A Crossworder's Gift (6 page)

Neither Belle nor Rosco spoke, and Pamela continued in the same perturbed and angry tone. “When he died, everything he owned—everything except this property—went to his second wife and her two sons from a previous marriage. Maxime was an art connoisseur. He possessed a world-famous collection of medieval manuscripts among other valuable pieces … but he bequeathed nothing to his natural children. Nothing except this house, which by then had become a complete wreck and was ready to be torn down. It was Helene's idea to renovate it and turn it into a commercial venture—to try to salvage something from our joint histories.”

“Isn't that difficult for your two mothers?”

“They didn't grow up here, so the building has no memories—other than its unfortunate association to a father who deserted them.” Pamela paused. “I guess when you mentioned the word ‘illuminated' in connection with my installation piece, it triggered an unpleasant connection to old Maxime's medieval manuscripts.” She shook her head. “Not that either Helene or I or our mothers aren't proud to be earning our own way, or that we believe the world owes us a living … It's just that … well, Maxime had so much … And it just ended up with people who aren't related to the family at all.” Pamela gazed at the ceiling. “But more than the things, more than the money, what truly vanished was love.”

Belle didn't respond for a long moment. Neither did Rosco. The three sat while the fire's cheery blaze threw warm and welcoming shadows across the room. However, none of the room's inhabitants drew much comfort from the sight.

At length, Pamela continued. “Our grandfather's peculiar decision left Helene's mom, and mine, wondering if perhaps their father
never
cared for them … or whether their memories of a happy childhood were real or honest—even asking themselves if their father might have actually
disliked
them—”

“But surely that wasn't the case?” Belle interjected.

“Who knows? Helene and I are a generation removed, but the pain inflicted on our mothers was genuine.”

“How can you turn your back on your kids?” Rosco asked although his question was directed at the air. “My dad did everything in his power to ensure his offspring got a better chance than he. He went without many things to provide for us. My mother, too. It was all about making sure the next generation had more than he did.”

“That's because your family is still closely tied to your European roots.” Belle frowned in thought. “But it happens, Rosco. You read about situations like this more often than you'd like—wealthy families being purposely hurtful to one another … If you don't mind my asking, Pamela, what became of your grandfather's art collection?”

“Sold. Lock, stock, and barrel. Maxime's second wife and her sons made a sizable profit … Needless to say, the four stepsiblings don't communicate.”

“It's a sad story.” Belle shook her head in sympathy. “I guess it's not possible that we're looking at a generational custom … a holdover from the age when men held all the power, and women were considered chattel?”

“Chattel?” Pamela Gravers forced a wan smile. “There's an old-fashioned term.”

Rosco also tried for a lighter tone. “My wife is fond of archaic phrases. It's in her blood.”

“Whether or not that's the case, Belle, it doesn't alter the fact that old Maxime Verbeux disowned his daughters.”

“No, it doesn't.”

“But as I said: The past is the past. And perhaps Helene and I and our mothers are better off. Maybe I wouldn't be an artist if I had a cushy nest egg.” Pamela attempted a plucky smile. “I wonder if the word ‘chattel' bears any connection to the French
châtelaine
, the mistress of a medieval castle, a
château
, a lady whose power was certainly negligible …”

“I believe ‘chattel' shares lexical roots with ‘cattle,'” was Belle's response.

“Too bad. I was envisioning word associations between
châtelaine
and
châtiment
—‘chastisement,' in English. I was beginning to think it might serve as inspiration for another installation piece.”

Belle and Rosco raised their eyebrows.

“Too racy, I guess,” Pamela admitted. “I'll save it for Paris.” Then her momentary mood of levity disappeared. “Don't let Helene know I told you any of this. As you can see, she's sensitive when it comes to the subject of Maxime Verbeux.”

“Maybe she needs to set up shop in another building,” Belle offered.

“That's what her mom keeps saying, and you can imagine how successful
that
suggestion is. Helene's stubborn, and she'd definitely not about to adhere to
parental advice
. She won't even change the house's name although it's a constant reminder of mean Maxime.”

“Wordsworth House brought us here,” Belle said. “I liked the allusion even before we saw the brochure. Poems and words. Two of my favorite things.”

“Les poemes et les paroles,”
Pamela translated, then she put her head to one side in thought. “I wonder what connection there is between the French for ‘word' and a prison parolee?”

“Actually, I know the answer to that,” Rosco said; both women looked at him in surprise. “A ‘parol' was the watchword or password supplied to a guard or sentry during the days before electronic surveillance systems, etc. It has both law enforcement and military connotations … But I never knew our English ‘word' translates to
parole.
”

“A prisoner of words,” Belle mused.

A
FTER
Pamela Graver's description of her artwork, nothing would have kept Belle from experiencing it firsthand. She and Rosco made their way to the
Place des Arts
, asking directions along the way, none of which turned out to be necessary as the night sky above the festival site was nearly as bright as day. Plumes of crystallized vapor shot high into air that bounced with search lights, laser beams, and sparks and pulses of illumination as brilliant and varicolored as fireworks. Eerie and beautiful stilt-walking figures draped in ultralight robes bobbed and weaved, their long garments and masks turning violet or pale heliotrope or an incandescent silver while bonfires sent feathers of flame billowing into the cold, thin air; and fire-eaters, jugglers, and acrobats, also clad in space-age suits and mylar hats, either swallowed red-hot swords or balanced hoops and balls that changed shade in midair: purple to crimson, aquamarine to bronze, gold to saffron. Accompanying each visual spectacle was music orchestrated to reflect and enhance the individual performance.

“Wow …” Belle stared, her concealing scarf forgotten, her hat pushed high on her brow. “This is like being in the middle of some otherworldly circus. It's as if we've left planet Earth.” A juggler's hoop, rimmed with fire, passed above her head. Another and another followed. There were shrieks and “oohs” and “aahs” on every side. Then a trio of acrobats mounted unicycles that appeared built entirely of glowing neon tubing. Bathed in an extraterrestrial glow, the machines seemed to dance with one another.

“Fantastic,” Rosco echoed. “Stuff like this could put LSD out of business.”

The couple wandered among the milling crowd, pausing to warm themselves beside the bonfires, roasting marshmallows, stepping inside one of the dining tents to sip a glass of wine.

“Let's find Pamela's installation,” Belle said—which wasn't as easy a task as it seemed given the full-scale extravaganzas all around. They discovered the echoing wind tunnel that altered each speaker's voice until it became unrecognizable; a vast mirror that seemed to billow and blow, reconfiguring spectators' bodies and faces; and finally, on a man-made rise, letters that flashed on and off within the icy ground as if someone trapped under the earth were transmitting messages in code.

The wind picked up, scattering snow like sugar; the letters blinked on, blinked off; the meaning changed. ICI to ICY—“here” in Montréal to “cold,” which it was.
LETTRES
to LETTERS … the French queen,
REINE
, to REIGN …
REGRET
to REPENT …
JOYEUX
to JOYFUL …
GEANTS
to GIANTS …
ESPERER
to its opposite, which was DESPAIR …
L'HIVER
, “winter,” to SHIVER …
CONFONDRE
to CONFOUNDS … With each transformation, the speed accelerated until the words almost lost their meaning.

“This is fun,” Belle said as hundreds of images flickered ever faster. Rosco agreed, then held her close:

“I hate to say this, but …”

Belle laughed. “You're freezing.”

“Getting into our warm bed wouldn't be a bad idea.”

“Party poop.”

“I wasn't suggesting the party had to end.”

A loud thud from the next door guest room awakened Belle. She looked toward the communal wall, realizing with dismay that old houses were just that: homes where noise traveled, where sound-proofing was unknown. “Darn,” she muttered as the heavy tread of feet creaking across the floorboards and the murmur of a voice talking in rapid and urgent French continued to invade her space. She glanced at the clock. It was past 2
A.M.
The revelers next door must have just returned from their evening out. The voice grew louder; there was another crash, and the solid thump of a body hitting a piece of furniture.

“Oh darn!” Belle said. She pulled the covers over her ears. Rosco remained deep in dreamland.

“Y
OU
slept well, I hope?” It was Helene who spoke as she poured coffee for Rosco and Belle. The room adjacent to a narrow but efficient kitchen was pleasantly bright with crisp white tablecloths covering each round table and potted plants lining a long window ledge. The smell of cinnamon and sautéed mushrooms perfumed the air. The sound of something fattening sizzling in a frying pan made the morning quite perfect.

“Not exactly …” Belle began but their host had already moved toward another table, repeating the identical query. Belle looked at Rosco. “I guess our neighbors won't be down for quite a while.”

“Neighbors?” Pamela asked. She was seating herself at an adjacent table.

“The folks next door to us,” Rosco explained. “They must have been partying late. Belle heard them come in. I didn't … but then, I didn't hear much of anything.”

Pamela was about to reply, but her cousin passed by, a censorious glance indicating that family members were supposed to help rather than expect to be waited on. “I've done it again,” Pamela said. She rose but, moving between the closely packed furniture, managed to pull the tablecloth with her. Belle lunged for it. “A bull in a china shop,” Pamela admitted.

“We really enjoyed seeing your installation last night,” Belle said in response. “Especially toward the end of the exhibit:
COURAGE
to the English COURAGE,
COUR
to CORE,
MELANCOLIE
to MELANCHOLY,
COUPABLE
to CULPABLE; and the speed with which the changes occurred—”

“Speed?” Pamela demanded. “CULPABLE? MELANCHOLY? … But my intention was for a reasonable and thought-provoking pace … and those words weren't part of the design … Hmmm, maybe Jean-Claude is adding his own—”

“Pamela!”

“I'll be back. Something tells me your omelettes may be done.”

S
UNLIGHT
glinted over every inch of road and sidewalk, dazzling the eye and making the day summer-bright. Belle leaned close to Rosco as they strolled through the old city, pressing against him not because she was cold but because she was extraordinarily happy. Happy to be alive, happy to be with the person she most loved in the world, and happy to know that her love and admiration were returned. The sorrowful tale of a man who had disowned his children hung heavily on her heart, making her give abundant thanks for all the blessings she knew had been bestowed upon her.

“We're lucky people, aren't we, Rosco?”

“I know I am.”

“I am, too. Lucky to have you, friends, work I enjoy, a wonderful home—”

“A great dog.”

Belle regarded her husband. “Wouldn't you say it was the other way around?”

“What do you mean?”

“That Kit owns us rather than vice versa?”

“She is a little spoiled …”

“A little!” Belle laughed. “In case you'd forgotten, you and I sleep in what we now refer to as ‘Kit's bed.'”

“Well, where else would you want her to sack out?”

“That's
not
my point.” Belle grinned, then turned to admire the scene. “What an absolutely gorgeous day! Let's walk down to the river. If we can't take a boat trip to see the sights, we can at least admire the ice-covered harbor on foot.”

They wandered along the promenade that lined the waterfront, crossing the frozen river to explore a park that in summer was a glowing, emerald green and that was now transformed into an enormous skating rink. Children, couples, old, young: everyone was zooming expertly along, gliding gleefully through the air. “What a nice, old-fashioned pastime,” Belle observed. “I imagine it's been the city folk's recreation since the town began.”

“You mean since Jacques Cartier first admired the scenery from atop Royal Mountain—
Mont Réal
—in 1535?”

“In 1535! How did you know that?”

“Looked it up … The view extends over sixty miles. The ‘royal' refers to King Francis the First—François the First—of France. And those famous rapids were named Lachine because Cartier thought that possibly the sea route to China lay just beyond them—
La Chine.
”

Belle laughed and shook her head. “Any other historical tidbits you'd like to trot out? Or are you just going to wait and drop them in casual conversation?”

“In 1657, a French nun—now saint—one Marguerite Bourgeoys, established the Bonsecours church in an area that was then outside the city's walls. She was Montreal's first school teacher. The first nurse was Jeanne Mance, who arrived in 1642.”