The Freedom in American Songs by Kathleen Winter

Author:Kathleen Winter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Biblioasis
Published: 2014-07-22T16:00:00+00:00

Madame Poirer’s Dog

When Doctor Gisele came this morning to assess me again, she asked me to name an animal that has four legs. I told her a snake. Honestly. Why does the residence have to treat us as if we’re imbeciles, just because we’re old? My youngest son, Armand, is the bright spot. We have a laugh if he visits without that wife … Suzanne?—No—Susan. We laugh because, of my four sons, Armand is the only one not enrolled in an eternal quest for the business deal of the century.

The air in here—it’s as if we are walking to the cafeteria and the bingo room in a warm vapour of piss … augh, la puanteur … Not that the place isn’t clean. Madame Sept-Petits-Bars bumps past every morning at five minutes past nine with her Electrolux, the poor woman is always getting its hose tangled, she trips over it and then it bangs into the walls … quelle vacarme! This week I’m coping by reading the autobiography of Gabrielle Roy—hardly cheerful, I know. I’ve been trying to get one of my older sons, André or Gilles, to show me how to operate the flatscreen TV they bought me, but they haven’t had time. The thing takes up a quarter of my room, its useless lights flashing all night … I had to throw my dressing gown over it. And now Madame Poirer is coming to live here, très jolie, as if we’ve been lifelong confidantes. She’s telephoned me every morning this week, wanting to know ridiculous details … Amandine! Are there buses to take us to Bowling LeClerc? Do staff members meddle with one’s correspondence? Is the food sufficient in les enzymes alimentaires?

No, Madame Poirer, suddenly my close friend, there are no buses because how can the staff take 275 of us out? There’ll be no bowling here, and no crème glacée at Le Glacier Dillon on Rue Rivard. Last week two twenty-dollar bills disappeared from my room, and no, the food has no enzymes … Come on, Armand. It’s noon. That’s the thing about Armand, you can’t rely on him to be on time. Not for any bad reason—stopping on the roadside … last time it was because he picked me the … fluffy … those branches with the new springtime … les minous. And another time he said he was collecting les aiguilles from a … a dead porc-épic for someone he knows to make a necklace … Suzanne must … Susan must love that. But what I love is that Armand reminds me of things I thought I’d forgotten. Do you remember this, Maman? Do you remember that?

Last time it was, “Do you remember Madame Poirer’s dog?”

We dipped celery and … les radis rouge … in salt. I love the real sel marin de Bretagne. They harvest it in by hand. Here they give me a … c’est horrible … une poussière noire … made of seaweed granules! I throw it down the toilet. Armand escapes his wife in Montreal and he brings sel de Guérande and we dip the radishes.

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