CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The drive to Wendake is dark and full of trepidation.
What if I’m doing the wrong thing?
What if my approaching Madame Laframboise prompts some kind of freak-out or meltdown? What if she loses her job because a random stranger caused her to collapse in a heap of tears on the restaurant floor?
‘I meant to ask,’ Annique interrupts my frettings. ‘did you get a chance to visit Le Sachem?’
‘I did,’ I confirm. ‘I think that’s the first time I’ve seen a dream catcher outside of a New Age store.’
I found it almost surreal to be handling authentic moccasins (made from butter-soft suede) and rough woven rugs and Hiawatha dolls with leather-laced braids. My cousin had one of these as a child and I remember thinking she knocked spots off pale, stick-like Barbie with her beautiful big dark eyes and fringed dress.
Even after visiting Harricana earlier in the day, I wasn’t prepared for an entire wall of trapper hats – coyote, fox, muskrat, racoon, beaver and pure white rabbit: they had them all. There was even a pair of drop earrings with a fluffy bauble of mink at the end.
But the thing that stopped me in my tracks was the way a parent, a dad, dealt with his toddler when he nearly toppled the stuffed bear.
Instead of yanking his son away and bundling him out of the shop in an angry huff, he knelt by his side so he was at eye level and then softly said, ‘Remember we spoke about this – you must treat everything around you with care and respect.’
‘Care and respect,’ the child repeated.
My jaw dropped. No wonder everyone here grows up to be so genteel!
All I ever got was the ‘If you break anything, it’s coming out of your pocket money’ speech.
Even in all my imaginings about having a well-mannered child I never thought about introducing the concept of respect before they could even spell it. That’s deep.
‘Did you buy anything?’ Annique asks.
I tell her that if my grandmother was still alive I would have got her one of the little white bear ornaments, seemingly etched from a gritty salt block, with an onyx fish in its mouth. I did buy a box of herbal tea for Laurie because the name gave me a giggle – nothing wrong with Chief’s Delight or Warrior’s Brew but Teepee Dreams?! – I think the marketing department might want to rethink printing the word ‘pee’ alongside ‘dreams’.
And then I got a selection of the incense sticks for myself. I actually lit the maple one before I left the hotel and wafted it over me in lieu of perfume because apparently Amerindians use it for ‘meetings’ on account of it producing ‘a warm ambiance as it purifies negative elements in the air’.
I don’t mention this to Annique, though, in case she thinks I’ve lost the plot.
‘Wendake!’ Annique confirms our arrival by pointing to a stop sign printed with both French ‘Arrêt’ and Huron ‘Seten’.
I had prepared myself for a rundown community offering only the most basic living conditions, but it turns out that the Huron-Wendats are one of the most prosperous First Nation tribes in the country.
‘And why is that?’ I want to know.
‘Well, they were always into trading whereas other tribes’ skills, like hunting, have proved less profitable over the years.’ And then she turns to me. ‘Did you know that the Mohawk have such a good head for heights that they are always the first choice for any skyscraper building projects?’
‘I did not,’ I smile, fascinated. ‘Oh look – they even have a beauty parlour!’
The sign has a Victorian style to it and the wooden building, complete with front porch, is positively chintzy.
But a few feet away is a dramatic waterfall – the Kabir Kouba – plunging over forty feet.
‘Let me quickly show you this church.’ Annique pulls over to the side of the road. ‘Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.’
‘Are you sure it’s okay for us to go in?’ I hesitate before I leave the car.
‘It’s fine, we are not interrupting a service.’
Inside I’m surprised both by the homeliness of the place and the curious mix of Catholic and First Nation detail – Jesus figurines and ornate incense swingers suspended alongside animal-skin drums and a portrait of a raven-haired woman with a beaded headband. Best of all, there’s a pair of snowshoes propped against the altar.
‘The Church of the Sacred Snowshoe!’ I smile delightedly.
‘It’s such a fascinating culture, isn’t it?’ Annique sighs. ‘So earthy, so spiritual.’
‘You know when I was little, I knew absolutely nothing about the suffering of the people, even with all the cowboy and Indian shows on TV. I always thought the bow and arrow was cooler than a gun. That riding bareback was preferable to driving a rickety old wagon. All I knew for sure was that I wanted long black hair and a fringed skirt and a feather headband. Even now my only real education is Dances With Wolves.’
‘There is a lot to know. Every tribe is so different.’
‘And there’s so many of them! There was this song by Adam & The Ants and they listed a whole string of names: Blackfoot, Pawnee, Cheyenne, Crow, Apache, Arapaho … ’ I recall. ‘I never even heard of Huron-Wendat before!’
‘Do you know where their name comes from?’
I shake my head.
‘Well huron is from a French word for wild boar because the European explorers thought their hairstyle resembled its tufty bristles!’
‘Really?’ I say. ‘Can’t think why the local beauty parlour didn’t adopt that as their motif!’
Annique tinkles a laugh and then takes my arm. ‘Come on!’
And so we proceed to the Hotel-Musée Premières Nations, home to Restaurant La Traite, meaning The Treaty.
Let’s hope it’s a peaceful one …
I know there are motels in America with cement tepees for rooms. It isn’t that I was expecting that exactly, but I certainly wasn’t prepared for a swish boutique establishment straight from the pages of a Hip Hotels coffee-table book.
The lobby is sleek, spacious and smells wonderful, be it fresh pine needles or cedar wood or their own designer incense. We naturally gravitate towards the firepit set beside floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the moonlit snowscape.
‘Ahhhh,’ we sigh in unison, infused with a sense of calm wellbeing.
‘Shall we sit for a moment before dinner?’ Annique suggests.
The sofas and armchairs are draped with wolf furs. Though personally I prefer my antimacassars without tails and paws, it does feel an honour to be able to see the plush cream/black/amber brushstroke-effect of their coat up close.
‘Hors d’oeuvres?’
A young man appears with a wooden platter set with three perfectly presented options – the first is a spring roll. ‘Duck,’ he tells us. The little tartlet Annique identifies as elk, but my hand is already reaching for number three, a purplish concoction decorated with a bright yellow flower.
The delicacy is halfway to my mouth when he says the word, ‘Seal.’
‘Seal?’ I look at Annique, wondering if there’s some mistake in translation. ‘Not the fluffy little sea mammal with coal-black eyes and a smudgy nose? Not that seal!’
She hands me a napkin.
Now my trepidation extends to the menu. With due cause.
It comes to something when bison seems like the safe choice.
‘I can’t do escargot,’ I blanch. ‘Or eel. Especially since that comes with fiddleheads, whatever that is.’
‘It’s a fern,’ Annique quells my wild imaginings.
‘What is wapiti steak?’
‘A kind of elk.’
‘I think no to the red deer. I wished I liked salmon because I like the sound of the pear liqueur and wild blueberry marmalade … ’
‘I think I’ll have the rabbit with the pumpkin puree and arnica jelly,’ Annique decides.
‘Oh no … ’
‘What?’
My eye has strayed to the desserts where I see ‘fondant chocolate
au parfum’ – so far so good – but it comes with ‘Infusion au thé du Labrador’.
‘Just how exactly do they extract tea from a Labrador?’ I wince, fearful of seeing ‘Carpaccio of Husky’ or ‘Samoyed Surprise’ on the next page.
Annique tuts at me. ‘Labrador is not the dog, it is a northern region of Canada. Where the Inuit live. The tea is herbal. You’ll like it.’
‘Oh.’
She gets to her feet. ‘I think we should go down to the restaurant before you chicken out.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ I mutter under my breath. I’ll never take chicken for granted again.
As we wait to be seated, our eyes scan the room looking for a woman in her fifties to sixties with Laframboise on her nametag.
Suddenly Annique pinches me, ‘There she is!’ She nods towards a short, neat woman with dark hair.
For a second I think she is headed right for us, but at the last minute she diverts to a more central table and we in turn are assigned a male waiter.
‘If it’s all right to ask,’ I venture as we cross the room, ‘which tribe you are?’
‘Huron-Wendat,’ he replies.
‘And this girl?’ I point to a passing waitress.
‘She is Iroquois.’
‘And her?’ I enquire, heart juddering as I single out Madame Laframboise.
‘Huron-Wendat.’
‘Ohhh,’ I give a significant look at Annique. We’re in. She’ll be able to speak French. ‘Very interesting, thank you.’
‘Enjoy.’
As it happens, we do. Despite my fears, the food is cooked so impeccably and the flavours are so intense, I now find the menu extraordinary in a positive way. It doesn’t hurt that we have a bottle of the local Cuvée Natashquan Seyval Blanc to wash it down. Well, we needed a hair of the dog, and a way of lingering until Madame Laframboise finishes her shift.
And then, as she is savouring her dessert of maple fondue, Annique says, ‘My daughter would love this!’
‘I didn’t know you were a mum!’
She nods. ‘To Coco. She’s now five.’
‘Coco?’ I perk up. ‘What a lovely name!’
‘You know, I almost was not allowed to call her that … ’
‘Who by?’ I frown.
‘The government.’ Her voice darkens.
‘The government?’ I repeat, baffled.
‘They wrote to me when I registered her birth and they told me that they had no record of any other Coco in the province of Quebec and therefore I was leaving her open to ridicule.’
‘But what about Coco Chanel?’ I protest. ‘She couldn’t be any more French!’
‘I know! But here I was the first and they told me that unless I could defend my choice of the name, in writing, I would have to change it.’
‘Outrageous!’ I gasp. ‘But you did convince them?’
‘I did. So now it is quite the name to live up to!’
‘And is she … living up to it?’
‘Oh yes, she takes after her grandmother on my side – plenty of personality to carry it off!’ She reaches into her bag and flips out a photograph.
‘She looks so smart!’ I grin. And then hope Annique doesn’t mistake this for a euphemism for her child being unattractive – it’s just that she has one of those particularly alert expressions, as if she knows exactly what is going on and may well be able to outwit all the grown-ups. ‘She’s very cute,’ I add for good measure.
‘Of course I agree.’ Her pride is unmistakable.
I pause while our waiter tops up our wine and then ask, in all sincerity, ‘What’s it like, really, to have a child?’
She studies me for a moment and then says, ‘It’s complicated. At least for me, my situation, with Mason … ’
‘The ex?’
‘Yes.’ She looks immediately burdened. ‘That is the hardest part. I don’t think he ever really wanted to be a father. He knew how much I wanted to be a mother and he went along with the process but … how can I say this? It was not a good fit with the image he has of himself. He likes the finer things in life and children put sticky fingers on those things.’
I give a little smile.
‘Children are not glamorous. Everything is reduced to basic human function – pooping and peeing and vomiting. High temperatures, coughs, rashes – all these elements he found … irritating, distasteful … ’
‘Oh gosh. So he wasn’t very hands-on?’
‘Not at all. If he’d had his way I would have kept her hidden until she could intern at his business. Or if she came top of class he could say, “That’s my girl, she takes after me!” but we didn’t get to that stage. And it wasn’t only Coco. He didn’t like the change in my appearance. He didn’t like the attention away from him. He didn’t like the inconvenience of having to book babysitters or attend school meetings … ’
‘Gosh, that must have been so hard for you – not being able to share anything with him, good and bad.’
‘I used to get so upset for Coco – that her father wouldn’t play with her, wouldn’t cuddle her, wouldn’t twirl her up in the air and make her feel like a princess … ’
I nod.
‘I spent too much time wishing for him to be different, wishing for him to love her like I did. She delights me every day, surprises me every day – how could he not see what I saw? Feel what I feel?’
‘That must have been very lonely.’
She gives a little shrug. ‘I think it bonded me with her all the more. We were kindred spirits and he was the grumpy man who came home and spoiled our fun. It is such a relief to be away from him and yet of course we must be in constant contact for the custody.’
‘Did he even want to share that?’
‘That was the strange part – he fought me for her every step of the way. I think because he knew that she was most precious to me and I would agree to virtually anything to have more time with her.’
‘Leverage,’ I tut.
She nods. ‘So now I must see him once a month and all he does is criticise how I raise her.’
I frown. I can’t imagine Annique being anything but a wonderful mother – clever, encouraging, warm, fun – with fantastic shoes to totter around in.
‘He is very particular. About everything. He sends me emails commenting on the style of her new clothes or telling me that I need to start taking her to ballet three times a week … ’
I feel a flare of anger and frustration on Annique’s behalf that she should be tied to such negative energy and make a mental note to get her some fir incense sticks. It amazes me that even a woman of Annique’s beauty and calibre can wind up with the sticky end of the lollipop. None of us are exempt, it seems.
‘I keep wanting to believe in happy endings,’ I say. ‘But it’s so hard. Especially when the ones that get off to the greatest start so often go awry.’
‘I would never have predicted I would become a single mother,’ Annique acknowledges. ‘But I had to leave him for Coco. I did not want her living in an environment where she did not feel wanted. She could be standing right in front of him and he wouldn’t even look at her.’
‘I think you’ve been very brave,’ I tell her. ‘And you definitely made the right choice.’
I pause our conversation to order a glass of the corn beer – just to try! – while Annique settles for a coffee. And then I cock my head to the side. ‘So what about Gilles? Is it very different with him?’
‘Well, he’s a lot better-looking than Mason,’ she laughs. ‘But he is hard to read. And another workaholic,’ she concedes. ‘His photography consumes him.’
‘You wouldn’t mind coming second?’
‘Not to something I can also enjoy. I take pleasure in his work. I think he is an artist. I like the creative people.’
‘Maybe you two could “create” a sibling for Coco?’
At this she falters. ‘I don’t know if this is coincidence, but he has been a little distant since I mentioned her. Of course today I hav
e not seen him alone—’
‘Tomorrow will be better,’ I assert.
‘You think so?’
‘I do.’ Not least because he has now been relieved of any guilt in my direction and can now focus purely on her. ‘By the way, are you entering the Snow Bath?’
‘Nooooooo!’ she scolds.
‘I think you should.’
‘Why?’
‘With your figure, are you kidding? You’d be the belle of the ball, and you know nothing reignites a man’s passion more than to see his lady appreciated by others.’
She thinks for a moment. ‘I do have a lucky bikini!’
‘Well then!’
‘Only if you do it with me.’
‘Oh!’ I choke. ‘I’m strictly on the sidelines on this one.’
‘But Krista,’ she pouts. ‘What is the fun in just watching a party?’
Direct hit to my Achilles heel. But I don’t even have a swimming costume.
‘I can lend you one,’ Annique offers.
‘Oh yes, because we’re exactly the same size.’
‘I have been many sizes in my life, trust me, I have a one-piece that will fit you just right.’
‘Well … ’
‘Come on, it could be such fun! We’ll have a little liqueur first.’
‘How can you even think about liqueurs after last night?’
‘This is different. They make it in my birthplace of Isle-aux-Coudres, so I know exactly what is in it and it doesn’t hurt you the next day.’
Perhaps it’s the corn beer or the camaraderie or the fact that I owe her for giving up a night with Gilles to come meddling with me, but I agree, fool that I am, to prance near-naked alongside a supermodel in the snow.
We talk a little more about Coco but I don’t mention my situation because I don’t want Annique to feel awkward. For some reason I find it comforting to hear her talk. I think it’s because she’s so honest. Listening to her, I realise we all have our issues to deal with – nobody’s life is perfect. I certainly don’t envy her her continued contact with her ex; at least I never have to see Andrew again. There would be no point anyway – the man I married, the man who loved me, is long gone.
I look up. ‘Are we the last table?’
WINTER WONDERLAND Page 13