The Muppet had devised a clever scheme to get around the restrictions of the store’s alcohol permit. Since the state strictly forbade him from slaking his thirst within our walls, the old blockhead had got into the habit of leaving an opened bottle in the cold room facing the counter. At any moment, mired in mid-sentence, he’d shake himself and casually head to the tiny refrigerated room, disappearing to have a gulp or two. He seemed to think nobody would notice his ridiculous puppets game, nor realize that he looked more stupefied when he emerged from his glacial alcove. He eventually gave the impression of going in there to can himself in small doses.
Furthermore, everyone in the region was a pothead. When it wasn’t alcohol, it was juice from fruit, vegetables, concentrates, pigments and chemicals, and soft drinks, mineral water, large-size Perrier avidly raised to the lips, Pepsi, which ruled over the area, while Coke conspired in the shadows, and milk, the healthful milk of families. Eyes closed, they’d fervently bring their lips to whatever contained liquid. Pegged to their bodies, the people of GrandeOurse had a collective desire to wrap their lips around a bottleneck; they couldn’t help it.
One morning, when I’d just finished reading for five hours through the fissures of my swollen eyelids, a small native family got off the train. The man was wizened and could’ve been either thirty or sixty years old; he was followed by a short woman who was withered and drunk, trailing her large posterior in a flowery dress, and a ravishing young girl no older than fourteen, throwing fire everywhere she lay eyes. They headed towards the store while, already inside, I was placing milk cartons in the fridge, carefully turning containers so prospective buyers couldn’t see the expiry date: a trick the Old Man had taught me. He was eager to make a real shopkeeper out of me, showing me how to place fresher products out of reach behind the others, to get rid of dubious cases first.
The region’s natives knew and feared the Old Man. He was cut from the same cloth as the trade artists who’d been our first settlers, and who were peerless in their ability to swap a pile of beaver pelts for a little firewater and a handful of trinkets. He was at his best with the Indians, finally able to give the full measure of his business acumen: funny as anything, sly as a coyote, quick to take advantage of the least hesitation, ruthless with gullibility, always ready to shoot you in the back.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the shy young girl Hanked by the strange couple. Meanwhile, the old woman was striving to mumble something in an exotic French moistened with several sputters. Beneath a madder shawl, her face was ravaged by age and pox, and marked by great sincerity. Old coloured rags dangled with some elegance from her twisted bust. Her husband was stoic and seemed to judge her outgoing mood with severity, quietly giving her meaningful looks of reproach. The Old Man turned towards me. Half his face was an amused grimace, “These are good people, Gilles! César Flamand and his charming wife Fernande!”
The Old Man was always able to muster the precise quantity of warmth for necessary effusions. He could appear totally affable when the game was worth it. But when the Indian woman proffered an expectant mouth, gaping and horribly humid, he couldn’t help from jumping back and muttering excuses. He would’ve had the same reaction had someone shot him between the legs.
Cowboy had just slipped through the door and was observing the scene, a sphinx smile sheltering his moods. I saluted him with my fingertips before returning my attention to the young Indian girl. I was taking notes:
perfectly round cheekbones impeccably curved mouth eyelids in the grips of a crisis of sensual awakening a brand new little body filled with so much freshly discovered fragility
The trio soon left the premises, armed, on the Old Mans advice, with an entire selection of dubious acquisitions. In passing, they saluted Cowboy, who was blocking the entrance, stiff as a post. I approached him to observe the teenaged girl disappear.
“Who’s she?”
Cowboy was smiling.
“Gisèle’s daughter. Salomé.”
“Where’d she come from?”
He shrugged.
“Social services. Her mother didn’t take proper care of her.”
The Old Man was already rushing towards us.
“Come with me, Ti-Kid Gilles, I’ve got a contract for you! Did you see old man Flamand? He’s a good Indian, a hard worker!
Not a drop of alcohol in twelve years! We need more like him! His old lady, however.... Misery me.... Did you see the little girl? Shell do a lot of damage!... Hmmm.... Hey, Ti-Kid Cowboy!... Wanna work?”
Totally wound up, he was thrashing about and poking at us, a tangle of nerves and knots. Cowboy and I had our minds on something else.
That morning, I was dispatched to help repair a shingled roof. Unprotected from aerial attacks, I quickly fell prey to a cloud of black flies. Although the insects launched the most vicious and massively heinous attacks, I only noticed the extent of their havoc when the party was over. Seeing me return covered with bites, the Old Man cried out and rushed to the medicine cabinet at full tilt. I was given intensive care.
It happened one Sunday. An itinerant clergyman had detoured through Grande-Ourse, which hadn’t been able to afford a permanent pastor in a long time. Now and again, a priest who was passing through would stay a while. This time, his services were needed to administer first communion to a pair of converts already tangled in a protocol that was supposed to be flexible. Mr. Administrator suggested I accompany him to the service, to sound out the population like in the good old days, when pipe-chewing parishioners stood on the square, reaching into pig-bladder tobacco pouches. But the steps to this chapel weren’t very wide and, with the flies biting, people tended to take them at a clip.
All the right-thinking residents of Grande-Ourse were there. I’d put on a spotless cotton T-shirt with large draping folds, a kind of mini-cassock, which must’ve made me look like a runtish White Father who’d escaped from cannibals. Streaks of ointment on my skin identified the most injured areas. The inquisitive gazes of attendants converged on us while I took a seat in the back, beside my boss. Heads turned towards us like filings drawn to the poles of a magnet. People came here to pry as much as to pray. Mr. Administrator smiled at everyone indiscriminately, as though to say everything’s fine, nothing to complain about.
I got a shock right from the introit. Two cherubs accompanied the celebrant: a chubby voting white boy who seemed carved from soft marble; a young girl, Salome, draped in the vestal robe of choir children. Her brown face contrasted with the garment and was exceedingly beautiful.
She piously lowered her almond-shaped eyes, while I gaped in admiration. Her modesty was the picture of passion. I didn’t take a very active part in the ceremony. People moved their lips, emitting breaths and sounds, while Mr. Administrator mimicked them as best he could. Amid the murmurs, people would lean to their neighbour, inhaling the waxy redolence of their ears. Lukewarm chants alternated with hot gossip. The on-duty preacher, energetic and ruddy, was visibly relying on his instinct to find words able to move this potbellied and unrefined crowd. He spread the word of Christ without affectation, in his own gut-felt language, perverting Christianity’s founding metaphors if needed.
“And so,” he bellowed powerfully to the two converts nestled in the first pew, “what is the Eucharist, eh? What does it mean precisely? Well, my children, I feel