The Main

Some grownups pulled Claude off the bleeding and howling cousin, and he was shaken around and sent upstairs to be dealt with later, after the priest left.

He sat on the edge of the bed in the grandparents’ room. He had never been there before, and it seemed foreign and unfriendly, but he was glad to be alone so he could cry without the others seeing. No tears came. He waited. He opened his mouth and panted out sharp little breaths, hoping to start the crying he needed so badly. No tears would come. A hot ball of something sour in his stomach, but no tears. Others who loved Grandpapa less than Claude could cry. They could afford to let Grandpapa be dead, because they had other people. But Claude…

When they came up to punish him, Claude was lost in a daydream about Grandpapa coming to Trois Rivières and taking him away to live on the farm.

That was how he handled it.

It is after midnight. LaPointe has been in bed for over an hour, slipping in and out of light sleep, when he hears the lock turn in the front door. It closes softly, and Marie-Louise tries to tiptoe into the bedroom, but she bumps into something. She suppresses a giggle. There is movement and the rustle of clothes being taken off. She slips in beside him, and cold air comes in with her. He does not move, does not open his eyes. Soon her breathing becomes regular and shallow. She sleepily presses against his back for warmth, her knees cold against the backs of his legs.

He can smell the licorice of ouzo on her breath, and the smell of man’s sweat on her.

…he can’t breathe…

…he wakes with a start. His face is wet.

He can’t understand it. Why are his eyes wet?

He falls back to sleep, and next morning he does not remember the dream.

10

Guttma

The hissing roar of sandblasting across the street vibrates the cheap ripply glass of the window, causing Guttma

“Sir?”

“Is that all you know of that song?”

“What song, sir?”

“The song you keep humming over and over! You keep humming the same little bit!”

“I didn’t realize I was humming.”

“Well, I realize it. And it’s sending me up the goddamned wall!”

“Sorry, sir.”

LaPointe’s grunt suggests that “Sorry” isn’t enough. Ever since he came in this morning, he has been emitting dark vibrations and making little murmurs and growls of short temper each time he loses his place in the routine work on his desk. He stands up abruptly, pushing back his swivel chair with the backs of his knees. There is an indented line of white in the plaster from years of the chair banging against it. His thumbs hooked in the back of his belt, he looks out over the Hôtel de Ville, its façade latticed with scaffolding. This morning the noise of the stone-cleaning grates directly upon his nerve ends, like cold air on a bad tooth. And those monotonous zinc clouds!

Guttma

Around midnight, she kicked him out, telling him that she wanted to get a good night’s sleep to fight off the cold. He suggested some light exercise might do her a world of good. She laughed and told him she didn’t want him to catch her cold. He said he was willing to pay that price, but she said no.

Next morning, he telephoned her from bed. Her cold had broken and she felt well enough to go out. They passed the day visiting galleries and making jokes about the modern junk-art on display. He spent more than he could afford on di

LaPointe turns from the window and looks flatly at Guttma

“Sorry.”

LaPointe nods curtly.

“By the way, sir, I ran the name Antonio Verdini and the alias Tony Green through ID. They haven’t called back yet.”

“They won’t have anything.”

“Maybe not, but I thought I should run it through anyway.”

LaPointe sits again before his paper work. “Just like it says in the book,” he mutters.

“Yes, sir,” Guttma

LaPointe makes a guttural sound and pushes aside a departmental form packet: green copy, yellow copy, blue copy, pink fucking copy…

“I’m going down to Bouvier’s shop for a cup of coffee, if anyone wants me. You keep up the good work.” He dumps all his unfinished work into Guttma

“Thank you, sir.”

The telephone rings, catching LaPointe at the door. Guttma

“What’s his name?”

Guttma

He mentions the name of the wealthiest of the old Anglo families in Montreal. “Is that the Mr. W–?”

LaPointe nods.

Guttma

“Yes, well… Tell you what. While I’m down with Bouvier, you interview Mr. W–. Tell him you’re my assistant and I have every confidence in you. He won’t know you’re lying.”

“But, sir…”

“You’re here to get experience, aren’t you? No better way to learn to swim than by jumping off the dock.”

LaPointe leaves, closing the door behind him.

Guttma