Last Days of Montreal by John Brooke

Author:John Brooke
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1897109-91-5
Publisher: Signature Editions
Published: 2012-03-04T16:00:00+00:00

In his dream, Bruce slips out and heads for Jarry Park, a quick two minutes away in his sure-treading one-man machine. There, they rendezvous and get to work.

First thing to do is clear the rinks, something the chronically impoverished City is neglecting. The job is dance-like, the company spreading out, crisscrossing, each spinning on his own length as they reach the end boards, then coming back again, leaving the ice sparkling beneath the moon, waiting for the morning and kids to be inspired. Then all fall into line and depart, moving out into the quarter, shifting into a stepped-out line, or widening it into an equilateral chevron-like formation, highly disciplined, exquisitely coordinated, getting at it, cleaning it up, getting it out of the way. Bruce is their leader, the woman in the T-shirt rolls at his right. He directs with shoulder movements, a raised chin, subtle eye gestures as he works the sticks…no language required when you fight the snow, all in code, forming and reforming, clearing the walk in front of Thu’s depanneur (where Thu once fell in the snow while lugging in a case of chocolate bars, leaving Thu’s stressed-out wife in tears), and Maxim and Favio’s barber shop (where certain men of the quarter patiently await the dawn), then up the ramp to the door of the maison de retraite (so no one need fear the trip to Thu’s for beer or loto tickets). Coming down St. Gédéon and into the lane…Pacci’s parking space is done in a twinkling (and silently, leaving Pacci to his own dreams), Danny Ng’s car is freed. Then around the corner and into Godbout, their perfect work ensures that even the Haitian woman’s children will have no problem at all…ever. Never again with the snow.

Then they move on, working through the darkest hours of the Montreal night. Oui signs, Non signs, Ici on parle français! — it doesn’t matter, everyone gets the same service. And down all the alleys where the City never goes, Bruce always taking on the most daunting corners, spinning, shoving, braking — fighting the snow to save his soul. As the sun comes up, the quarter’s as clear and dry as a day in sunny June.

Except Bruce’s part of the lane. “Which leaves me trapped. We can never seem to get to it,” he muses. “Despite all that amazing teamwork, I’m the only one who’s still locked in. The dream is beautiful — but never satisfying. Does that make sense?”

“What about this woman,” asks Charlotte, “…on this team?”

“I’ve seen her on our street lots of times lately. She’s very good. Never bursts a garbage bag…total concentration. I think she’s one of those lucky people who has really found her niche. I guess that’s why she’s there…in the dream, I mean.”

Charlotte’s sigh is a weary one “It’s sexual, Daddy. It’s so obvious. You still haven’t resolved the thing with Mommy.”

“No, it’s spiritual. Has to do with my sense of self-worth or something. You know I’m going to be fifty in a month.

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