“You’re not answering my question.”
“I’m looking for the best way to reply.”
“That’s so hard?”
“Listen Claire, I don’t want you to mistake my intentions.”
“Don’t worry. As for your intentions, I’ve understood them very well.”
Philippe puts on his coat and goes out, bareheaded, into the cold wind. He goes to Vincent’s, knocks on the door.
“Good evening, Rachel. Is Vincent here?”
“He’s gone to the tavern to watch the hockey game. He’s rooting for Chicago, can you imagine? He must be the only person in Chicoutimi who’s not a Canadiens fan. Rooting for the Blackhawks! I don’t understand my brother.”
“Do you know what tavern he went to?”
“The same as always. Let’s Talk Business. You know where it is?”
* * *
In front of the massive tavern door lit by a naked bulb, Philippe hesitates. He’s never gone into such a place. He knows you’re supposed to be eighteen. But no one asks for ID when he enters the room packed with young people who are clearly not of age.
From the bar’s ceiling, remarkably low, hang fluorescent lights daubed in red that make for a hot, stifling atmosphere. Spotlights in the corners light up, dreamlike, the smoke from cigarettes uncoiling in tortured threads. People are drinking beer from bottles and shouting to make themselves heard. The music, too loud, mingles with the sound from the television.
Philippe is dizzied by this chaotic scene with its outbursts of hysterical laughter. Couples embrace, others make discreet trips to the washrooms to smoke something other than tobacco. The boys are long-haired. Many sport bushy revolutionary beards that could have belonged to the loggers that were their fathers. The girls drift by in cotton skirts or loose Indian robes, no makeup, hair long. They drink “grosse Black,” roll cigarettes. Despite the arrival of spring, coats and scarves still hang over the backs of chairs.
Frozen in the tavern’s doorway, Philippe is discovering a new world that strikes fear in him.
For the office, it’s done.”
“Thanks, Tom. Well. Monsieur Ste-Marie, if you’re still up for it, it’s your turn.”
“The photo of the husband, right?”
“I told you, our readers will love it. They’ll be delighted to see at last the face of the man who shared the life of Alice Livingston.”
“I have to admit I find that hard to believe.”
“What do you think, Tom?”
“We can try the living room.”
“In front of the big painting?”
“Yes, that would be good. I’ll go and get the tripod with the light from the car. I don’t think it’ll be bright enough there.”
Tom disappears. Claire and Antoine, in silence, go back into the living room.
“Another glass?”
“Yes, it’s really hot today.”
Antoine pours her some lemonade. Claire goes up to the big painting.
“I can’t see the painter’s name.”
“Actually, it’s a friend of my wife’s who did it. A woman.”
“Interesting.”
“It was a present.”
“It’s special. It will make a great background.”
The painting represents nothing. It’s neither figurative nor abstract. A pure sensation of purplish colours to attract the gaze first, and then make it uneasy. Alice didn’t like the painting, and called it The Blot. Antoine, on the other hand, is drawn to what throws it off balance. He sees there a cry for help, as if the light, imprisoned in those tortured pigments, stunned by their entanglement, were trying to free itself. Alice would have been happy to confine it to some dark corner of the house, but Antoine had made her understand that a gift of that magnitude, especially from a friend, deserved a place of honour.
Tom comes back with his gear. His T-shirt is damp with sweat. He’s whistling.
“What you’re whistling, is it The Magic Flute?”
“Don’t know it.”
“An opera by Mozart.”
“Don’t know, I just whistle whatever.” Tom resumes whistling, as he sets up the light.
“It’s Papageno’s theme, clearly.”
“No, I swear.”
Antoine himself sings the notes to prove that he’s right. Claire and Tom burst out laughing at the same time.
“Monsieur Ste-Marie, Tom’s pulling your leg.”
The ground slips away from beneath his feet. The complicity he now recognizes between Claire and the whistling photographer causes a sudden malaise. Tom flicks on the spotlight.
“Stand in front of the painting and turn your head toward me.”
Antoine obeys Tom, grudgingly.
“Think of something that gives you pleasure, and keep your eyes open as long as possible.”
It’s his turn to feel the heat and to sweat. He’s much too heavily dressed for a day that’s so humid and sticky. On Claire Langlois’s first visit, his appearance was far from alluring. He’d worn shorts that were just as absurd as Tom’s, but with a lot less panache. This time, he’d taken care to put on long pants and a jacket over a stylish shirt. He’d spent a long time in front of the mirror to get his hair just right. The result is pathetic.
“Place yourself at an angle now. No, not with the legs, just the body, turn just the top of your body toward me. There. Don’t lower your head, look at the lens, smile …”
Claire has positioned herself behind Tom. She’s watching Antoine with obvious pleasure.
“We’ll try one more. This time, do nothing at all. Let your arms fall along your body. Stand up straight. Don’t smile. Everything has to be in your gaze, can you give me that?”
Give what? Antoine is more and more uncomfortable.
“Don’t be so stiff, you look as if you’re in pain.”
He tries to relax, but feels awkward and ridiculous. And he can’t stand the patronizing way Tom is speaking to him. He hates being treated like a child. Yet Tom is only doing his job.
“This one is really the last. Think about someone you love.”
Antoine feels more like exploding: think of someone you love! Who does he think he is, ordering him to think of someone he loves? Why in hell should he be obeying this lump of
