Charles the Bold

by Yves Beauchemin

  Charles nodded again. His cheeks turned red, his eyes narrowed, and the tendons in his throat stood out sharply.

  “He told me my father was coming back to Montreal and that you’ll have to spend a lot of money for me not to have to go live with him. He said my father’s looking for a way to make money off me – either that or he’s gone crazy because of religion or something like that. If you can’t get him to agree to let me stay here, he said I’d have to go see a judge and hire lawyers and do all kinds of complicated things that cost a lot of money.”

  He leapt up from his bed and ran to Lucie, throwing his arms around her waist and pressing his face into her chest. She began smoothing his hair.

  “There, there, my little Charlie,” she said softly, her eyes filling with tears. “Don’t you worry about a thing, everything is going to turn out just fine. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t want you to have to spend a lot of money for me,” Charles sobbed, taking in great gulps of air. “You can’t afford it any more.”

  At these words she took him by the shoulders and, holding him away from her, looked deep into his eyes.

  “Where did you get that idea from? Eh?”

  “Fernand said so himself.”

  He told her what Fernand had said at dinner.

  She began to laugh. But the laugh sounded a bit forced.

  “My poor child, if we went around taking seriously everything Fernand says when he’s tired there wouldn’t be a tear left in our bodies! He’s told me we’re bankrupt at least ten times since we’ve been married. One bad night’s sleep, two or three setbacks, and it’s the end of the world. He forgets all about it the next day.” To herself she added: Whatever possessed me to send him to Michaud’s, I’d have done a better job myself. “Listen to me, Charles. I forbid you, do you hear me, I absolutely forbid you to worry yourself over questions of money. Thanks be to God we’ve always had enough to get by, and unless we both become as dumb as posts, we’ll stay that way. All I wanted Parfait Michaud to do was explain all those legal questions that were too complicated for us, that’s all.”

  Charles gave a somewhat sardonic smile.

  “They seemed to be too complicated for him, too.”

  “Well, I was wrong and I’m sorry. He’s just a notary public, after all, not a real lawyer. Sometimes we expect too much from educated people. They still have five toes on their feet like everyone else, and one head on their shoulders – if they’d only use it!”

  She looked at him again, holding his gaze.

  “Are you feeling better now?”

  He nodded, both to please her and because he was tired of the discussion.

  She smiled at him and turned to leave. Then she turned back: “There’s one thing I want to say before I go, Charles. One thing I’ve learned in my life, and you’ll learn it, too, as you grow up, is that money is always the least of our problems.”

  And having delivered herself of this philosophical observation, she pinched his nose and left the room.

  Charles did manage to calm himself. The prospect of his father’s return gradually became less and less of a threat and seemed just one of a number of possibilities, none of which concerned him directly. The evening after his meeting with the notary he had a long talk in the living room with Fernand. The hardware-store owner began the whole discussion by saying he had a bone to pick with Parfait Michaud; the notary “got the whole thing bassackwards,” and ended up upsetting Charles for no good reason, because all this business about adopting him would work itself out “like a fart from a work-horse.” As for Fafard & Sons’ supposed financial difficulties, he told Charles not to give it another thought.

  “There are always ups and downs in business, my boy. That’s the name of the game. We’ve been going through a bad patch, but there’s light at the end of the tunnel just as sure as the Queen of England sits on her throne twice a day like the rest of us. I’ve seen worse, and I’ll see it again. What you’ve got to remember first and foremost and above all else is that we love you like you were our own son, and we will never, and I mean never, do you hear me? never let you leave this place. Unless of course you tell us yourself that you want to leave. Can you please get that into your coconut once and for all?”

  “I’ll try,” Charles said, smiling brightly with a prickling feeling in his throat.

  A few moments later, Céline called Charles into her room and, after swearing him to secrecy, told him she’d overheard what Lucie had said to him that afternoon.

  “You’re too nice to ever leave here, Charles,” she said, taking him by the hand. “Mama is crazy about you, Papa too, and me, I love you very much. So don’t be sad. Smile like you always do, Charles. Smile all the time.”

  All these marks of affection made Charles feel a little drunk, a bit like he was floating on air. He had never felt so wanted. To have had such a terrible man for a father now seemed to him to have been a piece of good luck, since it had allowed him to find this marvellous new family. The matter of his adoption, however, with all the costs it was likely to entail, still hung like a shadow over his summer vacation. Despite what anyone said, Charles felt more and more unhappy about adding to the worries of Fernand and his family. He thought about offering them his own savings, but he didn’t, because he was sure they would refuse them. One night in July when he and Henri were on their way home from swimming, Henri noticed that Charles was very quiet, guessed the reason and tried to cheer him up, in his own rough fashion.

  “Charles, I know what you’re stewing about. Forget it. Even if it does cost my father a lot to hang on to you, you can always pay him back when you get older. Right?”

  “When I’m older, he’ll be older, too. What good would my money be to him then?”

  “No, no, that’s where you’re wrong, Charles. Money’s always good, no matter when it comes. My Uncle Ernest is eighty-two and he still plays the stock market. There’s nothing he likes better than making money, believe me. All grown-ups are like that.”

  “I’ll never be like that,” replied Charles fervently. “And your father isn’t, either. What your father likes is his work, talking with customers and helping them out.”

  Henri shrugged his shoulders, decided that the conversation was becoming too serious, and changed the subject.

  Charles ended up confiding his worries to Blonblon, who, instead of trying to convince him that he was spinning his wheels uselessly, suggested he become a partner in Blonblon’s appliance-repair business. That way he could add to his bank account. Charles joyfully accepted the offer. But the warm summer weather had noticeably slowed down operations in Blonblon’s small business; in fact, he hadn’t had any work in some time. This had put a strain on his customer relations. In order to improve his image as a businessman, he decided to launch a publicity campaign that would have more or less instant results. The two boys came up with the idea of distributing a circular in the neighbourhood praising their unparalleled talents as restorers of hopelessly irreparable objects. This they would follow up by knocking on the doors of former clients to renew the customers’ acquaintance with their services and to reinforce the effect of the circular.

  While they were waiting for business to pick up, it occurred to Charles that he could go back to work for Roberto and Rosalie, who welcomed him back much more warmly than did their current delivery boy, a sallow, seventeen-year-old beanpole with onion breath who was constantly sneaking bottles of pop and took a suspiciously long time making deliveries to two or three of the restaurant’s older customers.

  Charles turned up at Chez Robert every day at five o’clock (the beanpole handled the afternoon deliveries) after having spent a good part of his day in Blonblon’s workshop. Since the latter’s apartment was small, Charles obtained Fernand’s permission to set up their shop in the Fafards’ garage, to the great delight of Boff, who made it a habit to take his afternoon siesta at the feet of his young master.

  After spending several days as an admiring assistant to his friend
, Charles left the more delicate jobs, such as repairs to china and porcelain, to Blonblon, and specialized in small electrical appliances – toasters, hairdryers, fans, heaters, kettles, and the like. At first there were a few short-circuits, the odd irreparable screw-up, and even the beginnings of a small electrical fire, but after a week or so, with occasional advice from Fernand, handyman extraordinaire, Charles began to make remarkable progress.

  It wasn’t long before Henri was feeling a bit miffed at not being part of their team. One day when he was leaning against the garage door, hands in his pockets, making little mocking comments about their famous aptitude as “junk repairmen” who “specialized in women’s work,” Charles calmly suggested to him if he had nothing better to do than screw around, bitching and moaning, would he mind doing it somewhere else and leave them to get on with their work in peace? Blonblon, however, always eager to restore harmony, asked Henri if he’d like to come in and join them. They’d be able to take on more jobs that way, he reasoned, and everyone’s profit would increase. After some hesitation, Henri accepted the invitation, but quickly grew bored with the exacting nature of the work, which required the patience of an ant, and went back to playing baseball and watching television.

  By mid-August, Charles had five hundred and sixty-three dollars in the bank. One day, Lucie, surprised to see him saving with such zeal, asked him what he intended to do with so much money.

  “It’s for the future,” Charles replied seriously with an air of mystery, looking away.

  Although he had only the vaguest notion of how much it would cost to hire a lawyer, he knew that his meagre savings would cover only a small fraction of the fee. On the other hand, if it was a question of buying his father off, how much would Fernand have to give him?

  Two or three times he risked asking Fernand how business was going. The third time, Fernand became annoyed and told him to take a hike. Charles thought about selling his books. He picked one up, then another, opened it, closed it again, subject to terribly conflicting emotions. In the end he decided he couldn’t part with any of them. Some nights he tossed miserably in bed, unable to sleep. He would have loved to curl up with Simon, but a mocking remark from Henri at the beginning of summer had made him relegate his adored bear to a shelf in the closet so that he wouldn’t be called a “big baby,” or even a “fifi.”

  Occasionally all these questions became tangled together and produced a kind of explosion in his head. When that happened he would suddenly quit making deliveries and drop his repair work. Feverishly, almost out of control, he would drag Henri and Blonblon outside to play Cowboys and Indians, or Cops and Robbers, or lead them on dangerous missions of exploration and interplanetary voyages, filling the neighbourhood with the sounds of their stampeding feet, their shouting and bloodcurdling howls, intermingled with Boff’s incessant yapping.

  29

  On September 5, 1978, Charles started his last year at Saint-Anselme Elementary. He vividly recalled the long-ago day when he had entered the school for the first time, a small boy darting timid but envious glances at the older kids in the sixth grade who teased and taunted the newcomers with their air of having travelled to the four corners of the Earth and back.

  He was walking along rue Bercy with Blonblon and young Lamouche, busy as usual telling a dirty joke, when he looked across the street and saw what looked like a Milou terrier that seemed to be in a hurry to get nowhere in particular. It was the first time Charles had seen the dog in the neighbourhood. He called it and, as was always the case, the dog stopped dead in its tracks, looked over at Charles, began wagging its tail, and crossed the street to join him. Charles’s friends went on without him, long accustomed to the magnetic effect he always seemed to have on dogs.

  He knelt down on the sidewalk and began petting the animal. The terrier sneezed and wagged its tail in a transport of joy, from time to time running its tongue along Charles’s hand.

  “Hello, Charles,” came a familiar voice. “Have you had a good summer?”

  “Oh, hello, Mademoiselle Laramée,” Charles replied happily as he saw the teacher walking towards him. She was limping slightly, Charles noticed for the first time. “Yes, I had a very good summer, thank you. And you?”

  She looked away, as though to evade the question. Charles stood up and held out his hand. Instead, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He was always pleased to see his former teacher. She had been good to him, despite her somewhat brusque manner. But his pleasure had always been balanced, unfortunately, by his fear of being thought a teacher’s pet.

  “You’ve grown so much since June,” she said quietly, looking at him dreamily. “You’ll be as tall as me pretty soon. Your last year at Saint-Anselme … already.”

  “Yes,” Charles replied proudly.

  “Mine too, probably. Can you believe it?”

  She told him that she had developed osteoarthritis in her hips and knees, and would probably have to take early retirement because of it.

  Although the terrier was somewhat put off by the woman’s presence, it nonetheless followed Charles as they walked towards school, on the expectation of more petting. The three of them crossed rue Rouen.

  “And there’s no cure for that?” Charles asked, saddened by the news and realizing for the first time that he was talking to an old person.

  “Doctors!” the teacher grumbled. “They don’t know a thing!”

  Pupils were now running past them. One of them gave Charles a shove as he went by, and Charles smiled and leaned down to pet the dog.

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be bored staying home all day, Mademoiselle?”

  “Not at all. I’m going to take some courses at the University of Montreal, and I’ll be doing the books for my younger sister’s business. She owns a fashion boutique on Saint-Hubert. Charles, there’s something I want to tell you,” she added, stopping.

  Her face took on an intense, severe look that soon gave way to an expression of maternal solicitude.

  Seeing it wasn’t going to get much more attention from its new friend, the dog gave Charles a quick lick of the hand and crossed the street.

  “I’ve heard you’re going to have Madame Prud’homme for a homeroom teacher.”

  Charles couldn’t keep his disappointment from showing.

  “I know, I know, she’s not an easy person to get along with. I must admit she’s not much liked in the school (and you don’t have to go around telling everyone what I said). But listen to me, Charles. Keep that little clown inside you in check when you’re in her class. Pay attention to her lessons, keep your cool even when she doesn’t, and everything will go fine. It’s very important that you do well in sixth grade before going into secondary school. You’ve done extremely well so far against some pretty hefty odds, and it would be a shame to waste it all now. Okay, off you go; your friends are calling you.”

  Fall came and Wilfrid Thibodeau still hadn’t shown any sign of life. His small cheques continued to arrive at the Fafards’ house each month, as though merely to remind everyone of the bond that united him and his son. Fernand didn’t dare write back to get him to clarify his intentions, since he knew it would only bring on more worries, and the Lord knew he had enough worries already.

  “I know it isn’t a very Catholic thing to say,” he confided to his wife one evening, “but it wouldn’t bother me very much if he fell off a scaffold one day and broke his neck. That would certainly solve our problem, don’t you agree? That man’s been a blasted nuisance all his life. The only way he’ll ever be of any use is when he’s six feet under.”

  “Don’t you dare let the children hear you say that,” Lucie warned him, looking nervously about to make sure there was no one within earshot.

  Fernand laughed: “Come on, Lucie, get with it: they feel the same way, for crying out loud!”

  The eleventh of October was Charles’s twelfth birthday. Lucie baked him a magnificent vanilla cake in the form of a dog; Fernand gave him a new flashlight with a fluore
scent bulb (“for reading with at night,” he said, with a knowing smile), and Céline gave him one of her Tintin books. There was no present from his father, which pleased Fernand and his wife. After supper, Amélie and Parfait Michaud came over for dessert, and they gave him an almond-green envelope containing a birthday card with dogs on it (naturally) and a ten-dollar bill.

  “You can use it to buy books,” declared the notary, shaking Charles gravely by the hand.

  “Thank you, I will,” Charles said, smiling broadly.

  But the next day he deposited eight dollars into his account at the Credit Union, keeping only two for himself. On Saturday, he took the metro to rue Saint-Denis, where the notary had said there were several used bookstores. He returned home with four excellent novels purchased for thirty-five cents each, amazed at the thought of all the money he could save; from now on he would be able to satisfy his passion for books and still be able to put money aside for Fernand.

  His relationship with his teacher didn’t get off to a good start. Madame Prud’homme was forty-nine, with florid cheeks, thighs that started down at her calves, and a mouth that seemed too small for her teeth. The pupils called her the Shark; she knew it, and she did her best to live up to her nickname.

  For Charles, there was no escaping her wrath. His reputation for being a brilliant but troublesome student had evidently reached her ears. On the first day of school, no sooner had Charles taken the seat that had been assigned to him than she came over. Bent over him with her arms spread and her hands leaning on either side of his desk, she stared at him silently for a moment or two, then spoke in a voice that was somehow both rasping and sharp. It reminded Charles of the sound of a hairdryer.

  “Now you listen to me, Charles Thibodeau. I’m warning you right now so there won’t be any misunderstanding between us. Just because you manage to get good marks doesn’t mean you have the right to disturb my class. The other teachers in this school can do what they like, but in here I’m the one who calls the shots. Do you understand me?”