Cormorant Books

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Wednesday Night at the End of the World (Preview)

The end of the world is open twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year, even on Christmas. You hear the name, you repeat it in your head, you close your eyes for an instant. If it snows today, if it rains buckets, what does it matter? The end of the world exists elsewhere in other climates. Behind your eyelids unfold beaches of fine sand, palm trees swaying slightly before emerald waters, a lazy island on the high seas, a hamlet in the savannah strewn with skinny huts. Memories of postcards suddenly appear; paintings by Gauguin, Matisse, shimmer in your memory. A rustling of wings, and vivid birds take flight, glide over a lake, Victoria, let’s say. A narrow path climbs up the mountain, bordered with branches, cacti, dry shrubs; a mule heavily laden with melons advances with small, cautious steps — is it Crete? Or else some village lost in the Andalusian sierra, far from the sea, with lanes so narrow that no tourist bus ever manages to enter. Pulling on the rope at the end of his post, a very thin goat grazes on the yellow grass at the foot of an acacia. The images follow one another, some linger more than others. Elephants, perhaps, gracious monkeys hanging from the creepers, giraffes or camels kneeling down. Their outlines, or their shadows, enter and exit the landscape nonchalantly. The beating of tam tams resonates in the nearby jungle, and the heart beats in unison, confined as it is. An oasis then presents itself, with gardens, date trees, unexpected fountains in the middle of the desert. Yes, the end of the world calls to us. We think of a mythical Baghdad, whose splendours we used to read about in storybooks, monotonous chants sung in a throaty voice, the violins and ouds that accompany it. Suffocating heat of the night. Water gurgles in the basin in the middle of the garden, a girl serves steaming tea on the finely carved top of a round table; silk from a see-through pair of pants brushes up against a leg. We see golden cupolas gleaming: it is Moscow in July, beneath the sun. We see sleepy Seville, with the Guadalquivir River running through it; the port where, laden with silver and gold, ships return from America. We see the temples Aztec emperors built in the days when Mexico City was called Tenochtitlan, stairways where immolated bodies tumbled down, the great basins where hearts that were torn out still beat. We see frescoes on stone walls. We recollect a passage from Baudelaire’s “L’invitation au voyage,” “Mon enfant, ma soeur, songe à la douceur, d’aller là-bas vivre ensemble,” we become that child, that beloved sister, we dream of how sweet it would be to go live there ... We hear children bickering in a strange language, see Tahitian women adorned with flowers approach in single file, swaying hips, bare-breasted, hair floating; heavy scents float toward the nostrils and we remember the somewhat sickening smell of coconut, of gold rum punch. It is summer, always summer, beautiful summer. An abandoned chaise longue, an old ball in faded colours rolls along then stops at the wave line. The end of the world.

Or else it is the North, blinding stretches of whiteness and immobility, traces left by a polar bear and her bear cubs in the snow, or a mountain peak, so tall that you believe you can reach the stars just by holding out an arm. It is a steep hill savagely beaten by the ocean. Farther on, a city emerges from a swamp: St. Petersburg appears in the mist, a window opening on the West. The moon glows, russet-coloured in the white night; the Admiralty, the Bronze Horseman on his rearing horse points his finger toward the Neva. Night falls over the forest; a river flows and cascades between frozen banks, carrying with it the hum of the world and the snow that melts as soon as it touches the surface of the water. Silence settles in, impressive silence. Then dawn. A bird, black and alone — raven or crow — cries out; we see it perched on the branch of a pine tree. Black and alone, it passes suddenly in front of what remains of the moon in the pale sky. Crazy horses gallop, the crazy wind howls. Who rushes like this, who rages, what is this cry that chills the night? The wind howling at Wuthering Heights? Is it savage Heathcliff, returning to seek revenge? The ghost of Hamlet uttering cries of rage at Elsinore? Branches snap beneath the violence of the attack. An oak falls, struck down upon the moors.

The end of the world with its mysteries.

Marjolaine goes over the Formica counter with a cloth. Before her, each on their stool, three women, middle-aged — well, closer to golden-aged. Doris lights a cigarette. Denise, cheek resting on a palm, would like a second cup of coffee. Laure consults her watch. Eleven twenty-five. “The evening is still young,” says Marjolaine, as if to reassure her. Doris shrugs her shoulders. “It’s true — we have all night,” adds Denise. “Speak for yourself,” says Doris. “I have an appointment at the hospital at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” “Your treatment?” whispers Marjolaine. Doris shrugs her shoulders.

They are there, all dressed in their Sunday best, at the End of the World. A string of fake pearls around Laure’s neck. Denise went to the hairdresser in the late afternoon. Her mahogany hair, stiff with hairspray, gives off a violently sweet smell. Laure compliments her: that part on the side makes her look ten years younger. Discreetly, Doris takes out a little mirror from her fake-leather purse. She is always afraid that her wig is on crooked; she can’t get used to it. But no, it’s okay, nothing has moved. At the same time, this frozen hair that definately does not move depresses her. The cherry red extends over her lip line a bit. She takes a Kleenex, repairs the mess, puts it back in her bag with the mirror. She sighs. “Marjolaine, give me a Diet Coke, please,” she asks. Ali, the cook, emerges from his lair where he has finished scrubbing — there is no one employed to wash dishes at the End of the World, and no shadow of a dishwasher in the cramped kitchen. “There’s no more shepherd’s pie, if anyone asks,” he says with his accent. “Nor any tapioca pudding.”

Beige walls, ten or so scratched-up rectangular tables, stained with coffee and cigarette burns, neon lighting. At the end of the counter, a miniature artificial Christmas tree — a dozen red balls, a few garlands, a gold star hung crookedly on the top. The television hums weakly on the shelf in a corner. The radio is on as well: it’s time for the program Romantic Cities. For the moment, a singer, his voice quavering, tries to convince us that St. Petersburg is his city. A man, in his early thirties, black turtleneck, three-day beard, has been sipping the same cup of tea for a good hour, newspaper in front of him, open to the classifieds. It’s his first time there; they wonder where he’s come from, what he’s doing there.

By now his tea must be cold. The snow whirls behind the window.

The door opens suddenly and Raoul enters at the same time as a gust of wind. Three women light up.

He shakes himself off, then hangs his overcoat and checked scarf on a hook on the wall. His glasses are fogged up; he wipes them off with a paper napkin before consulting the menu written in black felt-tip pen on the white board. This evening, it is to be the holiday special, vegetable soup to start, then the turkey plate served with cranberries, stuffing, peas, and mashed potatoes, a slice of warm sugar pie flanked with a scoop — or two if Ali is feeling generous — of vanilla ice cream, and to finish, two coffees. “You’re getting here late,” says Laure. Denise lights a cigarette; Doris finishes her Diet Coke. Marjolaine brings a tablecloth covered with advertisements, a glass of water, two spoons, a knife. “Denise,” she whispers into the smoker’s ear. “We don’t know that guy.” She casts a glance at the tea drinker. “He may turn out to be a government inspector. We’ll have to pay a fine.” Denise goes and finishes her cigarette on the sidewalk. She takes two or three puffs, comes back shivering. After an instant, Laure says she has not yet eaten dinner, and wants a small poutine gratinée.

The door opens again. Enter Boris, a great hulking Russian, along with Diderot Toussaint, a young scrawny Haitian wearing a pompommed tuque with red, green, and black stripes. For a Wednesday, it’s been a good evening: Diderot has made two trips to the airport; not one, he rejoices, two. That’s unusual in the same evening; he can indulge in a steak. “And make it rare, else I’ll send it back,” he specifies to Marjolaine. She shakes her head. “Ali’s the chef. You have to tell that to him.”

Boris orders a beer. He won’t stay long; he has to go fetch two girls who are dancing at a bar at the border. In times like these, you don’t turn down a fifty-buck trip. His brother Fédor, his partner in their little company, has the contract, but he must take an airplane tomorrow at dawn and this evening Boris is replacing him. He’ll eat when he comes back. Doris looks dismayed. On screen, the hockey players are in action. On the radio, Hervé Vilard laments that Capri c’est fini.

At the End of the World, the taxi drivers come to have something to eat at night — the holiday special is offered year-round, in fact, it is the specialty. Ali has grown used to it. He has been working here for six months — a record: at the End of the World, cooks don’t last long, go figure. Perhaps they are too poorly paid. His stuffing is a success. He puts in raisins, nuts, dates, sometimes prunes, a few spices that no one knows. A little taste of the Maghreb in the heart of Montreal, and the diners have the impression that they are travelling.

When the men have finished eating, the women get out the cards and everyone sits down to play. Five hundred, an extension of euchre, is their favourite game. Usually Boris and Doris play together because their first names resemble one another — it’s a tradition, one that has never been questioned. Between them, there is perhaps something else, a romance, who knows? The others alternate. The couple not playing drinks coffee while waiting to replace the losers. The night continues this way till the early hours of the morning, then they eat eggs, bacon, and toast that Ali prepares before going home. Yes, Wednesday night is always festive.

Marjolaine sets down a fresh pot of coffee on the warmer.

Denise sits down across from Diderot; Raoul shuffles the cards. “Come on, Laure. We’re going to start.” Boris gets up — he has to go. The girls stop working at 2 a.m.; it must be quite hard spending the evening getting undressed, he doesn’t want to make them hang around as well. With this storm, visibility is nil and you have to drive slowly. The door opens and closes again with a gust of wind. Doris remains at the counter. “Are you going to spend the night sulking?” says Denise.

“She’s lost her partner,” Diderot excuses her.

“If you like, we’ll take turns playing with Raoul,” Laure suggests.

On the radio, Véronique Sanson repeats melancholically that in the port of Vancouver she never sees the morning. Marjolaine sets down a Diet Coke in front of Doris. “On the house,” she says, with a slight curtsey. She understands the problem, would like to console her but does not succeed.

Doris’s shoulders twitch visibly. She clutches her bag and rushes toward the washroom. “Tomorrow she has her chemo,” Marjolaine explains to the others. She’s not feeling too good.” “Eight clubs,” announces Denise. Diderot frowns. Laure passes. So does Diderot. With nine no trump, Raoul grabs the kitty.

“Miss,” says the man in the black turtleneck, turning toward Marjolaine. He raises a hand; his voice is unexpectedly highpitched. “Another tea, please.” Diderot takes a trick with the black joker. Denise’s ace of clubs becomes the highest card. “Some people take no risks,” grumbles Raoul, throwing his cards on the table. Marjolaine serves coffee. “Nine no trump, and you didn’t even have the black joker,” murmurs Laure, piqued. She is the one keeping score.

The hockey game is over. On the news, a pedophile flanked by two police officers makes his entrance into the court house while, on the radio, Charles Aznavour croons an old song about the sadness of Venice. Diderot hums the refrain — is a bit off-key. “It takes a real bastard to attack children!” Laure exclaims.

“But you’ll see, he’ll get off,” says Denise, shuffling the cards. Laure adds that there’s always a psychiatrist to swear that criminals are not responsible, then bids seven diamonds. “When you have nothing to say, you might as well keep quiet,” Raoul rebukes her. Laure’s lips tremble a bit, her sticky eyelashes flutter, and she fiddles with her necklace. Diderot passes. Raoul says eight no trump. Denise, nine, and without encountering any opposition takes all ten tricks. Standing near the door, Marjolaine watches the snow fall. “It doesn’t seem to want to stop.” “If it keeps up like this, they’ll have a thousand points while we have none,” Laura sighs. “You forgot my tea,” says the man in black.

Marjolaine brings him a clean cup, placing it on his saucer, and a small stainless steel teapot filled with boiling water, a bag of Salada tea, and an individual container of 2 percent milk. Ali heads toward the washroom. The door is still locked. “Say, she’s been holed up in there for a while,” worries Laure. Everyone looks up. Marjolaine goes and gently knocks twice at the door. “Are you okay, Doris?” A gurgling sound answers back. “She must be crying,” she says, turned toward the players. “Boris didn’t even say a word to her, did you notice?”

“It never hurts to have a good cry,” says Denise. “I know something about that. With that husband of mine, I had more than my share of tears, you can be assured. I spent a fortune on Kleenex.”

Laure smiles; Raoul shrugs his shoulder. On the radio, a 1950s tenor (Tino Rossi? Luis Mariano?) sings at the top of his lungs: “Mexico! Mexico!” “She’s afraid she has metastasis in the lungs,” continues Marjolaine. Laure deals the cards. “She smokes too much,” she says. “And with her treatment tomorrow morning, she should have stayed at home and rested.”

“I think she’s right to have some fun while there’s still time,” Marjolaine resumes. My sister died of colon cancer last year. It’s not a nice way to go, especially at the end.” “With my husband it was the prostate,” says Denise. “Five years next month. Good riddance.”

“Eight hearts,” says Diderot.

Raoul raises with eight no trump. Denise hesitates, then passes. Laure proudly declares petite misère. Raoul bangs his fist on the table. Coffee is spilled. “Petite misère is no way to play. Couldn’t you let me do my eight no trump for once? He looks at the kitty: a joker, the ace, and king of spades. “It was in the bag,” he roars. “I had the other joker, the queen, and the ten of spades. I could have even taken a trick with my seven. And I had the ace of diamonds. You would never have managed to get your petite misère.”

“You’re not allowed to look at the kitty,” rebels Laura. The other two are in agreement. You have to respect the rules, and the kitty is sacred. “Just who do you take yourself for, Raoul Potvin?” Laure is on the verge of tears. “She only did that to pull the rug out from under my feet,” grumbles Raoul, looking at Diderot. “That’s what I can’t stomach.” Marjolaine rushes over with her cloth. Now the cards are stuck together. An instrumental version of “Sous le ciel de Paris” is playing on the radio. “That’s not playing fair, perhaps, but nor is it playing fair to look at the kitty,” says Denise, categorically. “I suggest we start the game over. “Out of the question,” Diderot protests. “We’ve almost won the game. We’re not going to go back to square one.” “If that’s the way it is, I suggest we change partners,” says Raoul. On the tv, the journalist’s lips can be seen moving; there’s a storm in the background. “I need a beer,” insists Raoul, whose face has gone brick red. “So do I,” says Diderot. The washroom door remains closed.

A head-on collision, a pileup on Taschereau Boulevard. Seven vehicles involved. “Doesn’t Boris have to go that way to reach the border?” asks Laure, suddenly alarmed.

“Turn up the volume,” says Diderot to Marjolaine.

All eyes are glued to the television screen. Two dead, eleven injured. The toll may increase. “It’s incredible,” mumbles Raoul. But Diderot believes that Boris may have taken another road when he exited the Champlain Bridge. “If he took the Champlain Bridge, yes,” says Denise. “But what bridge you take depends on where you’re leaving from. From here, I think he would have taken the Jacques-Cartier. In any case, he left here less than an hour ago; he must almost have reached the border.” No one is sure of anything.

Ali moans that he wants to take a piss; he can’t wait anymore, will have to relieve himself in the sink. Now it is Denise’s turn to knock at the door. “Doris? Doris?” No reply.

“Perhaps she feels faint.” Raoul approaches, shakes the handle. “No choice, we’re going to have to break it down.” Marjolaine rolls her eyes, alarmed. “What if we called 911?” suggests Laure. Marjolaine approves. “Do that,” she says. “The washroom door broken down — I don’t want to think of the boss’s expression when he arrives tomorrow morning.” But Diderot objects that Urgences Santé will take forever to get there in the storm; Doris could pass away ten times by then. This declaration, with its sinister reference to death, is greeted with stunned silence. “The police, then,” says Raoul. Then everyone begins hammering at the door. “Doris! Answer, Doris! You’re not dead are you?” Denise rushes toward the phone. She can be heard shouting: “At the End of the World! End of the World! No, I don’t know the address. No, it’s not a joke! A restaurant, Saint-Zotique, corner of Saint-Vallier, you can’t miss it.” Raoul and Diderot Toussaint bump against the door with their shoulders. There is a creaking sound.

“Oh sweet Lord,” moans Marjolaine.

On the tv, the movie has started. A woman in a wet raincoat runs down a wet street. Denise hangs up. “They said that the ambulance will be here in about twenty minutes.”

Doris is strangely huddled between the sink and the toilet. No one dares move her. Her open tube of lipstick has rolled on the ground next to her right hand. “Perhaps she just wanted to powder her nose,” suggests Laure. “Or write a message on the mirror,” says Denise, who has read that in a novel. The last words, badly smeared, hitting the survivors in the face. “Forgive me,” “I loved you, Boris,” or “I’m at the end of my rope. I’m in too much pain.” Her tweed skirt — grey and burgundy — is hiked up on her pale thighs marked with cellulite. “Poor thing, she’s wearing stockings,” murmurs Marjolaine, dumbfounded, seeing the black lace garter belt. “Not pantyhose, stockings. In this weather, she must have frozen. The metro station is a five-minute walk away.” She was probably hoping to finish the night off right, she thinks, but without saying anything. With Boris. “We didn’t even hear her fall,” says Laure. “It happened while we were playing cards,” adds Diderot — who seems destroyed by this fact.

He looks at Marjolaine, then at Ali. “But you guys, though, you weren’t playing.” Marjolaine gets her back up: “How could you expect us to hear? You never stopped bickering!” Having come off its hinges, the door sways, giving the room a desolate appearance. On the tv, the woman in the raincoat converses with a man who is smoking a cigar. On the radio, a Gilbert Bécaud song evokes a trip to Moscow with a certain Nathalie, a tour guide. “Do you have an idea where we can reach her family?” asks Raoul. Denise shakes her head. Marjolaine thinks that the entire family lives in the Gaspé. “But she has a sister here,” says Laure. “On Pie-IX, it seems to me. Or else it’s her niece. I’m not sure.”

Boris arrives before the paramedics. With the accident on the highway, he couldn’t reach the border. The girls will have to sleep in the motel. He is hungry; he’s prepared to play till dawn. “Is there any holiday special left?” he asks Ali. Ali, whose face has turned a shade of green, trembles like a leaf; it’s a fear that comes from far away, always lurking, ready to spring as soon as he hears the word “police.” Are his papers in order? As for the holiday special, he is unable to answer.

Snow falls in his head and his brain is numb. “But what’s going on?” continues Boris. “Seems as if you’ve just lost your best friend.” Then he sees the smashed door. “Doris,” explains Diderot. “We’re waiting for the ambulance.” The siren can be heard in the distance.

“Where did he go, that guy?” Marjolaine exclaims suddenly. The others look at her without understanding. “The man in black,” she insists. “The one drinking tea.” His place is empty. “What’s more, he took the dishes away with him.” The newspaper, the cup, the saucer, the spoon, the little teapot, the squished packet of sugar: all have disappeared from the immaculate table.