Re: Balbutiements

La suite...

So, as I was saying, she was walking on rue Du Collège, I was right behind. Like some ten meters behind her, more or less. I was not a careless person, I knew how to be subtle, kind of invisible. My steps were controlled and natural. I even changed from her side of the street to the other when I sensed that I would probably bump in her because of that red light that was approaching. So we were there, waiting for the light to change, each one on our side of the street, the CEGEP right in front of us, millions of students passing by, beginning of the semester, I was trying not to stare at her, sideways, anxious and completely what, flabbergasted. It went green and I crouched to make as if my laces were untied, so she could go first and so I could continue to follow. As soon as she was on the other side I resumed my walk, it would have been ridiculous to miss that light. I mean.
There were still leaves on the trees. The colors were starting to change, but girls still had flip-flops on their feet. The big, nineteenth century architecture of the school was surrounded by cigarette and pot smoke as we passed hastily between two Che Guevara impersonators and a world cup of hardcore haki, making our way to the wooden doors. People were screaming in a French I had all my adult life tried to absorb, use, control, whatever. I was fascinated by those beautiful swear words I was hearing in the hall, echoing on the high walls and in my head, and I was transfixed by her complete assurance. I saw her profile for one second, as she smiled at somebody, and it did something to my stomach. God, what a smile she had. I was jealous of that young girl that had received it. Millions of kids everywhere around us. Screams and laughs all over the place. I thought about the toilets of the CEGEP, wondering if they were still like in those good old times, covered in graffiti and vulgar puns. I used to come to those great St-Laurent's partys, the best ones in town. My ex girlfriend used to work at the bar when we were young, serving beer in plastic cups, filling cups of Molson Dry for restless and horny kids, pursuing a DEC in arts, creating angry and kind of sad paintings about the role of the British Empire in history. That’s where I’d met her.
You know. It was kind of strange to be here after so many years.
She went into a room on the rez-de-chaussée, which was this floor, the first, and I didn’t pronounce the “z” in my mind, because it’s the kind of thing I know. I was happy to see all those kids, it would have been hard to follow her in the maze of corridor without her noticing my presence. It was a small room that kind of looked like an office of Emploi Québec, but on a very small scale. It was somehow difficult for me to stay right behind her while keeping my cool, stay invisible, so I just went for it at an accelerated pace so she had to keep the door open for me. I said merci. In my head. And made it rime with marry me. Well.
Just hope she didn’t recognize you from church, you fucking moron.
Not really knowing what to do, I noticed the chairs and I took a seat. Man. She sat on the next chair, at my right. Her earrings were huge, round, golden, gorgeous. I could smell some kind of perfume, which I know nothing about, but can appreciate. Everything was fine, the waiting beside her was fine. The only problem was that, as I had sat before her, I was called before her by the lady behind the desk, a marvellous woman with big cheeks, big breasts, and big chins. I didn’t even know where I was. The lady spoke to me in French, for some reason like I was retarded, or like I was deaf. She seemed to be saying “read my lips” while saying very slowly: Monsieur, c’est votre tour, vous pouvez venir vous asseoir ici.
I was wondering, do I look like a damn square head that much?
A bit confused, I said nothing and just motioned for the beautiful woman I had followed here to go first, I mean, no no no, no problem at all. You were here before me. You just kept the door open. Yes. No. Just motions. I don’t know, I was all movement. I don’t know why but now I was dumb, that big and cheerful lady had what, rendered me speechless. In retrospect it was my best move. The next five minutes were awesome, and everything that went after those five minutes was horrible.
***
Leaning forward a little bit, I could hear what they were saying. Eventually I understood where I was, where we were. It was an office of the Minister of Immigration’s program of Francisation, for the newly arrived in Montréal. I had heard of those places. A friend of mine actually worked at one of those places, at the UQAM. He had a good salary, and he used to tell me that the people were actually pretty nice. The turn of phrase always made me think. What did he mean, actually, I thought, doesn’t this adverb imply something? I never said anything to him about it, but something made me feel uncomfortable in his presence. He was the kind of guy who had a cat and was living alone, writing some kind of blog about his experience with immigration and his studies in literature.
I said “a friend of mine”, but in fact I wasn’t so sure.
Anyways, I never read his blog. It was in French, with all those twisted sentences full of pronoms relatifs and subordonnées de coordination or whatever. You know. The kind of guy who was always, always, saying obnoxious things about the state of arts, and the state of music, and the state of the novel. He used to work at the UQAM with the immigrants, giving classes on the history of Québec society and québécois French phonetics. I had absolutely no difficulties picturing him stealing stories from his students to write them in the dark night, alone in his apartment, the cat moaning, the bath dripping, because he had no life at all, when you thought about it.
He was kind of a loser.
So it was a relief to finally understand where I was. And I was learning a lot of things at the same time. It was great, my attention was so focused, I could hear a clock ticking somewhere and her nails knocking gently on the metal of her earrings. She said, slowly, in French, to the big lady, that her name was Eva Something Souza Something, that she had arrived from Porto Alegre in late June, that she had received the papers for the classes, that she wanted to make sure everything was in order. The big lady was charming, giving answers with a strong accent from East of the city, saying that Eva would start at the stronger level and that a test would determine if it was the right place for her on the first week of the session. Everything was in order, everything was great. I mean, everything was in it’s place, the color of her hair, her curls, the hands of the big lady almost on hers, reassuring her, making sure that Eva was comfortable, I felt exhilarated, kind of loving this fat woman in a filial way.
I had heard it all and it was even more beautiful that I had thought earlier that day, watching her touch the pews with the tip of her fingers. She went out of the room in a flash of elegance, leaving me alone with the fat lady and her fragrance was lingering.
The voice brought me back to Earth: Monsieur, vous pouvez venir maintenant, c’est votre tour. I stood and played the game because I had no choice, smiling. Before me on the desk were some flyers from the Government and a small board that said SUZY in capitals. My smile was kind of stiff and I was cursing silently, thinking that she was going away, waiting at the light without me, taking the subway. And then it all started to go wrong.
Suzy spoke to me again like I was retarded, it bugged me. I thought why not? Let’s have a little fun. I don’t know why it came out like that, but I made a snobby face and, with my most fluent, chiselled French, said something about the weather.
She said Excusez-moi?
And I repeated what I had just said.
And the bitch said Excusez-moi, je comprends pas, êtes-vous ici pour le cours de français?
And she was speaking louder now, again, as if I was deaf too.
I said that the course was not necessary, thanks.
She replied to me something that had absolutely nothing to do with what I had just replied to her.
Something along the lines of Voulez-vous qu’on parle en anglais, juste pour l’instant, pour le temps de l’inscription?
My face fell. I mean, yes, that’s it, it fell.

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