I look back at Sebastien. ‘Is that a traditional Montreal greeting?’
‘Tell him you think it’s curvaceous.’
‘
What?
’
‘Do it. He’ll love it.’
I take a breath. ‘It’s wonderfully curvaceous!’ I call up to him.
‘Yes yes!’ he claps his hands together. ‘That’s right, come on up.’
‘Was that the secret password?’ I frown.
‘It just tickles him because it’s irreverent.’
Sebastien explains that, back in the day, the church insisted all buildings had outside staircases so everyone’s comings and goings could be witnessed – no covert activity.
‘But then the residents got creative with the designs and the sensual curves were considered too
provocative
—’
‘You’re joking!’
‘I am not. So they said all the staircases had to be covered up and boxed in.’
‘No!’
‘But now, in these more liberated days, they have been exposed again.’
‘Gosh. Every city has its story, huh?’
His father reappears on the top step. ‘What does a person have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?’
I suppose, after seeing what he did to Jacques’ office, I should have guessed that Mr Dufour would not go the minimalist route with his home decor. Every inch of wall and shelf space is housing some award, ribbon, trophy or celebratory photo. There is even a framed ice hockey jersey – red, white and blue.
‘Montreal Canadiens,’ I read the plaque. ‘You used to play?’
‘Not me,’ Sebastien replies. ‘My dad. Still does.’
‘Not professionally any more, just with friends,’ he explains as he returns from the kitchen with a team mug to pour his Olimpico coffee into. ‘That’s how I messed up my damn knee.’
‘Dad was their star player back in the day,’ Sebastien mumbles dutifully. ‘Centre forward.’
‘I just liked being called “offensive”,’ he teases. ‘Did you bring the biscotti?’
Sebastien slides the paper bag across the table.
‘Krista you have to try this!’
‘Oh I couldn’t take another bite. I totally overdid it at breakfast.’
He snaps me off a piece regardless. ‘For later.’
‘Thank you!’
‘So,’ he turns to Sebastien. ‘How does it feel to be back in Montreal?’
He shifts in his chair. ‘All right I guess.’
‘That’s it?’
Sebastien shrugs.
‘Lucky he’s not writing for your website,’ Mr Dufour winks at me.
They make some more smalltalk. Sebastien not really giving anything away, possibly because I am here, and then Mr Dufour says:
‘You know, I was helping Mr Tremblay across the street draw up his will and I want you to know that when I die I’m leaving this place to you.’
Sebastien looks uncomfortable. ‘Me and Jacques.’
‘No, Jacques already has a home. Your home is here.’ He sighs. ‘When are you coming home, son?’
‘Dad we’ve been through this … ’ Sebastien squirms.
‘He worries too much.’ Mr Dufour addresses me. ‘And I worry about him worrying.’ He shakes his head. ‘What a fine pair.’ He takes a sip of coffee. ‘So how is Jacques?’
‘He’s okay—’
‘I was talking to Krista.’
At which point Sebastien decides that he needs to sort a few items in his old room.
I wait until he closes the door behind him before I reply.
‘I think he’s wonderful. I mean, I only met him four days ago so I can’t give you a comprehensive review … ’
‘No, but you can give me the most up-to-date unbiased opinion.’
‘Well, then I’d say he’s doing very well. All things considered.’
‘How is his pain level?’
I hesitate. ‘You mean emotional pain?’
He nods.
‘It’s present,’ I say quietly.
‘Palpable?’
‘Yes.’ I can’t lie. ‘You can see it in his eyes.’
Mr Dufour hangs his head. ‘I wish there was something I could do to ease it. But you can’t hurry those kind of feelings along.’
‘No.’
‘Sometimes I think Sebastien is overreacting and other times … I just don’t know.’
I feel a twinge of concern. Is Jacques more troubled than I know?
He smiles suddenly. ‘He has certainly sounded brighter since he met you.’
‘Really?’ I just know I’m flushing pink now. ‘I feel the same way.’
‘Sometimes a stranger can do more than family.’
‘I hope you don’t think I’m intruding.’ Now
I’m
worrying!
‘Not at all.’ He reaches for my hand. ‘I don’t give pieces of my biscotti away to just anyone.’
I smile back at him. ‘Citron-pistachio?’
‘Go on, taste it!’
I’m just splintering into it when there is an almighty crash from the other room – an avalanche of books falling? A decade of things shoved onto the top shelf now unleashed?
‘Dad!’ Sebastien calls out.
Mr Dufour rolls his eyes. ‘For someone so graceful in the air he sure can be clumsy on dry land.’ He gets to his feet. ‘Make yourself at home.’
By which I take him to mean ‘Feel free to snoop.’ So I do.
Of course I am initially scanning for pictures of Jacques. And there are plenty, all of which leave me with a sloppy look of longing on my face. Except perhaps the group photo where he appears to be partnered with an outdoorsy-looking woman. Still, we all have our exes. Those people we used to orbit around and now avoid. I imagine walking down a long gallery of all my former loves, and I use ‘loves’ in the broadest sense of the word. As I contemplate each face I respond with a twitch or flinch or sneer or shudder and an endless mantra of ‘
What was I thinking?
’ But the only one it hurts to look at is Andrew. Though, I have to say, the pain feels somewhat dulled today. I heave a sigh. Wouldn’t it be nice to leave all these men behind for good? To see one face and feel only positive things. I lean closer to an image of Jacques laughing in the sunshine and feel brimful of admiration and adoration.
All I need now is the reciprocation.
I think I might help myself to a glass of water when an image of a young First Nation girl catches my eye.
Her dark hair is parted in the middle but, rather than being plaited, it is bound with suede laces. Around her neck sits a bone choker, the yoke of her dress is beaded and fringed, her delicate hands hold a collection of feathers. There’s a luminous quality to her dark eyes as she looks beyond the camera, the beginning of a smile forming on her lips. Even though she must still be in her teens she looks both poised and purposeful. Just as I take the frame in my hands, I feel Mr Dufour’s presence beside me.
‘Oh!’ I step back. ‘I hope you don’t mind me looking – she’s so beautiful … ’
‘That’s Jacques’ mother.’
I look up in surprise.
‘She’s just like him – not a bad bone in her body.’
‘Is she … ?’ I falter. Do I say First Nation?
‘Cree,’ he replies.
‘Wow. Stunning.’
‘Of course that’s not a recent picture. We were sixteen when that was taken.’
‘That’s when you met?’
He nods and then smiles wide: ‘She would only agree to go out with me if I could learn to spell the longest Cree chief name in history.’
I raise a brow.
‘You want to hear it?’
I nod eagerly.
He takes a deep breath and then spells out: ‘A-h-c-h-u-c-h-h-w-a-h-a-u-h-h-a-t-o-h-a-p-i-t!’
‘What?’ I hoot, insisting he writes it down. Ahchuchhwahauhhatohapit.
‘That’s dedication!’ I marvel.
‘Oh, she was worth it! Best summer of my life. I still think fondly of her.’ He sighs. ‘But you change a lot from a teenager to a man. Especially to a sportsman.’
He looks mildly regretful, like perhaps the game was not worth the sacrifice.
‘There were a lot of demands in those days, a lot of adrenalin, a lot of travel … ’
I nod, not wishing to pry too much. ‘Does she still live in Quebec?’
He nods. ‘She’s away north at the moment. Helping her mother.’
I look back at the other photographs. ‘Is Sebastien’s mother here?’
He pulls a face. ‘We’re not on quite such good terms … ’
‘But you were together nearly twenty years!’ I can’t help but blurt.
‘And they were mostly good, but things didn’t end well.’ He begins opening draws and rifling through papers. ‘She’s got to be here somewhere … ’
I smile. ‘I was just curious, there’s no need—’
‘Here!’ He holds out a snap of a blonde woman crouched beside a baby dangling from a doorway in a baby bouncer.
I can’t help but chuckle – even as a child Sebastien was catapulting skyward!
‘Look at this one!’ He shows me another shot of a pre-peroxide Sebastien in double-jointed gymnastics pose.
‘So Jacques doesn’t have a bad bone in his body and Sebastien doesn’t have any at all?’ I hoot.
‘Looks that way, doesn’t it!’ Mr Dufour laughs.
‘In a way he was preparing for Cirque du Soleil from the age of … ’
‘He started taking classes at five.’
‘Wow. And then was it a straight transition through?’
‘Well. There was a gap. He stopped for a while.’
My eyes flash towards the door.
‘He’s gone down to the basement, he can’t hear us.’
‘Teenage rebellion?’ I suggest, tallying up what Sebastien had told me in the car.
‘Oh, he took that to a whole new level. There was nothing I could say … It got so bad, Rémy had to call Jacques to step in.’
Oh dear, so he was in trouble with the police.
‘And Jacques managed to turn things around?’
‘At a price.’
I wait for him to continue.
‘He had to give up his place in the Iditarod, the year he was set to break a record. That’s months of training and about thirty thousand dollars down the drain.’
My eyes widen.
‘Of course Sebastien paid him back the money a few years later. He’s been trying to make it up to him ever since.’
‘Doesn’t he know that he doesn’t need to?’
‘I think he always felt that if he didn’t suffer in some way, if he didn’t have to give up something truly precious, then it wouldn’t be equal.’
I shake my head.
‘Catholic guilt. That’s from his mother’s side … ’
I nod. And then I get a little bold. It just seems too good an opportunity to pass up, finding the answer to something that has been bothering me since the first day I met Sebastien.
‘It seems like he doesn’t want Jacques to get involved with anyone romantically?’
‘He just doesn’t want him to get hurt. You know, on top of everything else, if he met someone and then that person went away – losing someone else he cares about … ’
‘Right,’ I gulp.
And then I realise that when Sebastien said, ‘You can’t save him!’ it may well have been because he felt that it was
his
job – he was the one who needed to return the favour. Especially since he too was connected to Rémy, perhaps even has residual guilt for causing him trouble way back when.
I hear the sound of boots coming up the stairs so switch my attention back to the awards.
‘You must be so proud,’ I say. ‘Of all your sons have accomplished … ’
Mr Dufour pulls a face. ‘They think I’m too proud – I like to display the accolades, solid proof that I did something good with my life.’
‘But you’ve done so much in your own right!’ I gasp, surprised he could ever doubt that.
He shrugs. ‘It’s not where you start, it’s where you finish. I didn’t expect to be living alone at this age.’
I feel a pang of empathy. That’s always been my greatest fear – you give your all but still end up solo. With regrets.
‘You know, life can surprise you at any moment,’ I tell him in earnest. ‘Someone new can take your breath away.’ I look back at the photo of Jacques’ mother. ‘Or someone can come back into your life … ’
‘Speaking of which!’ He rouses himself as Sebastien returns. ‘Are you going to see Julie while you’re here?’
Sebastien groans. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask that.’
‘I like Julie.’
‘I know, Dad.’
Mr Dufour looks at me. ‘First time I saw her I said, “That’s the girl who’s going to give me grandchildren.”’ He shrugs. ‘I’m still waiting, but I haven’t given up hope there.’
I feel my nails dig into my palms. Please don’t ask me about babies …
‘I like having them around, children. I like how blunt they are – they sock it to you, right between the eyes!’
‘Okay dad, I’m sure Krista wants to be getting on her way … ’
‘And what are your plans for the day, young lady?’
‘Well,’ I prepare to set myself in motion, ‘I’m basically going to try and see as many of Montreal’s attractions as possible before sunset.’
‘Are you taking her to the Cirque HQ?’
Sebastien gives his father a stern look.
‘I bet you’d like to see it … ’ Mr Dufour eggs me on.
‘Who wouldn’t like to peek behind the scenes of the greatest shows on earth?’ My eyes gleam back at him.
‘And it is just fifteen minutes’ drive from here … ’ He continues his campaigning.
‘I thought you needed the car.’ Sebastien’s eyes narrow.
‘Not for a couple of hours. Don’t you still have some of your personal items there?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, it would be a good opportunity to pick them up. And you’ve got reason to keep it brief if you don’t want to get into it with everyone – you’re showing a British travel writer around the city and you’re on a tight schedule … ’
Even Sebastien can’t argue with that.
‘All right,’ he concedes. ‘But we’re in, we’re out and we’re on our way. Deal?’
‘Deal!’ I lie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I had expected the building to have an other-wordly design, like Gaudi’s free-form fantasies in Barcelona or a multi-storey big top, but it’s far more angular and industrial than that – a futuristic version of a Slough office block on the vastest possible scale.
As we make the trek across the car park, I see Sebastien mentally psyching himself up. And me for that matter.
‘There’s going to be a lot to look at but I need you to keep moving,’ he urges.
He’s asking a lot. Our first stop is the costume department and my eyes are darting every which way trying to take in all the bolts of fabric, the avant-garde headdresses and row upon row of white molded heads – casts taken to represent every performer from chubby-cheeked bowling balls to oblongs with imposing Roman noses.