes on the many dark spots that looked like bird droppings marking the tile floor. This is going to be a long visit. I wonder what it is she wants to tell me?
The kitchen, however, was tolerably clean, except that it, too, was crammed with boxes, this time of preserves that occupied almost the entire counter space as well as being piled along the walls. Above one of them hung a cage containing a hideous-looking parrot; half its feathers were missing, and it was sitting immobile, staring down at Charles with large eyes filled with astounded fury. Its lids clacked open and shut from time to time like steel curtains.
“Do you make them yourself?” Charles asked, indicating the boxes of preserves.
“Do we have any choice these days? I hope you make your own, too. There, take the things off that chair and sit down. No, not that one, this one. I’ll take that one. I always avoid sitting with my back to a window.”
Saddened, Charles watched her busy herself at the sink, rinsing cups and the coffee pot with singular haste and agility, as though she had worked all her life in a greasy spoon. What terrible mental calamity has brought her mind to this point? he wondered. And to think that now she is probably under medication!
She started the grinder, and her shrill voice rose above the sound.
“Did Parfait forbid you to come to see me?”
“What?” Charles protested, laughing. “Of course not. Where did you get that idea? No, the responsibility is all mine.”
“RESPONSIBILITY!” the parrot repeated, “EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF!
SAVE THE TIRES!”
And it threw itself against the bars of its cage, attacking the wire ferociously with its beak.
“That’s probably what he told you to say,” she went on, as though to herself. “Ah! It’s all sixes and sevens, what can you do … If he could fix it so that I was locked up for the rest of my days, he’d do it in two seconds … B
ut, heh-heh, he can’t do it!”
Charles loved animals, but as he fixed his eye on the parrot, his hands tightened as though he were thinking of strangling it.
Amélie came up to the table with a tray in her hands and set down two cups, spoons, a sugar bowl, a pitcher of milk, and a plate of cookies. She arranged them carefully and gazed upon the effect with a satisfied eye, then gave an abrupt jump and slapped herself on the forehead with the palm of her hand.
“What on earth was I thinking?” she said. “We’ve been chatting for ten minutes and I still haven’t… You must be wondering…”
She hurried out of the room and came back with a newspaper clipping.
“Here, Charles, read this to me. I’m sure you must have missed it, it came out three days ago in the Outremont Trumpet. I thought it would interest you.”
CANINE SAMARITAN
LAUSANNE. A villager who had got into the habit of feeding his neighbour’s dog has had his generosity spectacularly rewarded by the animal. Seriously wounded in an avalanche while climbing in a crevasse, he owes his life to the diligence of his canine friend, who went off in search of help.
Platonov, a 10-month-old German shepherd, completely untrained in mountain rescue, has become the darling of Switzerland.
He ran to his master and continued barking until he led the man to the scene of the accident.
Albert Wintzner suffered multiple fractures and some internal bleeding, and is resting comfortably in the hospital following his misadventure.
Charles read the article twice, then gave the old woman a startled look.
“Um, this is … very interesting… He’s an amazing dog, this … Platonov … very intelligent…” He swallowed, and added weakly, “Is this why you asked me to come here?”
Amélie Bourque laughed out loud.
“Are you crazy? I haven’t completely lost my mind, you know! I’m fully aware, for example, that one doesn’t waste busy people’s time over such trifles. No. I saved that article because I thought you’d find it interesting, that’s all.”
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