The American Fiancee

by Eric Dupont

  “Aren’t you going to get changed?”

  “I forgot my gym clothes.”

  We spoke in French, and Stella spoke it quite well, better than the other girls in her class at any rate. She would never look me in the eye, which annoyed me no end at the start. When the others came back from getting changed, I had them warm up and then we organized a volleyball game. Little Stella stood beside the net like a martyr in a Roman arena. She showed absolutely no interest in the ball, instead doing her best to avoid it at all costs. The others rolled their eyes every time she failed to send the ball back. When it was her turn to serve, another girl shouted: “She won’t be able to, Mr. Lamontagne. She’s too much of a klutz!” And wasn’t that the truth. Stella only managed to make contact with the ball about half the time, grunting and groaning as she did, much to her teammates’ despair. Eventually she went to sit back down on the bench, looking glum. I told her to come back, but she just stared at the floor. “Never mind her, sir,” the other girls said. “She’s always like that.” So the game went on without Stella. One of the stronger girls then launched a rocket of a serve. There was no way to tell if she meant to or not, but the ball shot across the court, striking Stella right between the eyes. The little Greek girl tumbled backward off the bench, where she’d been busily gnawing her nails. As she fell, her checked skirt rode up over her belly, revealing a pair of immaculate white panties. The others laughed themselves silly, then, realizing she was unconscious, began to look frightened. Their concern spoke volumes about Stella’s importance to Holy Canadian Martyrs.

  I ran over to her. Fortunately she was still breathing. The ball had knocked her senseless, that was all. She lay there on the floor, arms splayed and eyes closed.

  “Stella! Stella! Are you okay?” I asked, pinching her cheeks.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes. She looked at me as though the Virgin Mary herself had suddenly appeared before her.

  “The Archangel!” she gasped.

  The others sighed with relief. It was then that I realized that Stella held a special place at the school, perhaps even in their hearts.

  “I’ll take you to the secretary’s office, Stella.”

  “I can’t get up.”

  I had to carry her like a child. Despite her chubbiness, she wasn’t especially heavy, not to me anyway.

  Zira almost fainted when I came into the secretary’s office with a dazed-looking Stella in my arms.

  “Oh my God! What happened to Stella?”

  She called an ambulance right away, along with Stella’s mom. At the hospital, they realized she was more shaken up than hurt. She’d come out of it with no more than a bump on her forehead and the shame of having flashed her underwear at her classmates. That was the day I met Mrs. Thanatopoulos. I could tell you the exact time we met, the way women remember precisely at what time they gave birth to their first child. After class, Zira called me to the secretary’s office over the PA system. Mrs. Delvecchio and Mrs. Thanatopoulos were waiting for me there. Stella’s mother was a tiny little woman. She looked like a plumper version of Nana Mouskouri and wore the same glasses. Carefully and impeccably made-up. A classic yet modern hairstyle. The anachronistic, enticing elegance of the Old World, with a dash of Asia Minor. Her daughter’s antonym—or perhaps her future?

  “Mrs. Thanatopoulos would like to talk to you,” the principal told me, before leaving us alone in a small room next to the secretary’s office.

  I expected her to tear a strip off me, threaten to sue me, have me fired, decapitate me with a shovel, roast me on a spit for Orthodox Easter. She sat opposite me, her handbag on her lap. Judging by the way she was dressed, I could tell Mrs. Thanatopoulos wasn’t short of money. Everything about her exuded money, old money, the type that can’t be hidden. The way she carried herself made it clear that, before coming to Toronto, her parents hadn’t exactly been herding goats on Mount Olympus. They’d come to Canada through the main door and had a grand old time of things there. Her husband, she explained, was a successful businessman who’d died of a heart attack when little Stella was only five. Overweight. “A Greek disease,” by her own admission. The child had barely any memories of her father since he’d split most of his time between London and New York, where he worked in banking. He’d settled his wife and daughter in Canada because he found American cities, especially New York, overly vulgar and overly dangerous. He’d been won over by Toronto’s good manners in the 1970s. When he died, his wife decided to stay in Canada so that her daughter could learn English and finish school. After that she was set on returning to Athens, where she’d grown up. Mrs. Thanatopoulos spoke almost flawless English, with the accent of Melina Mercouri. She had never managed, for example, to bring her r’s under control, or perhaps she had and pretended otherwise to make herself adorable. She’d understood that displaying her imperfections was the way to win me over.

  “Bless your soul, Meesterrr Lamontagne. God bless you for coming to this school!”

  I was a little taken aback, still expecting to be in serious trouble for having almost allowed her daughter to be murdered in gym glass, and here she was blessing me!

  “I am really very sorry about this afternoon. How’s Stella?”

  “Stella’s fine, thank God! I left her at home. A little ice on her forehead and she’ll be fine by tomorrow. She’s told me a lot about you.”

  I wondered what she might have said. We’d seen each other for an hour at most.

  “She says you’re verrry nice, verrry polite to her. My little Stella is a very particular child, you know.”

  So I’d already noticed. And I would have liked to ask her mother why she let her daughter go to school with those dreadful braids and stupid glasses.

  “My little Stella works verrry hard. She has her nose buried in a book morning, noon, and night, only taking a break for her music lessons. Her dictionary is her pillow.”

  “She plays piano?”

  “No, she sings. You’ll be able to hear her soon enough. She sings at everrry school mass, but I have higher hopes for her.”

  As soon as she said she sang, I almost mentioned you, but then I thought better of it. I’m not exactly dying for everyone to find out I’m Madeleine Lamontagne’s son. She shut her own parents out of her own life; I don’t see why I should keep her in mine.

  “The Good Lord has given my daughter a most wonderrrful gift: the voice of an angel. But as you perhaps already know, it takes more than that to make a careerrr of it.”

  “Yes. It takes discipline and a good deal of patience.”

  “Those she has already. I mean something else.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You’ve surrrely noticed that Stella is still . . . umm . . . how to put it . . . a little girl.”

  “She’ll grow up.”

  “I’d like her to slim down,” she replied, pursing her lips.

  “But why? What’s that got to do with singing?”

  Mrs. Thanatopoulos took a deep breath.

  “Meesterrrrr Lamontagne, the Lord has blessed you with the body of a god. Just take a look at yourself!”

  “Thank you,” I said, refraining from adding that it was actually more thanks to the many hours I spent in the gym. It would have been impolite to correct a student’s mother.

  “I think my little Stella has everything it takes to become a diva, a diva who will redefine the verrry notion of stardom. But first she must understand that she has to sing with her whole body, and that body must be appealing to the audience. She must be desirable, other women must want to be her and men must want to have her. Right now she’s still an ugly duckling. I am humbly begging you to help me make a woman of her.”

  I almost fell off my chair. Make a woman of Stella?

  “I might be rrreligious, but I’m not too naive to realize that Stella isn’t fully in possession of her own body. She needs to lose weight and learn how to love herself. You seem so comfortable with your own body, Meesterrr Lamontagne. You can help her. She
already admires you. She told me so. ‘Momma, he’s the handsomest man on the face of the earth,’ she said. ‘He has the charm of an angel and the body of a god.’ What do you say, Meesterrr Lamontagne?”

  “Mrs. Thanatopoulos. I’m a gym teacher, not a private trainer. Your daughter can join a swim club or take up jogging. I can give her advice, but the will to change has to come from within. And, to be honest, I’m not sure you’re going about it the right way . . .”

  Mrs. Thanatopoulos took a thick brown envelope out of her purse.

  “We can start off like thees. There will be other envelopes, God willing. One for every kilo you help Stella lose.”

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’m all for singers losing a few pounds to look better, but it has to come from them. Mrs. Thanatopoulos set the envelope on the table, stood up, and walked out, leaving behind her address on a scrap of paper.

  “Come over Saturday morning at ten. Thank you for your time. Have a good day, Meesterrr Lamontagne.”

  I went back to the staff room in a daze. There was a thousand dollars in the envelope. In spite of myself, I started working out just how many kilos Stella would have to lose to be transformed into a graceful diva. Ten? No, fifteen! Maybe even twenty thousand dollars if I really helped her shed the pounds. Enough to pay off my student loan.

  A week passed. I’d become friends with the school librarian, Jodi, who was from Thunder Bay. She was a tall and charming blonde who bore a passing resemblance to Jodie Foster. I told her about Stella.

  “I’d go for it if I were you. You don’t have much choice anyways.”

  “How come?”

  “Holy Canadian Martyrs isn’t like other schools. It’s funded by the government, sure, just like every other Catholic school in Ontario, but it also relies on private donations, including from Mrs. Thanatopoulos.”

  “You mean that if I refuse to play ball, she might stop giving the school money?”

  “No, that’s not it. She’ll keep giving the school money, but with certain conditions attached.”

  “Such as . . . ?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. Didn’t you ever wonder why your predecessor left?”

  “He was gay, and a good Catholic school was having none of it, right?”

  “Nope. Lemon was gay, sure, and everyone knew it. But as long as he kept quiet about it, nobody cared. He was just fine until the day he refused Mrs. Thanatopoulos a favor.”

  “What sort of favor?”

  “Exactly the same thing she asked you! To help her little piglet lose a few pounds!”

  “That’s why he was fired?”

  “Not exactly, but let’s just say that Mrs. Thanatopoulos went out of her way to make sure everyone knew he was gay. I think she might also have had her eye on him, and he refused her advances. It was crazy . . . Listen, Gabriel, you need to be careful at Holy Canadian Martyrs. People here can be too Catholic for their own good. If I were you, I’d go jogging with her little bundle of lard three times a week and be done with it. She’s paying you a bundle, too! Ha! Ha! See what I did there? Everyone’s a winner. Do you know what it’s like being fat in high school? The girl’s going through hell!”

  “Who else should I keep an eye on, Jodi?”

  “Robinson, the Irishwoman. She’s nuts! Northern Irish Catholics are the worst. After the Poles, that is. Then there’s the old Swiss guy who teaches French. Stay well clear of him. He’s a real stinker. Delvecchio, the principal, might appear to go at everything like a tank, but she’s got more common sense than she lets on. Rumor has it she’s gay, so you’re out of luck there! Oh yeah, and Zbornak, the math teacher. I’m not sure about him either. Just keep in mind that Zira is probably the most genuine of the whole bunch. After me, of course. That goes without saying.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “One more thing, my little Angel Gabriel: anything goes in Ontario’s Catholic schools, as long as you don’t get caught. Don’t mention abortion, homosexuality, common-law unions, soft drugs, sex, or alcohol and you’ll be fine.”

  “But they all drink, even Robinson! I’m sure of it!”

  “You still don’t get it. Every teacher hired by a Catholic school has to provide a letter of recommendation from a priest. You’ve got one, right? You know, a letter proving you’re a good Catholic and all.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Keep it safe. That’s your passport. Everyone here has a letter like that. Some of them are forged, like mine. I’m not even Catholic, but I needed the work. So I dreamed up a priest in Manitoba and my letter passed muster. Don’t breathe a word of it to anyone or they’ll fire me on the spot! Just imagine! A Protestant! An anti-papist wretch making reading suggestions to pure Catholic souls. Even the janitor has to be Catholic! If ever he wasn’t and the parents were to find out . . .”

  “That’s not even legal!”

  “But that’s the thing. It’s all perfectly legal. It’s like living under a pain-in-the-ass political regime: it has its pros and cons. At least we have a job, it’s a good school, we’re left to get on with things. As long as everything seems above board, no one’s going to go around accusing anyone of being a bad teacher or being incompetent. Being Catholic is enough. But the regime has its downsides, too. Woe betide anyone who isn’t careful to hide the things that must always remain out of sight. In other words, Gabriel, if ever you’re tempted to go pay the boys of Church Street a visit and have a bit too much of a good time, I’d advise you to keep your mouth shut. Fuck all the women you like, but keep your hands off the boys. You don’t want the priests giving you a hard time, believe me! Forget Montreal, you’re in Ontario now! This is God’s country! Oh and one last thing, just imagine one of our little idiots comes up to you. She’s distraught. Turns out she’s pregnant. She’s eighteen and wants your advice. What do you do?”

  “Uh, send her to see the psychologist?”

  “Right answer: two points! Now, the girl asks if you know a doctor who might be able to help. What do you say?”

  “Look in the Yellow Pages?”

  “Bang, bang, you’re dead! You cross yourself, you tell her you don’t know a soul, and you turn and run! And when they give you the Gestapo treatment to find out what you told her, you say you never met her. That’s what you do. Got it?”

  “I run off to Church Street?”

  “You really are an idiot, aren’t you? Now, care for a little hashish?”

  Jodi was cool, all the same. She invited me over. I figured it was to encourage me to stay on the straight and narrow and help me survive Ontario’s Catholic school system.

  “I’m cooking chicken tonight, if you’re up for a bit of thigh. I live on Bloor Street, not far from your place.”

  Jodi had a twisted sense of humor. She lived in the Annex, one of Toronto’s swankiest neighborhoods. She shared a small apartment with a girl from British Columbia. They lived on the second floor of a house, above a Chinese family. Her apartment permanently smelled of garlic and ginger. I went over a few times, then one morning she got up and announced we should just be friends. I was all in favor, to be honest. They do say you shouldn’t sleep with colleagues. “Dogs don’t eat where they shit,” was how she put it. I agreed, especially since she didn’t have the talents of my first English teacher, Caroline from Saskatchewan.

  “So, Gabriel, why don’t I make you eggs, then you can fuck off,” she said to me that last morning.

  While she was cooking the eggs, I swiped Jeannette Winterson’s Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit. It’s not bad, just a little sad. It’s the story of an English girl growing up in a Christian fundamentalist family. The thing is she becomes a lesbian and her mother decides she’s possessed. She even has her exorcised. It reminded me of Mom having us go to confession three times a year. Maybe you think I’m always banging the same drum, but in my defense I’ve never seen the like of it anywhere else. Maybe among particularly devout immigrant families. Perhaps Stella had a confessor to turn to? I’d soon find out fo
r myself.

  That Saturday, I got up early to work out before going over to Mrs. Thanatopoulos’s. She lived pretty far away, in a big, fancy house in Don Mills. A BMW in the open garage. It was Mrs. Thanatopoulos who met me at the door.

  “Ah! Meesterrr Lamontagne . . . I knew you’d be on time. Stella is waiting for you.”

  I was expecting to find her still in her pajamas, still half asleep after a typical teenager’s long night in bed. As it turned out, she’d just finished two hours of music theory with her teacher, who was still sitting before a gleaming Bösendorfer. Stella was delighted to see me. She was still wearing her huge black glasses and those awful braids of hers. The music teacher was a little bald man. He said hello politely and left, humming the melody that Stella had just been practicing. Mrs. Thanatopoulos was keen to sit in on our first meeting, which involved going through Stella’s diet. Sweeping changes were in order. As I talked to the mother and daughter, I realized that Stella had been fattened up on Greek cooking: greasy meats, all-you-can-eat baklavas, full fat yogurt, and what have you. I put together a more spartan diet for her there and then. Her mother didn’t bat an eyelid. I think if I’d ordered her to feed her daughter nothing but spinach and water for three months, she wouldn’t have asked any questions. Then I asked Stella to change into her gym clothes. She disappeared for a few minutes. Alone with her mother, I put her determination to the test.