The Dishwasher
Page 39
“Who did you want to see?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll come back another time.”
I turned around and went out on the sidewalk. It was true. I should have known better than to go through the front door. Better to try my luck at the back door. My chances of catching Bob were better there. For some unfathomable reason I felt nervous. It was weird walking through the alley in the bright summer sunlight. Someone was smoking outside, next to the wide-open door. It couldn’t be Bob, the person was too small. When I recognized Bonnie I felt a pang in my chest. She had shaved her head. Her face was deeply tanned, and her hands even darker. When she saw me she hesitated a minute, as if she wasn’t sure she recognized me. Then suddenly she leaped up and gave me a big smile.
“Hey, man. What are you doing here?”
She flicked her butt and gave me a hug. It was the first time we’d ever done that.
“Man, it’s been like forever.”
She seemed genuinely happy to see me.
“I came to see if you were still here. I just got back in town. I was away for a few months.”
“Bob told me you were in Trois-Rivières.”
I was about to tell her the story about changing schools, but I stopped myself. I didn’t want to lie to her.
“I needed a break,” I said. “What are you doing here so early?”
“Oh, I don’t work nights anymore. Keeps me away from the booze. Haven’t had a beer in two months, man.”
She filled me in on everything that had happened since I left. Séverine had ended up firing Renaud. Vlad was the chef now. I asked if she had heard from Bébert. She looked sad.
“No, not really.”
Her shaved head really brought out the ochre and turquoise highlights in her beautiful big green eyes. Her scars traced discoloured lines on her weather-beaten skin.
“Actually, I was here to see Bob. I didn’t think you’d be here during the day. I wanted to give him this, to give to you.”
I pulled a mixtape from my jeans pocket. She burst out laughing, then put her hand over her mouth. She was serious again, and a shy look stole over her face.
“For me?” she said, grabbing the tape from my hands. “Good ol’ mixtape, man.”
She checked the case. I’d listed all the tracks. She read out a few song titles.
“Whoah, lots of stuff,” she said. “But I know all these tracks and most of them suck.”
She passed me back the tape, with an expressionless look. I stood dumbstruck and open-mouthed. She broke out laughing.
“Man, you should see your face!”
She was really cracking up now, almost bent over double.
“I’m kidding,” she said. “That’s sweet of you. I’m gonna listen to this right after work. Merci, Stéphane.”
She gave me a kiss on each cheek.
“Hey I don’t go to Café Chaos anymore but maybe we can grab a coffee sometime?”
Just when I was about to answer Bob showed up at the door.
“Dude!” he said happily. “What are you doing here?”
He was waving his arms around, with his cap in one hand and his tongs in the other.
I told him I’d just got back to Montreal.
“Yo, want to come out for a beer with us this weekend? It’s Jonathan’s last shift. He’s going to live with his girlfriend in Rimouski.”
“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe,” I answered.
“Anyway, let me know.”
From the service kitchen I could hear the order printer. Tickets rolling out. Customers still coming in after the lunch rush. Bob made a “call me” gesture and went back to the kitchen, putting his cap back on as he went. As if she were echoing him, Bonnie put her cook’s hat back on as well.
“Don’t be a stranger, man.”
She followed Bob back into the kitchen.
I stayed out in the alley for a minute, listening to the sounds of the kitchen.
One night in the middle of July I was having a beer with Vincent and Janine on the balcony of their new apartment on the corner of Châteaubriand and Chabanel when I got a voice message. Janine gave me a teasing look. She had heard a series of long beeps. I hadn’t put my pager on vibration mode, in case a potential employer called. I’d spent the day dropping off resumes all over town.
“Must be your girlfriend in Trois-Rivières? I bet she misses you!”
“That’d surprise me,” I answered.
Vincent came back on the balcony with a bowl of Doritos and three cold Coronas. He had no shirt on. Janine wore a white floral cotton dress. A hot dry wind was blowing through the leaves of the trees. It felt like we were at sea.
“Do you need the phone?” Janine asked.
Every time I got a page I hoped it would be Marie-Lou. At nine at night, it definitely wasn’t an employer.
“Yeah,” I said as I got up. “Where is it?”
“In the living room, next to the TV.”
I went in. I dialled the number on my voice mail. It took a few seconds to recognize the voice. When I did I burst out laughing. I was so happy I listened again, and again, five or six times in total.
“Hey motherfucker. Hope you’re doing well. Been a while. I went to La Trattoria the other day and they told me you quit last winter? Anyway, give me a call if you’re looking for a job, we need a prep cook. Get a pen: 514-749-9445. That’s my new cell number. Anyway, call me back even if you don’t want the job. We’ll go for a beer. Later.”
Epilogue
Timberland pushes open the door, then walks out as well. You can hear him say, “Same address as last time?” to his buddy who’s lighting a smoke. Then they’re outside my field of vision. I push aside my book and my beer and lean over the table, toward Bébert. I say quietly:
“Who are those dudes?”
Bébert recovers his crooked-toothed smile and answers:
“Man, it’s so cool running into you.”
“What’s going on?”
“Forget about it. Listen, it’s nothing, just a couple of goofs playing tough guys. Cheers man!”
He leans in toward his big bottle. I bring my glass forward. I’m trying to size up his expression, but his poker face is impenetrable. We clink glasses and drink. He wipes his mouth and grabs my book. He flips it over.
“You and your books.”
The bartender starts watching his game again. I feel like I’m staring at an illustration, a photo, everyone is jumping back into their places.
“I’ll lend it to you. Take it.”
“It’s good?”
“You’re gonna love it. Take it!”
“What’s the story?”
“It’s about an English guy, in the twenties. He ends up washing dishes in a hotel in Paris. And after than he goes to live with the tramps in London.”
“Fuck, sounds pretty boring man.”
“It’s the same guy who wrote Nineteen Eighty-Four.”
“Yeah, I think I read that one. It was good.”
“Shut up.”
“I’d like to, but I don’t really have time to read, know what I’m saying? I’m always working, always tired.”
“You know the expression ‘Big Brother is watching you’? That’s from Nineteen Eighty-Four.”
“Cool.”
“I’m telling you man, you’ll love it. You can give it back in a few weeks.”
“Yeah, I’d rather not. I don’t know when I’ll be able to give it back to you.”
“You live right across the street.”
“No, I don’t want to take your book. I mean, what would you do without a book to read?”
He drops the book on the table.
“What ever happened with your drawing? Your comics?”
I pour myself another beer.
“I quit.”
“I’m working on something else.”
“What is it?”
“I’m writing books.”
“Seriously?”
“I’ve got something getting published. It’s coming out in the fall.”
“Good job, buddy. So the publisher, that’s like a record label. Or more like the producer?”
“Bit of both.”
“So does writing books pay?”
“Depends on the sales. So you better buy a copy!”
Bébert’s face lights up. He raises his bottle.
“Fuck yeah I’ll buy a copy. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
I smile in my beer.
“I always knew things were gonna work out for you. A good guy like you always gets what he deserves in the end.”
I feel a pang in my chest, and remember the promise I made Bébert, back in the day. I guess I kept it, in a way. Maybe because I’d made the same promise to myself.
We keep on catching up like this for a while. Outside, Rue Ontario is covered in snow. It looks peaceful in the soft halo of lamplight. How many times had I walked down this street, farther west, with a wad of bills burning a hole in my pocket and my stomach in knots whenever I passed a bar with video poker machines?
We hear the familiar police sirens somewhere out in Hochelaga. I think back to Greg, and La Trattoria. Bonnie, Séverine, Bob. I think of Marie-Lou and Vincent. I lost touch with all of them long time ago. I think of Malik, the one who stood by me all these years, through the many disappointments, and was always the same guy, and who never gave up on me.
“So tell me about your book.”
“I’ll tell you the story some other time. It’s sci-fi.”
“Fuck sci-fi, man. Not like it’s any of my business, but you should write a book about me instead.”
“Yeah, I bet you’d read that one!”
“Hellz yeah, I’d read that. I’d want to know how it’s all going to end, all my stories.”
Bébert’s face falls. I turn toward the bar’s front door. A fat dude approaches the counter. He half sits, one ass-cheek on his stool. Brush cut, big brown circles under his eyes, broken nose, oily skin ravaged by rosacea. He’s got a cell phone in a hand full of rings, a flashy touch that clashes with his mouse-grey sweat pants. He gives Bébert a tired look. My hands are moist again. Now it’s Timberland and Puma’s turn to come in. Puma stomps his sneakers on the floor to shake off the snow. This time there’s no break in the pool game, the guys keep on talking, exchanging wisecracks, egging each other on. But I don’t hear any of it. I don’t even hear the music. Bébert takes a long swig and slaps his empty bottle back down on the table.
“It was great seeing you again, buddy. Really great!”
He gets up slowly. The chair legs scrape on the floor.
“Now I really have to get going,” he says.
I get up as well. The big dude at the bar, Timberland, and Puma all act like we don’t exist. Bébert gives me a bear hug and enthusiastically slaps my shoulder blades.
“Take care, buddy!”
It all happens so fast I don’t know how to answer. He picks up his coat and steals a glance at my beer.
“Take your time, finish your beer” he says.
His tone is dispassionate, his gaze insistent. Then he goes to the bar. I hadn’t noticed but Puma has taken up a position in front of the bar’s back door. The fat guy is by the machines, between the bar and the front door. The bartender watches all four people as he rearranges his clean glasses.
“Where we off to, ladies?” asks Bébert as he puts on his coat.
Timberland pushes him to the back of the room.
“Shut your trap and move.”
Bébert slows down even more, like a man who has all the time in the world. He’s purposely stalling, checking the slot in the payphone by the pool tables for change. The pool players gathered silently around the table don’t move an inch.
“C’mon, get fucking going,” says Timberland, giving Bébert another shove.
Bébert breaks out into a cocky laugh. Puma walks out, followed by fat guy. Bébert and Timberland raise their voices, cursing each other out. Bébert is in front, getting pushed out the door. The snippets of their voices are soon drowned out by the door banging shut.
For a few seconds nothing happens. Then one of the players leans over the pool table and takes aim, and a “clack” echoes through the bar, right into my eardrums. The game goes on. The bartender is looking at me now. I’m still standing next to the table with my glass of beer. It’s not going down right, but I force myself to take another sip. I pick up my Orwell and slide it in the back pocket of my jeans. The bartender’s attention is back on the hockey game. I take another sip, thinking, still kind of upset by what has just happened. Seeing that I haven’t moved, the bartender looks at me again, completely expressionless. I look toward the back door, then back at him. He nods his head slightly toward the front door. It’s clear as day.
A few long minutes go by, while I shift my weight from foot to foot. The bartender seems to have already forgotten all about me. I take a final sip of beer and put the glass down on the table. I look around the shitty bar. The video poker machines are lined up on the back wall like boxy multicoloured robots from a bygone era.
I zip up my leather jacket. For a second I picture Bébert’s cocky grin the way it first appeared to me all those years ago.
I smile and walk out the front door, squinting against the crystalline snowflakes.
Translator’s Acknowledgements
The translator would like to thank veteran chef Geordy Mullin, who generously read the manuscript and provided valuable feedback. Thanks also to Éric de Larochellière of Le Quartanier, and to author Stéphane Larue and Biblioasis editors Stephen Henighan and Dan Wells for their contributions to this translation.
About the Author
Stéphane Larue was born in Longueuil, Quebec in 1983. He holds a Master’s degree in comparative literature from the Université de Montréal. He has worked in the Montreal restaurant business for more than fifteen years
The Dishwasher, Larue’s first novel, in addition to being a finalist for Quebec’s Junior College Students’ Prize and the Governor General of Canada’s Literary Award, won both the Quebec Booksellers’ Prize and the international Senghor Prize for the best first novel by a French-language writer. A feature film of this novel, directed by Francis Leclerc, is in production.
About the Translator
Pablo Strauss has translated seven books of fiction from Quebec and washed dishes in nine restaurants. He grew up in Victoria, British Columbia, and lives in Quebec City.
Original French copyright © Le Quartanier and Stéphane Larue, 2016
Translation Copyright © Pablo Strauss, 2019
Originally published as Le plongeur by Le Quartanier, 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
FIRST EDITION
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Larue, Stéphane, 1983-
[Plongeur. English]
The dishwasher / Stéphane Larue ; translated from the French by Pablo Strauss.
(Biblioasis international translation series ; no. 26)
Translation of: Le plongeur.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77196-269-8 (softcover).
—ISBN 978-1-77196-270-4 (ebook)
I.
Strauss, Pablo, translator II. Title. III.Title: Plongeur. English. IV. Series: Biblioasis international translation series ; no. 26
PS8623.A77383P5613 2019 C843’.6 C2018-904442-X C2018-904443-8
Edited by Stephen Henighan
Copy-edited by Allana Amlin
Cover designed by Natalie Olsen
Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Biblioasis also acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, which last year funded 1,709 individual artists and 1,078 organizations in 204 communities across Ontario, for a total of $52.1 million, and the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates. Biblioasis also acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada through the National Translation Program for Book Publishing, an initiative of the Roadmap for Canada’s Official Languages 2013–2018: Education, Immigration, Communities, for our translation activities.