After we gave out presents, my dad took me aside and led me down to the music room, the way he always did when he wanted me to hear a new disc he’d just bought. Upstairs everyone was having fun, you could hear their conversation and bursts of laughter over the sounds of dishes being rinsed. Next to the bookshelf was a big present wrapped in brown paper. Clearly my dad’s wrapping job. My mum would never use that much tape, or be caught dead wrapping a Christmas gift in kraft paper. He leaned over to pick it up and give it to me.
“Here, this is for you. A special present.”
The box contained a bunch of novels from the Robert Laffont science fiction series Ailleurs et demain.
“When I bought the first volume, I was younger than you are now!”
He pulled a few books out, and held one out to me. It was Dune.
“You know Iron Maiden wrote a song based on this one,” he said. “But Herbert wouldn’t let them use the book title for the song.”
I started laughing.
“Don’t act like you read an article about it or something. I know you’re listening to all my CDs, now that I’m not here. I bet you caught Dickinson’s rant on the live version of ‘To Tame a Land.’”
“You crazy?”
The other six volumes of the Dune cycle were there as well. It brought a lump to my throat, and took me back to when I was twelve. We were watching David Lynch’s film version of Dune after my dad picked up the first volumes of Jodorowsky’s Metabarons series on my bookshelf. He told me that Jodorowsky tried to make a movie of Dune before David Lynch had even heard of the book. That was when he showed me the first titles I ever saw from the Ailleurs et Demain series. I was impressed by the row of silver spines on the bookshelf. These books looked like holy scriptures from outer space.
One after another, I took the books out of the box to look over and flip through them. There was The Lazarus Effect, which Frank Herbert wrote with Bill Ransom. I never knew why but the title had always given me the shivers. My dad told me not to read that one yet.
“There are two other volumes before it, but I can’t find them. Maybe at the cottage somewhere.”
At the bottom of the box was Ubik, by Philip K. Dick. The moment I picked it up, my dad could tell that one had hit home.
“That’s my only copy. It’s yours now. Take good care of it.”
The cover was still shiny. It looked brand new.
“Happy?”
“Yeah,” I managed to get out. “Really happy.”
He was proud of himself. I carried the books under my arm as we went back upstairs. I locked myself into the second-floor bathroom. Looked at myself in the mirror and washed my hands. I was sick to my stomach, and about to cry at the same time. I threw some water on my face. There were black circles under my eyes and my skin was grey. I looked seriously burnt out. My parents hadn’t said a thing.
Chapter 29
Between Christmas and New Year’s I barely saw daylight. I’d get up around three in the afternoon, then get ready for work. Eduardo or Basile started at four, and I came in at six. It was the kind of schedule that put me at risk of relapsing, but being there with Bébert and company was safer than finding myself alone on the street at ten at night, surrounded by hundreds of bars where I could put my feet up on a stool and lose my head.
Those shifts are a blur of choppy nights whose rushes helped us work through the previous night’s hangover, memories lit in the heat lamp’s yellow gleam or the dim hues of the smoky bars where Bébert and I washed up and put back round after round, battered by the ever-spinning wheel of work and booze. Those nights were really more like one long night, devoid of content, buttressed by the hope that Marie-Lou might once again deign to talk to me. In the meantime I promised myself I wouldn’t gamble again, as if to prove I wasn’t really the person she took me for.
Bébert was still showing me the ins and outs of the garde-manger, behind Renaud’s back, whenever he had a spare minute. He’d rather have me in the kitchen than deal with Steven, who turned into a clumsy spineless lump around Bébert.
“You’ll see, man. Together we’ll rock this kitchen.”
New Year’s Eve was nothing like a normal shift. I alternated between making salads up front and washing dishes in the pit, smoothly moving from station to station like at an activity day at school. It was me and Basile, who was laid-back and unflappable as ever. The cooks tried to get him drunk before we even closed.
I remember the surreal countdown to midnight while the kitchen was still putting out its final plates, everyone shaky from the shooters of Godfather Séverine kept sending back. The room was twice as full as it should have been. Séverine’s friends mostly. Everyone was out of their heads, dazed from the dope and the music, staining their ridiculously expensive clothes with wine or worse. One of Séverine’s friends danced on the bar until she fell off and almost broke her neck, taking down a series of cocktails and pints on her way down. No one even bothered hiding the rails they were chopping up right on the dessert counter.
Basile took care of the close and the mop. All the booze he’d put back didn’t seem to have affected him at all. I was getting pretty tanked. At one point Bébert pulled me outside, and we guzzled Champagne straight from the bottle, against the wall outside the dishpit. The night was mild. Bébert was calm. He was looking toward the end of the alley, which was yellow in the night. In the distance you could hear shouts of joy, horns honking, people laughing.
“You’re a good guy, man. You’re smart. Have a good year. The best.”
He spoke slowly, without looking at me, then passed me the bottle.
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
High drifts of snow had piled up against the fences along the alley. I lifted up my head to look at the sky. The stars were spinning a little.
“It’s good to have you as a friend, man.”
Bébert chuckled. It sounded like an engine turning over.
“Friends. You’re gonna make a lot of friends in the kitchen, man. Thing is, you never keep them long. You know how shit goes. Take it as it comes. Turnover’s high.”
There was something sad in what he’d said. The din from the dining room reached us even outside. I wondered if I’d still be working here six months from now.
“You too, man. It’s good to have you as a friend.”
He gave me a pat on the back and flashed me a broad smile full of broken teeth.
“Giddyup. Let’s finish this night and get fucked up!”
Chapter 30
Still no word from Marie-Lou. If I had a calendar I would have started marking each day of radio silence with an X. Those rare times when I did work up the nerve to call her, I got the machine. I never left a message.
I also hadn’t gambled since the time she walked in on me at Chez Maurice.
Abstinence had strange effects. I now lived my life in an ominous, undisturbed serenity. It was like lounging next to a pristine swimming pool. The day is sunny but the horizon is troubled by dark clouds shot through with lightning, and there’s thunder too, even if you can’t hear it yet.
I’d deposited eight hundred dollars in my bank account, as protection against relapsing, and to convince myself I’d won back my losses for good. I figured that when my next paycheque came around I’d have three-quarters of the money from Deathgaze. I’d tell Malik the whole story, and ask him to help me out just one last time, to make up the difference and pay the printer. I’d work doubles all through February, March too if that’s what it took. Everything would work itself out. At least that was the story I’d been repeating like a mantra since a grim New Year’s Day spent alone in Vincent’s dark apartment waiting to go to work, running back and forth between the sofa and the bathroom to heave, my stomach twisted into knots by the vast quantities of champagne, whisky, and amaretto I’d put back the night before.
On January third, or maybe t
he fourth, I was late for work. Basile didn’t seem to mind. I came running into the restaurant, dishevelled. He was sitting on the pile of plastic dishracks in a tranquil dishpit, waiting for something to happen.
Bébert had the night off. I remember it clearly because Bonnie was on the pass, which was unusual. Her stress and impatience were palpable in her every move: the way she threw pans over to the hotside, the way she slammed the oven door too hard, the way she swore and spit between her teeth.
I got changed in the staff room. The office door was closed. Inside I could hear voices, in animated conversation. Eventually Vlad emerged, stone-faced as always. Séverine was behind him, already opening her flip phone. Renaud came out last. When he saw me a strange expression came over his face, somewhere between surprise and distrust. He came over and asked if the two new guys were still working out. He seemed to be casting around for something to talk about. But at the same time he was friendlier than usual, and full of questions he’d asked me before and must already know the answers to. He asked if I was happy washing dishes.
“It’s okay. I’m getting the hang of it.”
“How’d you like to move up to the kitchen? We could train you if you want.”
“Oh yeah? When? I’m ready.”
Before he had time to answer Nick came rushing down the stairs, yelling. They needed me upstairs.
“Move it, something’s wrong with the glass washer.”
“The glass washer?”
Since when was the glass washer my problem? I walked up the steps as I finished buttoning up my shirt. I walked alongside the kitchen. Vlad, Bonnie, and Steven were getting started on the service, like three hostages lashed to the mast together, hoping against hope to make it out alive. I caught up with Nick by the espresso machine. He nodded toward the other end of the bar, with a snotty grin.
“See, over there? The glass machine.”
Jade was sitting with a guy at the bar. They were sharing a tomato-bocconcini appy.
“Never mind. Looks like someone got there first.”
Nick clapped me on the back. I pushed him away, unable to contain my anger. He stood there with his cocky grin. I left him to it and got back to my dishpit.
In a rage, I started working. I was throwing pans and dishes into the racks, knocking everything against everything else, more or less doing my best to break dishes. I’d become as irascible as Bonnie.
“Dude, you okay?” Basile asked me.
He was watching me banging around.
“How about I wash?”
“Uh, okay. Give me five minutes.”
I went out into the alley for a breath of fresh air. I was about to boil over. My throat was tight. Through the window of the restaurant next door I could see people sharing stories with animated, amused expressions on their faces. I stayed outside a good long while, until my breathing grew less frantic and I started shivering from the cold. When I got back in I took over in the dishpit and Basile went back and forth bringing the dirty dishes and keeping the cooks stocked. Nick didn’t come back for a smoke all night.
I let Basile go around ten-thirty, once he finished scrubbing the prep room. There was nothing left to do but sit around and wait for the close. We got it done in record time, just like every time Vlad was working. Between trips bringing back inserts from the steam table and empty pots of sauce Bonnie took a quick smoke break. She seemed to have calmed down.
“So. Do you like the mixtape?”
I kept fiddling with my dishes. I wasn’t in the mood. I took a few seconds to think over my answer.
“I like it, actually. Bunch of stuff I’d never heard before. Like Suicidal Tendencies. It’s cool that you put that on.”
“Glad you liked it. I’ll make you some more.”
I put away the piles of dishes while Bonnie took her time finishing her smoke. She had her own particular way of holding her cigarette, tucked deep between her index and middle fingers. She looked exhausted. When she took off her cook’s hat her wild hair came cascading down in big purple locks over her face.
“So, what are you doing after work?”
She looked surprised that I’d asked.
“Why? Wanna hang out?”
“Sure.”
“I’m supposed to meet up with B-Bert at Roy Bar.”
“Cool.”
I was surprised. Last time I saw her and Bébert together they’d looked ready to throttle each other.
Bonnie waited for me out front at the bar while I got changed. We walked toward the Roy Bar through a city blanketed by yet another snowfall. The night sky was clear. Bonnie was her old self again, mocking, almost chipper. On the corner of Rivard and Marie-Anne she pushed me into a snowbank and broke into a maniacal laugh in her unique voice that was capable of cutting through the din of even the most packed bar. I pushed her back, and we wrestled for a while.
The backstreets were like tunnels of cotton. Bonnie said she wanted to go snowboarding on her next days off. She told me a little about the year she’d spent at Banff. It sounded like one long party. The story made her smile, and that brought out the scars on her face. She was pretty, but it was her attitude I loved most: when she was in one of these moods I never wanted the time we spent together to end. I would gladly have kept walking with her in the snow until we reached the city’s edge at the St. Lawrence River.
Roy Bar was off the beaten path, which made it feel almost like a speakeasy. But two out of three nights it descended into mayhem, and tonight was one of them. You had to fight your way to the bar if you wanted to order. People were spilling beer all over themselves as they drunkenly bumped into each other, telling stories at the top of their lungs. I saw Bébert. He was more than warmed up. When he saw me he roared like a walrus, and gave me an enthusiastic, almost violent hug. I was surprised. He wasn’t usually the cuddly type.
“Motherfucker, how you doing?” he yelled.
Doug was there too, parked at the bar in front of a 40-pounder of St-Leger whisky. He was talking to Nancy, the girl from the house party, and constantly licking his lips between words. His pupils were dilated to the size of dimes. Bébert was carrying on three conversations at once, and finding time to yell special requests at the DJ cowering under his headphones ten feet away. Across the bar the pierced and tattooed bartenders looked like Suicide Girls. Bébert slid a little baggie of pills into the hand of a friend, a skinny dude with an emaciated face, bleached-blond hair like Eminem, and a tattoo of the Eye of Providence over his Adam’s Apple. I tried to pull Bébert aside. Instead of following me, he shoved a shooter into my hand. It smelled like shoe polish.
“Renaud said he’d train me for the kitchen.”
Bébert was too drunk or high to listen.
“Fuck Renaud, man.”
He clinked shot glasses with me, knocked it back without wincing and chucked it on the varnished wood counter. The little glass bounced a couple times, then dropped to the ground on the bar-side.
I leaned over toward him, almost yelling to make myself heard.
“Did you talk to Renaud to get them to move me up?”
“No, man,” he said, only half listening. “Not yet.”
“You didn’t say anything?”
“Hey. I’ll take care of it. Leave it to me.”
He put his hands on my shoulders, as if to reassure me. He was shit-faced.
I managed to order a pint through the forest of arms jockeying for the bartenders’ attention, and tried to find Bonnie. She hadn’t even come over to say hi to Bébert. I’d lost her in the crowd, a mix of Peace Park regulars and pill kids waiting for Aria to open so they could dance until eleven in the morning. I saw Desrosiers, Bob’s roommate, up against the bar chatting with a much younger girl. Her platinum hair was sticking out of the hood of a sweatshirt unzipped low enough to show off pert breasts in a leopard-print bra. She was talking with a hand
in front of her mouth like a little megaphone, revealing tattoos on her wrist.
The place just kept getting more packed. Fan blades lazily churned the clouds of cigarette smoke gathered a foot below the ceiling.
I finally saw Bonnie in the arms of her bartender Sam. He was the one she’d come here to meet. They were making out. I remembered Bébert trying to school me at the lounge. Even I could read the writing on the wall now. I would never be her type; there would always be a Sam around.
Someone grabbed me by the shoulder. A beer crashed into my still-full pint.
It was Desrosiers, who’d just recognized me too.
“Sup, dude?” he shouted in my ear.
I shook his hand.
“Who you here with?”
“Work people,” I said.
I pointed at Bébert, who was now leaning over the bar trying to steal lime slices to huck at the DJ. The Beastie Boys were playing.
“Bob with you?”
“Nah, man, haven’t seen him for a week.”
He took a slow drink of beer.
“How come?”
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Bonnie. She was doing shots with Sam and the bar staff.
“Spent the weekend in jail.”
Above the sea of heads Desrosiers waved to the bartender for another beer. She gave him a thumbs up and served him before the thirty-odd people clamouring for her attention. They seemed to know each other.
Bébert was arm wrestling with Doug, who easily took him down. Then Bébert drained a third of Doug’s bottle of whisky.
“In jail?”
Desrosiers took a long sip of beer.
“You know, too many unpaid skateboarding tickets.”
Bonnie and her man were still making out. I grabbed Desrosiers by the shoulder.
“I’ll be back in a few seconds.”
“No worries, dude.”
I worked my way into the crowd. I took a swig of beer, and it foamed up all over my nose. I set my barely touched pint on a table. Sam whispered something in Bonnie’s ear. She burst out laughing. I opened the bar door and set out into the cold, humid air.
The Dishwasher Page 32