by Doug Walsh
Alessio replayed the scene outside the cathedral, scanning his memory for the man now sitting next to him. He hadn’t seen him in the crowd. “How did you see me?”
“Let’s say that you had a way of catching my eye.”
The comment seemed to allude to something Alessio didn’t understand, a riddle of sorts. “Don’t toy with me,” Alessio said, rising again to leave.
Hiromasa laughed and placed his hand on Alessio’s arm, halting his departure. At once the shimmering fringe of light sparked and leapt, like the flames of St. Elmo’s fire on a ship’s mast. But the glow, this aura of Hiromasa’s, seemed to be trying to connect with Alessio, building near Hiromasa’s fingers and leaping toward the bare skin of Alessio’s wrist.
“You see it too, don’t you?”
Alessio blinked and rubbed his eyes, willing the light away. Hiromasa removed his hand and continued talking, but he spoke with such swift delicacy, Alessio couldn’t make out the words. He scrutinized him, struck by the incongruity of this foreigner speaking such fluent Italian. Alessio glanced toward the reception desk, then whispered, “Conosci l’italiano?”
“Yes. Italian and English. And Nihongo, of course.”
Alessio made a puzzled face.
“Westerners call it Japanese.”
Alessio hadn’t met a Japanese before, and never knew any to speak Italian. The barrage of surprises was exhausting and he wanted to be free of this man. “Explain yourself or let me be. I tire of this,” Alessio said in English.
“As I said, I can help you.”
Alessio raised his eyes in doubt. “With confession?”
“Well, I was connected with the church.”
“You’re a Christian?” Alessio leaned back and surveyed the man from head to toe. “A Japanese Christian,” he said, scoffing at the idea.
“My name is Hiromasa Uchida, but if you prefer, my Catholic name is Oliverio Pedroza.”
“It sounds Spanish.”
“It’s a long story,” Hiromasa said, his toothy smile returning.
“Well, I’m sure it’s very interesting, but I must be going. Unless the confessional booth has a bed and a toilet, it won’t be much help.”
“What is your name?”
“Alessio. Alessio Argento.”
“Come with me, Alessio.” Hiromasa rose as a family of tourists entered the lobby. They stood blocking the hallway, studying a paper map.
Alessio noticed that the glimmer trimming Hiromasa was absent on the family. He eyed Hiromasa, unsure if he should trust him.
“You have questions, I’m sure,” Hiromasa said, no doubt sensing his reluctance.
“None you can answer. I too am sure.”
Hiromasa clapped his hands. “I believe, in time, you may be proven wrong. Nevertheless, I have a place for you to stay and work. At the campground across the river. The cabin is cold, but there’s plenty of work. The pay is not great, but it’s honest.” His eyes shifted to the jacket pocket where Alessio had stashed the money.
“Why help me?”
Hiromasa didn’t answer, and instead brushed past the family. If Alessio was honest with himself, a little company would serve him well. And he could certainly use a job. Not to mention a place to stay.
Yes, there were the practicalities of Alessio’s situation to consider, but the soft-spoken man seemed to know things. Alessio suspected he could not only trust him, but that Hiromasa may even be the key to understanding his situation, to helping him return home. There was only one way to find out.
Chapter 13
Tuesday, May 5 — Nipigon, Ontario, Canada
Kara eased her wracked body onto the curb and slumped forward, aching from her toenails to eyelids. She tried massaging her thighs through the spandex tights, but the effort was pitiful. She was spent.
And it was becoming a daily occurrence.
They passed a perfectly good campsite fifteen miles back, but Edward wanted to keep moving to “take advantage of the long days” and “stay on schedule.”
What schedule?
Kara had been asking herself that question for over an hour, chewing on it as her depleted legs spun the cranks in ever-slowing circles. They had food in their bags, plenty of water, and had spent most of the day in the saddle. There was no need to keep moving. But Edward insisted—and she relented. And now they were here, at a grocery store they didn’t need, in a town with no obvious place to camp.
They had only crossed into Canada yesterday afternoon but were already at the northwest corner of Lake Superior, in the fishing town of Nipigon. Eighty miles today, seventy-eight yesterday. Kara yawned and stretched, reaching for the stars from the seat of her pants, welcoming the popping she felt as she rolled her head in circles.
At least we got to camp at Fort William last night, she told herself. As a child, the fur trade era fascinated her, due in no small part to it being the only time her American History classes discussed her region of the country. These days, the fort was more theme park than outpost, but Kara didn’t mind. She took her time in the visitor’s center, reading each placard and studying every artifact. And when Edward went outside to wait, saying the dioramas reminded him of the body he saw in Montana, she let him go without comment.
“Must be tough pedaling all that gear over the hills, eh?”
Kara looked up as a lanky man in a plaid hunting jacket crossed the street toward her, a case of beer tucked under his arm. His beard was gray and patchy like stubborn drifts of snow refusing to melt.
“I’m feeling it today.”
“Not surprised,” the man said. He kept a respectful distance, which Kara appreciated. “Where you coming from?”
“Fort William.”
He eyed the bikes and smirked. “No, I meant, where did you start your trip? But all the way from Fort William today?”
Kara nodded as she stood, her legs rebelling under the strain. She felt twice her age.
“I don’t even like driving that far,” he said with a snort. Kara chuckled to be polite. Rarely did a day go by without someone making the same lame joke.
“Well, I hope the truckers were being nice. Ain’t much room for bikes on 17.”
Kara admitted as much. Highway 17 through Ontario was by far the most dangerous road they’d ridden since leaving Seattle. With a shoulder barely wider than a bicycle tire, she spent the bulk of the day staring at her mirror.
“Yeah, a real shame. Seems every year a cyclist gets killed out there.” The man shifted the case of beer to his other arm and shook out his hand. “Well, I better be goin’. You be safe.”
“Before you go, any chance you know a place we could pitch our tent for the night?” Maybe your backyard, she added to herself, fearing the only option might be back the way they came.
“There’s a campground by the beach. Down that road there,” the man said, pointing beyond a small barbershop.
“Oh, that’s great.”
“Kayakers use it in the summer, but you should have it to yourself this time of year.”
The man wished her well and walked off, taking the stress of the day with him. Between navigation, traffic, food, and finding a place to camp, there was no shortage of details to fret over while touring. In hindsight, a few extra miles were no big deal. When Edward finally exited the store, Kara was so eager to get to camp, she forgot being miffed about the long day. She led the way down the hill as a plastic grocery bag swung from Edward’s handlebars like a pendulum.
A half-dozen primitive campsites dotted a forested cove at the base of the bluff, steps from the water. Traces of snow served as mortar on the cobble beach, an iceberg floated offshore. They chose a sheltered site, hoping the pines would block the wind, and set about clearing the winter detritus. Judging by the amount of pine cones and fallen branches covering the pitch, nobody had used the campsite since fall.
“Too bad the wood is so wet. Would have been nice to make a fire,” Kara said while feeding a pole through the tent to Edward.
“T
he market had firewood. I’ll go buy some. About time we had a campfire, eh?”
“Eh?” Kara imitated. “Two days north of the border and you’re speaking Canadian?”
“I’ve no idea where that came from. I didn’t even realize I said it.”
“God help us when we get to Scotland. I’m not going to understand a word you say.” Kara laughed and lobbed a soggy pine cone at him.
He bent to collect some ammunition of his own, then rose, pointing. “Wonder what that canoe is doing over there.”
Kara followed his gaze to a red fiberglass canoe at the campsite nearest the lake. “Think it’s abandoned?”
“Looks pretty new to me.” Edward gave her a quick kiss and grabbed his wallet. “Check it out while I get the firewood.”
She watched him go, then looked to the canoe. There wasn’t anyone nearby, or even a tent for that matter. But the canoe looked too shiny to have been there long.
Kara stepped lightly through the forest, the moss-covered ground softening her footfalls, the damp aroma of the pine drawing her forward, perfuming the air.
From the edge of an adjacent campsite Kara saw that the canoe, lipstick red and showroom clean, propped against a paddle lodged handle-first into the ground, was actually a makeshift shelter. And there, beneath the upturned boat, shivering violently in a yellow rain suit, sat a man shoveling canned meat into his mouth with bare fingers.
Intrigued, but cautious, Kara crouched behind a tree and watched as he continued eating, unaware of her presence, his bushy mustache smeared with SPAM. His bulbous nose glowed as red as the canoe, and his hair was a frenzy of black waves. Yet despite his disheveled appearance and obvious lack of warmth, the man seemed oddly relaxed.
He tossed the tin toward a pile of other empty cans and moved to lie down. Kara clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle a nervous giggle. He’s sure got a taste for SPAM.
Stretched out on the ground, it was clear the slicker and pants were too large for him, as the material was bunched at the elbows and knees. He was short, probably no taller than Kara, but solid. His chest and arms bulged comically against the rain suit as he crossed his arms, hugging himself for warmth.
Then he began to sing. With his eyes closed and fingers tapping in rhythm against his arm, he serenaded the forest. His voice was soft and barely audible over the wind rustling the trees, but the words were certainly French.
But what is he saying?
Kara needed to get closer. She glanced over her shoulder, then advanced. Inching stealthily from tree to tree, ignoring the beads of sap on her fingers, she crept within ten yards, near enough to hear the peculiar dialect, to feel the energy of his tenor.
A lump caught in her throat. She’d seen this before. Not him exactly, but his appearance, the canoe, and the song and everything else she had observed. Everything about the man resembled the French-Canadian voyageurs, the canoemen who plied this region in the early 18th century. This stranger resting beneath his canoe was just like the wax figures in the museum, the spitting image of the drawings in her history book.
She couldn’t steal her eyes from him. And it wasn’t just curiosity that had her risking detection. The man wasn’t attractive in the least, yet the butterflies in Kara’s stomach fluttered all the same. She flushed as she gazed upon this barrel-chested man lying upon the bare ground. And the longer she watched, a voyeur hiding amongst the trees, the more she was drawn to him. There was a quality to him she’d never seen in a man before, not even Edward. Something primal.
A whiff of smoke caught Kara’s attention and she realized that she had been holding her breath. Her eyes stung from not blinking. She looked once more at the man then retreated to camp, where Edward had already lit a campfire.
“So, what’s up with the canoe?”
Kara could barely speak, as if she had been shaken from a dream, stunned and disoriented. She filled in Edward the best she could, being careful not to paint the man as too shabby, and conveniently omitting the more private reflections. There was no way to explain them to her husband when she didn’t even understand them herself.
“Do you remember your French?” Edward asked.
“Oui, oui, monsieur.”
“Why don’t you get changed and invite him for dinner.” Edward placed several pieces of kindling on the fire and blew at the embers.
“Are you sure?” Kara cursed herself for having even mentioned the man. “What happened to not trusting strangers?”
“Nobody should have to live off SPAM. Besides, it’s about time we paid some of our good fortune forward.”
Kara crawled into the tent, unsure what to think. On one hand she was happy to see Edward in a generous mood, but dinner with the two men could prove awkward. After all, she could control her desire to stare, but a racing heart skipped to its own rhythm.
Twenty minutes later, after freshening up and laying out the sleeping bags, Kara emerged from the tent having decided she and Edward would eat alone.
Edward was hunched over their stove, pushing bratwursts around a frying pan with a plastic spatula. Behind him, approaching from the trees, all dimples and teeth, was the man from the canoe.
“Bonsoir,” the man called out, stepping from the trees. His gaze locked on Kara, who felt herself flush. He smoothed his mustache then ran a hand though his tangle of hair.
Kara hadn’t accounted for the possibility that he would invite himself and now had to make the best of it. “Good evening,” she replied in French, while wondering if he had seen her watching him.
“Looks like someone smelled the dinner bell.” Edward intercepted the man’s approach with his hand extended, only to be enveloped in a bear hug. The man’s hand clapped Edward on the back with a thud. He was even shorter than Kara thought, barely rising to Edward’s shoulder despite the thick soles of his galoshes, which looked to be several sizes too big.
“Parlez-vous anglais?” Kara asked, hoping an air of polite formality would mask the unwelcome warmth rising in her.
No, he didn’t. Only French. Left, right, left, she turned her head. Air kisses. The man smelled of processed meat, yet she relished the brush of stubble against her cheeks, thrilling at the intimacy of such contact with a mere acquaintance. It was one of the European traditions she enjoyed most during her semester in France.
Edward cleared his throat, snapping her back. She initiated introductions, but Edward seemed distracted by the man’s appearance. His name was Jean-Benac. He said it proudly, thumping himself on the chest twice as he spoke. He repeated Kara’s name softly, as if his voice was pronouncing each syllable for the very first time. She expected Edward to interject again, but he was too busy staring, head cocked to the side, squinting as if trying to read a faraway sign.
“Ed,” she hissed, “You’re being rude.”
“But he’s glowing.” His voice was laced with confusion and awe.
“What?”
“Little blue flickers …” he said, his voice trailing off.
Kara glanced at Jean-Benac, then, shaking her head, said to Edward, “You must have been staring at the fire too long. You’re seeing things.”
Kara motioned to a log across the fire. Jean-Benac tugged at his rain pants as he sat, lest he trip over the dragging cuffs. He licked his lips as Edward forked a bratwurst onto a bun, but Kara could feel his eyes on her, not the food, as she topped it with mustard and relish.
Jean-Benac was hesitant, sniffing the food before taking a bite. He chewed slowly, as if unsure it was edible, then his face lit up as he took another bite. Then another.
“It’s like he’s never seen food before,” Edward said, smirking. “Ask him where he’s from.”
Kara did, her French returning to her slowly. But between his peculiar patois and mouth filled of food, she struggled to translate. Nevertheless, she discovered he was from Trois-Rivières, in Quebec, and headed to Grand Portage, Minnesota. Whether to find work at the casino or as a canoe guide at Fort William, she couldn’t be sure. Edward appe
ared dumbfounded, as Grand Portage was ninety miles away. He wanted to know why the man was in Nipigon.
Jean-Benac made a paddling motion with his arms as he explained that he came ashore because of the storm, that the bay was sheltered by large islands that provided protection from the waves. He said he was used to much larger canoes, and paddling with a crew, and that he didn’t trust the boat, but was hoping to leave tomorrow.
“Ask him how many miles—” Edward was cut off as Jean resumed speaking.
Jean stared at Kara as he spoke, his voice rising and falling with a flustered intensity that mimicked the brewing storm in his eyes. The sedate man she watched sing beneath a canoe an hour ago was now loosely corked, shaken, and ready to burst. Kara tried to keep up as Jean described coming ashore here before. A horrible storm—the worst he’d ever seen—forced his canoe into the bay. One of his friends went overboard. He never saw him again. The town was much smaller, he said. Then, shaking his head, “Tout le monde parlait Francaise.”
“I think he’s describing a dream,” Kara said to Edward. “He says everyone here used to speak French.”
Edward made a face that mimicked Kara’s own confusion. He bent to add another piece of firewood to the campfire. Meanwhile, Jean-Benac kept talking, staring at Kara, who listened the best she could.
“What’s he saying?”
“It’s hard to tell. He said he remembers growing older. That the paddling eventually became too difficult. He took a job as a steerman—”
“In a canoe?” Edward asked.
“Yeah, I guess,” she said, thinking back to the thirty-foot canoe on display at the fort’s museum. “He seems confused, though. Says he was older the last time he was here.”
Edward made a doubtful look then shook it away sarcastically, turning his attention to the frying pan.
Kara felt something troubling the stranger and asked if he was perhaps experiencing déjà vu or if he had been dreaming. He didn’t think so, he said, not looking away.