Monday Mourning

“When?”

“Sixty-seven.”

“And?”

“The separatists liked it.”

Despite its modern status as a tourist attraction, Hotel de Ville remains the city’s main administrative center. And the repository of the information I was seeking. I hoped.

Anne and I entered to the smell of radiator heat and wet wool. Across the lobby, a kiosk offered Renseignements. Information.

A woman looked up when I approached. She was about twenty, with towering blonde hair that added inches to her height.

The woman stifled a yawn as I explained what I wanted. Before I’d finished, she pointed to a wallboard listing offices and locations, her bony arm clattering with plastic bracelets.

“Acces Montreal,” she said.

“Merci,” I said.

“I think she could have been less interested,” Anne said, trailing me to the office directory. “But not without a heavy dose of Lithium.”

In the Access Montreal office we encountered an older, heavier, and decidedly friendlier version of Ms. Information. The woman greeted us in typical Montreal Franglais.

“Bonjour. Hi.”

I explained my objective in French.

The woman dropped chained glasses to her bosom and replied in English.

“If you have a civic address, I can look up the cadastral and lot numbers.”

I must have looked confused.

“The cadastral number describes the parcel of land. The important one is the lot number. With that you can research the history of the property at the Registre Foncier du Quebec office in the Bureau d’Enregistrement.”

“Is that located here?”

“Palais de Justice. Second floor. Room 2.175.”

I jotted the address of the pizza parlor building and handed it across the counter.

“Shouldn’t be long.”

It wasn’t. In ten minutes the woman returned with the numbers. I thanked her, and Anne and I set off.

Montreal’s three courthouses lie just west of its City Hall. As we scurried along rue Notre-Dame, Anne’s eyes probed gallery, cafe, and boutique windows. She hung back to pat a horse, gushed over the beauty of the Chateau Ramezay, laughed at cars snowbanked in by plows.

Architecturally, City Hall and the modern courthouse have little in common aside from the fact that each is a building. Anne did not comment on the charm of the latter.

Before entering, I pulled out my cellular and tried Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s number.

Nope.

As on the day of my testimony, the courthouse was busy with lawyers, judges, journalists, security guards, and worried-looking people. The lobby was controlled confusion, each face looking like it would rather be elsewhere.

Anne and I rode an elevator to the second floor and went directly to room 2.175. When my turn came, I explained my mission, this time to a short, bald clerk shaped like a cookie jar.

“There’s a fee,” Cookie Jar said.

“How much?”

He told me.

I forked over the money. Cookie Jar handed me a receipt.

“That allows you to research all day.”

I presented my lot and cadastral numbers.

Cookie Jar studied the paper. Then he looked up, a pudgy finger jabbing black-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“These numbers go pretty far back. Anything prior to 1974 can’t be researched online. Depending on how often the property changed hands, this could take time.”

“But I can find out who owned the building?”

Cookie Jar nodded. “Every deed transfer is recorded with the provincial government.” He held up the paper. “What’s at this location now?”

“The building has residential units upstairs, small businesses below. The address that interests me is a pizza- by-the-slice joint.”

Cookie Jar shook his head. “If the property is commercial, you won’t learn what businesses have occupied it