WINTER WONDERLAND (11 page)

Fairylights wink and glow at every turn – I remember Annique saying that they keep up their Christmas decorations until the snow subsides in March; another excellent way to keep the mood festive and avoid the post-Christmas slump.

She also said you can’t get lost in Quebec Old Town, but I beg to differ – the place is a wiggly, up-hill/down-dale maze. The one place I have no problem locating is the Château Frontenac. It really is huge. According to my directions, the Auberge Saint-Antoine is just a seven-minute walk from here, though that may be in the summer when you don’t have to inch along like you’re trying to break in a new pair of legs. It’s strange how much you take for granted being able to safely plant one foot in front of the other. I’m looking so tentative at the top of one ice-gleamed slope that an elderly lady, eighty if she’s a day, offers me her arm to help me across the street. I kid you not.

Pausing again beside a park where the benches are three-quarters buried in snow, I take another look at my map.

I think I’m just supposed to hug the curve of this road all the way down to Lower Town and then turn left.

Not that I’m in any particular hurry to get there any more, I’ve entered that lovely blurry alcohol haze that makes everything a wonder to behold. I mean, look at this vast
trompe l’oeil
of the city – it has to be five storeys high with all the seasons represented (snow to autumn foliage to blossoms to sunny streets), as well as different time periods (a horse and carriage alongside a mum pushing a pram). I peer closer at the depiction of a bookshop window, studying each painted title and then Google some of the writers’ names and find that every one comes up as a local author. Nice touch.

I decide to take a slight detour to get a better snap of the artwork, and that’s when I see an alluring and strangely familiar sight – a ye-olde square of wooden-shuttered houses set around a simple, single-spired, dove-grey church. There’s a giant Christmas tree in the centre of the courtyard and I stand beside it, facing the church and wondering, out loud apparently, where I’ve seen it before.

‘
Catch Me If You Can.’

I spin around. Where did that voice come from?

‘You recall the scene in the movie where Tom Hanks finally catches up with Leonardo DiCaprio at the printing press in France?’

‘Of course!’ I gasp.

‘It was shot right here.’

Already wide-eyed, I nearly repeat my earlier fallback into the snow as a certain figure steps out from the shadows …

I can’t believe it!
It’s Bonhomme!

I look around – not another soul. That can’t be right! Where’s his Pied Piper-esque following? Shouldn’t he at least have an escort or a handler with him?

I reach out and prod him in the belly.

‘Help yourself.’

‘Oh! I just wanted to see if you were real!’

‘As opposed to a Caribou hallucination?’

‘Isn’t it marvellous stuff?’ I raise my cane. ‘It’s my new favourite drink.’ And then I tilt my head. ‘Are you lost?’

‘No,’ he replies. ‘Are you?’

‘As a matter of fact I am.’ I brighten. ‘You must know this city pretty well. Do you give directions?’

I’d say he smiles in response but that’s a given with his mouth set in a fixed black grin.

‘Where do you need to go?’ he asks.

‘Auberge Saint-Antoine,’ I reply.

‘Someone has expensive taste.’

‘Not me.’

‘A date?’

‘No, no. Well, not mine – we’re setting up a gay sculptor with a straight photographer. We did something very bad to his polar bear,’ I wince. ‘It’s a long story.’

Bonhomme places his bulky white arm around my shoulder. ‘All you have to do is go back up to the top of this road … ’

‘By the
trompe l’oeil
.’

‘If that’s how you want to pronounce it. Then go right and then left at Restaurant L’Initiale – which does great stuffed quail by the way – and then you’ll see Rue Saint-Antoine a bit further down on your right.’

I clasp my hands together like a swooning heroine. ‘Oh Bonhomme! How can I ever thank you!’

‘Would you like to take off your clothes?’

I blink back at him. ‘It’s got to be minus twenty!’

‘Not right now. In two days’ time.’

‘Is there some kind of heat wave coming?’

‘Two days from now we have the Bain de Neige at the Carnaval.’

‘Please tell me that does not translate as Snow Bath.’

‘Oh but it does. Great fun. I’d like to see you there. In your bikini.’

I feel a little uneasy. Should Bonhomme really be talking this way?

‘All I’m going to be wearing is a red hat.’

‘That’s practically all you’re wearing now,’ I observe. ‘Well, that and this waist sash, which you do wear rather high, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘You want me to reposition it?’

‘No, no!’ I snort. ‘Who am I to restyle a fifty-seven-year-old icon?‘

‘Well, let’s at least see how it looks. Turn away while I untie it.’

I turn back to face the church. ‘Why do I feel you’re getting up to mischief?’

‘With these mittens?’

My laughter soon turns into a piercing scream.

‘You did not just do that!’

The not-so-little rascal just stuffed a handful of freezing snow down the back of my neck!

I scoop up an armful, looking for an opening in his costume to return the favour.

‘This isn’t fair – you’re all sealed up!’ I protest.

‘Look over there!’

He gets me again, this time with a snowball in the kidney region.

‘Right! That’s it!’

I scrabble on the ground and start pelting him with everything I can get my hands on.

I can’t believe I’m having a snowball fight with a snowman!

While he darts behind the tree, I start building a stack of ammo. I want to be ready to bombard him when he reappears.

‘Madame?’

I spin around and find three policemen staring down at me.

I drop the newest clomp of snow like it’s a brick I’m about to throw through a jeweller’s window.

‘S-sorry, is that not allowed? I didn’t mean to mess up the snow.’

‘Have you seen a man dressed as Bonhomme?’

‘Sshhh!’ I giggle. ‘You’re never supposed to acknowledge that there is a man inside. Bonhomme is real!’

‘Madame this is serious. We had a report of a sighting of him in this area.’

Is this some Carnival caper I don’t know about? Is there a hidden camera in that bust of Louis XIV? Are these policeman really actors?

‘Madame?’

‘He’s behind the tree!’

They hurtle to the other side.

Rien!
Nothing!

What is it with men disappearing in my life? I’ve clearly missed my calling as a magician’s assistant.

‘But you did see him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you speak with him?’

‘I did,’ I confirm. ‘I was lost, he gave me directions … ’

‘And that’s it?’

‘Um.’

‘He didn’t say anything else? Anything that could help us locate him?’

‘I think he’s going to be at the Bain de Neige event.’

‘Figures.’

A radio bleeps and conveys a message – there’s been a sighting down by the ferry…

The head policeman gives me his card. ‘If you remember anything else, please call us.’

I nod and watch them leave in a state of disbelief. Did all that really happen? I stand and watch the snowflakes softly falling, catching a few on the fingertips of my gloves. And then I take a picture of the church, to prove that at least
I
was really here.

A few minutes later I arrive at Auberge Saint-Antoine.

I’ll say one thing – fake Bonhomme gives excellent directions.

‘Here she is!’ Annique jumps to her feet to greet me. ‘Let me show you where you can hang your coat.’

The hotel is incredibly chic. I do like how the rich do cosy: starting with a refined colour palette – what I would describe as cranberry, crème anglaise, and soft taupe – and then adding an eccentric detail or two, in this case moose silhouette cushions and a heavy iron chain in lieu of coals in the fireplace. The bar itself has a mix of high-backed leather banquettes, clear Perspex chairs and cushiony window seats. But what secures a prime place on the website is the fact that the area is book-ended by two inviting insets with their own fireplace, shelves of books and board games and a snug sofa, just like your own bijou apartment – order a bottle of wine and a cheeseboard, drag across the velvet drape and you’re set for the night.

Annique explains that we are in fact ordering off the bar menu as a few friends will be joining us later. The more relaxed setting suits me fine, and the more people that aren’t Gilles, the better.

‘Annique?’ I halt her before she heads back down the stairs.

‘Yes?’

‘Is Bonhomme in trouble with the law?’

‘Of course not!’ she tinkles. ‘He’s the most honourable, wholesome, delightful—’

‘Yes, yes, I know, he’s a national treasure.’

‘Why do you ask?’

I take a breath. ‘I just saw the police chasing him.’

‘Oh!’ She looks stricken. ‘So it’s true.’

‘What is?’

‘I heard a rumour that there is an impostor on the loose.

‘No!’

She lowers her voice. ‘They call him Malhomme.’

‘Mal as in bad?’ I seek clarification. ‘Like Bonhomme’s bad-guy alter ego?’

‘Yes.’ She clicks her tongue. ‘This is not a good situation.’

‘What do you know about it?’

‘Just that he is singling out the tourists – of course the locals know him too well to be fooled.’

‘So, for example, someone gawping at the church in Place Royale … ’

‘You didn’t speak to him?’ she gasps.

‘I did.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Well, he was kind of …
flirty
.’

‘This must not happen.’ She looks genuinely upset. ‘Bonhomme’s reputation is sacred.’

‘You know I once saw a guy in a Mickey Mouse costume taking a cigarette break… ’

She gives me a dark look.

‘Of course this is much worse.’

Annique begins chewing at her perfect French-Canadian manicure.

‘I didn’t mean to be such a downer,’ I apologise.

‘No, no. But I think we must report this incident.’

‘Well, I’ve already told the police everything.’

‘Everything? Every word. This is very important.’

I look over at Gilles sitting awkwardly with Brandon.

‘You know you’re quite right. There is more to tell. Let’s do it right now.’

I’m not sure if the fact that the impostor is a fan of the stuffed quail at Restaurant L’Initiale will crack the case, but you never know.

I’m still really none the wiser about what this so-called Malhomme is up to. The police don’t want salacious stories getting out so they prefer not to give any further details. Fair enough. All we really know is that he is not behaving in a way that is ambassador-appropriate.

‘Ooh Brandon, what are you drinking?’ I ask as we return to the bar, admiring his pink cocktail served in a slender antler-motif flute.

‘French-Canadian Kiss,’ he beams. ‘Want one?’

‘No thanks,’ I reply, adding for Gilles’ ears only. ‘I find it leaves a nasty aftertaste.’

I study the menu and then order a Jalapeño Margarita, just to show how tough I am.

‘We’ve ordered a selection of appetisers.’ Annique invites me to dip in. ‘And there’s a fondue on the way.’

‘Yummy! Thank you.’ I turn back to Brandon. ‘So how did the rest of the competition go?’

‘Well, I didn’t win but I did get the best prize!’ He looks googly-eyed at Gilles.

‘Have you two had your picture taken together yet?’

‘No,’ he says, coyly.

‘Allow me!’ I take his phone and start snapping away. ‘Come on, cuddle up nice and close. That’s adorable!’

‘By the way, Krista,’ Gilles interrupts. ‘I think we need to set aside some time tomorrow to go through the photos for the website.’

‘No rush,’ I chirp. ‘I won’t be posting until I’ve viewed the whole lot, so I can get a good balance of images. Unless you’re concerned you’re not getting the shots … ’

‘Oh no. The quality is there.’

‘Good to know. And the dog-sledding should be great. You did get my message about that, Annique?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know how you did it!’

‘Did what?’ Gilles looks confused.

‘Persuade the Wolfman to let us shoot at his home.’

‘Oooh, the Wolfman. I think you’ve just given me the concept for my new snow sculpture!’ Brandon enthuses. ‘Is he as sexy as he sounds?’

‘Well he does happen to have sixteen husky puppies … ’

‘Goodness,’ Brandon fans himself with a napkin and then playfully nudges his date. ‘You may have a little competition there, Gilles … !’

‘Oh! Here’s Simone and Yves!’ Annique beckons her friends over.

They begin asking me how I like it so far, where I’m staying …

I explain that I managed half a night at the Hôtel de Glace, I’m currently at the Hilton and on Wednesday I’m switching to—

‘Auberge Place D’Armes,’ Annique helps me out.

‘Oh that’s so cute!’ Simone raves. ‘And you have to try their dessert with the banana cognac flambée –
c’est magnifique!
’

Before long everyone has slipped into speaking French, which actually suits me fine as I am now enjoying an all-consuming relationship with the fondue. I’m just about to propose to the crusty French bread when Annique elbows me.