First I squeeze the handle bar as though I’m on a bike, then I tap a non-existent pedal like I’m in a car. Darnit! Only when Sebastien throws out his feet and starts rucking up snow with his heels do I remember the jagged metal bar between my feet.
‘S-sorry,’ I puff as we finally grind to a halt.
‘That’s okay, you’re doing fine.’
‘Oh no! Orion’s pooping!’
I feel I should avert my eyes.
‘Why now, why mid-run?’ I ask.
Sebastien shrugs, ‘When you’ve got to go … ’
Where’s Gilles with his fashion lens now, I think to myself. No doubt examining Annique’s aperture. Oh dear. That sounded even worse than I intended.
‘Okay, go again.’
Soon I’m back to bliss. I could do this all the way to Alaska! What’s that race they have there – the Iditarod? I seem to remember it being over a week long. I wonder what that’s like? Endurance test or Zen meditation? Do you see the other sledders or is it just you and infinite white?
I’m in a long-haul mindset now but what seems like minutes later my time is up. I experience a brief moment of panic as the dogs charge right through the camp, but of course it’s all part of the plan and we come to rest at the exact point at which we left an hour ago. I’m still in a state of euphoria as I step off the sled. Sebastien, by contrast, seems to have dug deeper in his sulk.
‘All right?’ he grudgingly checks on me.
‘Well, I can’t feel my feet any more but apart from that … ’
‘There’s hot chocolate inside,’ he says, and then immediately starts speaking French with one of the other guys.
Well I guess that’s me dismissed. I desperately want to shake paws with every single dog at the camp, to linger in this fantastical environment as long as possible, but I do have a pressing need to thaw out. My face is taut and stinging and my toes have bunched up into frozen claws. Not that I really care. All the same, hot chocolate does sound like heaven right now.
‘How was it?’ the girl on Reception asks as I step through the door.
‘Fantastic – I loved it! Those dogs are so good-natured!’
‘And Sebastien?’ She sounds a little more wary.
‘Well,’ I search for the right words. ‘He’s quite the character.’
‘Mmmm.’
And then I venture: ‘He seems very protective of Jacques … ’
She nods. ‘Normally it’s the other way around,
non
?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You know, the older brother is the protector.’
‘They’re brothers?’ I am genuinely surprised. ‘They don’t look at all alike.’
‘Different mothers.’
‘Ohhh.’ I shuffle closer to her desk and lower my voice. ‘So was he really in Cirque du Soleil?’
‘He told you?’ She looks amazed.
‘Not exactly. I sort of guessed.’
‘He can’t really hide it. It’s in his body, every muscle, every way he moves. Everything to him is something to jump off or swing on or leap over.’
‘Why did he leave? He doesn’t seem to have an injury.’
I sense her pull back. ‘He made a different choice.’
I want to ask more but the next group has arrived and she needs to check them in.
‘Er, the
salle de bain
?’ I quickly request directions to the loo.
More fool me for asking in French, because she replies in kind and all I catch is
à gauche
…
Somewhere on the left … I turn down the corridor and open the first door I come to. Darkness. I feel for the light switch and find myself in a small office crammed with all manner of dog-sledding trophies and memorabilia, including several photographs of Jacques with an all-Samoyed team, their white fur looking rice-pudding cream against the blue hue of the snow. He seems to have competed in a mix of races from sprints to long-distance, and in so many locations … I see plaques for the Caledonian Classic in British Columbia, the Can-Am Crown in Maine, the Copper Dog 150 in Michigan … Then I gasp - the legendary Iditarod! He did it! One thousand miles with a frosty beard.
Wow.
It makes me wonder – what kind of man would seek to challenge himself that way? A lone wolf, some might say …
It’s then I acknowledge the other distinct feature of the room – sympathy cards. Dozens of them lining the shelves and desktop, a couple tucked behind picture frames. Are these for dogs that have passed, I wonder? I’m just about to step towards a picture of Jacques with his arm around someone when I sense a presence behind me.
‘Jacques!’ I jump at the sight of the man himself. ‘I didn’t mean to be snooping. I was looking for the loo.’
‘Next door down.’
‘Oh. Okay. Thank you.’ I’m mortified but force myself to turn back to him. ‘That’s an impressive selection of awards … ’
He looks mildly embarrassed. ‘My dad did the decorating in there.’
‘He must be very proud.’
‘At one time.’
Oh. I give an awkward smile and head into the Ladies. Turns out I don’t need to go at all now but I’m glad for the chance to regain my composure. That was a little uncomfortable. And what did he mean, ‘At one time … ’ What would have changed? Could it have anything to do with those bereavement cards? It’s not the dad who’s dead is it? Darn! Why did I open that door? I wonder if I should just leave quietly before I upset anyone else?
As I step out of the loo, I catch sight of the group chatting animatedly in the backroom lounge, hot chocolate in hand. I’m about to look away and return to the front Reception when I notice Jacques holding out a mug for me. At least I think it’s for me – I look behind me to be sure. No one else around. When I look back he nods as if to say, ‘Yes you, madam, you with the pink nose.’
‘Th-thank you,’ I gratefully accept the steamy beverage.
‘Can’t go without your treat.’
‘Gosh, I’ve already had that – the ride was amazing.’
He smiles. ‘Sebastien said you were a natural.’
‘
He did?
’
‘You sound surprised.’
I pull a face.
‘You can say it. We all know what he’s like.’
‘No, he’s fine. He seemed irritated with me for the most part.’
‘At the moment he’s irritated full stop.’
And what’s your story?, I want to ask. What is the shadow in your eyes? But instead I make so bold as to ask him whether he would consider letting us promote his business on our website and, if so, would he allow me to return tomorrow, with a photographer …
He thinks for a minute, asks a few more questions, looks me over one more time and then says, ‘I don’t see why not. But it would have to be early, before the first group – eight a.m.?’
‘No problem,’ I tell him.
And then his face softens. ‘We have some puppies here I could show you tomorrow, if you like.’
‘Husky puppies?’ My eyes light up.
He nods. ‘Sixteen of them.’
Now my eyes widen – this is too good to be true!
‘In fact,’ he beckons me around a corner, out of sight of the group, ‘I have one right here … ’ And with that he unzips his jacket and a fluffy-downy sleepy-head pops out.
My besotted gurgle quickly turns to concern. ‘What happened to his face?’ Little scars and scratches intersperse his teddy-bear features.
‘His mother turned on him, we don’t know why. So I’m taking care of him now.’
And then the little puppy looks up at me and I gasp, ‘He has your eyes!’
‘Crazy huh? It’s actually quite common in huskies, to have different-coloured irises.’
‘Less so in humans,’ I say, though I’m really basing this on celebrities I know with different-coloured eyes, namely Kate Bosworth and David Bowie. And actually I think David Bowie’s is more a case of one permanently dilated pupil.
I’m mid-mind-ramble when a surge of tingly warmth races throughout my body – my fingertips, which until now have been giving feather-like strokes to the puppy’s ears and wispy cheeks, just made contact with Jacques’ hand. For a millisecond the three of us were connected – skin on skin on fur – and it felt incredible. Like a family.
‘I need to get another dog,’ I say, stepping back and taking a breath.
‘How many do you have?’ Jacques asks.
‘None at the moment, that’s the problem.’
He gives me a knowing look. ‘They are the best.’
‘What about you,’ I ask, ‘exactly how many do you have here?’
‘Full grown?’ His chest puffs and then he blurts, ‘Ninety-eight.’
‘Ninety-eight?’ I reel. ‘That’s a lot. And you know all their names?’
‘Every one.’
I sigh – I could listen to him reeling off name after name after name and it would sound like poetry to me right now.
‘Do you count them at night instead of sheep?’
‘That’s actually a good idea!’ he smiles, but then looks a little wistful, as if he really might have trouble sleeping.
But why would that be? And isn’t there a Mrs Dufour to soothe him into a slumber? I know later, when I dissect all this with Laurie, she will ask if he flirted with me and I will have to answer no and she will suggest that he may already have a girlfriend he is quietly devoted to. And yet … I’m not particularly getting that vibe either. If I was to guess at anything, I would say he’s opted out of such things. Perhaps he too is recovering from some kind of heartbreak. Oh no! Maybe it’s his wife or girlfriend who died!
‘Jacques!’ It’s the Reception girl calling through to let him know that a) his next group is ready and b) the shuttle is here to take the others back to the city.
I know this because he translates for me
and
offers me a seat on the shuttle, which I gratefully accept.
‘So,’ he says, zipping up his precious fur-ball. ‘
À demain?
’
‘Until tomorrow!’ I smile, glad that my stomach-flip is not visible to the naked eye.
Or is it?
Sebastien gives me a rather intrusive look as he gives me a hand up onto the minibus. He also doesn’t let go of my arm when he should.
Is he angling for a tip?
‘You can’t save him you know,’ he says, his natural petulance mixing with sadness now, burrowing the words into my brain.
‘Save him from what?’ I want to ask. ‘
You?
’ But he’s stepped back and the doors have suctioned closed between us.
I sit down with a thud.
What was that all about? Why did he look so haunted when he said that? Was he trying to tell me that I’m not the first girl to want to ‘fix’ Jacques, and that all others have failed, to the extent of their own demise? Was that really my intention anyway? Of course I’d salve his wound with cooling aloe gel if I could, but mostly I just wanted to know more about him. But is that how it begins?
For a while I feel huffy and judged, and not a little concerned, but then I think of my private viewing of the puppy, how close we were standing, and the fact that I have been invited back tomorrow, and pretty soon my drunken smile returns. Shrugging down in the seat so that my Puffa hood becomes a substitute pillow, I find myself conjuring images of Jacques and me lying on a patchwork of blankets before a vigorous fire, the puppy tumbling between us, moving through various stages of dog-hood as we look dotingly on …
Oh
demain, demain
. Why does there even have to be a
ce soir
?
CHAPTER TEN
I arrange to meet everyone at the restaurant, saying that I want to meander through the Old Town (which I do), but really it’s more about avoiding any potential alone-time with Gilles. I don’t know what he wanted to talk about before I bolted in the taxi – a petit apology,
peut-être
? – but now I’d really prefer he said nothing at all because, honestly, what can I say in response? Even thinking about our kiss at the Hôtel de Glace makes me cringe now and, besides, it already seems like a lifetime ago.
Even if it was just last night.
I return to my place of contemplation in front of my wardrobe. How exactly does one dress for a swish establishment when you have to brave snow and subzero temperatures to get there? Do the Québécois pack a small overnight bag every time they go to dinner, switching into their LBD and strappy stilettos in the revolving door? Or do they forgo vamp glamour in favour of polo necks and snowflake-motif sweaters? And, most importantly, can skinny jeans really live up to their name when you have a rucked pair of long johns underneath?
I sigh heavily.
And then I spy my silver camisole with the matte sequins. How about if I layered that with my sheer cashmere cardi? That would work at the dinner table. Along with my pale grey scarf if it looks too dressy. I zip a fleece over the top, which I can remove with my Puffa coat. Black gloves and boots. Now I have to go and ruin everything with a hat that will simultaneously flatten the front of my hair and create wispy static-electricity elevations at the crown.
Perhaps I’ll just brave it without.
I’m two steps out of the front door when I come scuttling back in.
‘Frosty the snowman!’ I gasp.
It is both colder than I imagined – instant brain-freeze! – and more slippy; trickier to see the slicks of treacherous ice amid the streaky reflections of the streetlamps. I run back to the room for my warmest hat and then go in search of some kind of walking stick or ski pole at the gift shop.
What I walk out with is a red plastic cane topped with a white Bonhomme head. I’m not sure how much good it will do me, but it certainly seems to be the accessory
du jour
– I notice that everyone heading in the direction of the Carnival has one. The weird thing is they keep unscrewing Bohomme’s head and sipping from the cane.
I find out why at the first bar I pass: they have filled their canes with Caribou – the cocktail, that is, not the vast-antlered reindeer. It tastes just like mulled wine, is also served warm, and after a couple of slugs I’m feeling no pain. I even do a few token baton twirls as I enter the fabled walled city.
If ever there was a place that looked like it had been designed as a set for a movie, this is it. There’s not one building that jars the charm or makes you think, ‘Now why did they have to go and ruin it all with that eyesore?’ Every rooftop, every awning, every window display is evocatively characterful and pleasing to the eye. Even the souvenir shops look appealing, with rugged-knit hats and scarves in the Canadian flag combination of red and white.