of a heart, he’d catch his breath, lift his head, sponge his brow, “Oh the nice breeze! Oh! The nice little breeze...”
He’d come back down to earth, then, “Oh! The nice potatoes! Oh the nice potatoes....”
Big Ben nodded at everything the Old Man said, chanting his lone syllable, lovingly rocking it on his tongue. He was a fan of all-out approval, and could say yes sixteen times without changing pitch.
“Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes.”
Big Ben was also the volunteer fire chief. One day, wonder of wonders, he showed me Grande-Ourses fire truck. The antiquated vehicle, stored in a garage and forgotten by everyone, hadn’t seen action in three or four centuries. Big Ben pampered it.
Raoul Legris was another notable character whose actions I’d carefully study. He was small, hard-hearted, sinuous, ageless. His greying mop, ruffled by an eternal night of partying, had two very stiff locks that gave him a pair of horns. Something bad and consciously crooked emanated from the grimace that was always on his lips. Legris was a rogue and didn’t pretend to be anything else, which gave him an advantage over many of the people around him. He played his role as a villain with a fervour that could only make him sympathetic in the long run. He wasn’t a Grande-Ourse native. His migration was the reverse of the tendency generally observed in rural regions: one day, he’d left his mediocre suburb in the Lower Laurentians, ending up in Grande-Ourse, at the end of the road and that of his resources. He worked for the Forestry Company at first, then for whatever required his dubious services here below. He had a good deal of pride for a bootlicker. This region had pleased him, having no law but the jungles. He’d removed the licence plates from the vehicle he’d stolen in Saint– Thérèse-de-Blainville, disappearing into the landscape on the double. He quickly specialized, among other expedients, in establishing questionable friendships, especially with American tourists, who always wanted to buy lessons in local behaviour. Legris used his smile like others use a beggar’s cup. Another pool of shady relations had been provided by the Indians. He went from one group to the next, acting as a contact point. I here were Metis with brawn and Metis with brains. The mixed blood Legris had was in his brain. He was crafty as anything.
The first morning I saw him, he was in a rather sorry state and suffered from a crying need: a pair of ears, no matter whose, to be filled with the sound of his complaint. Posing as a victim with obvious satisfaction, he railed against a legion of nocturnal aggressors and, filled with meticulous self-pity, caressed the purple bruise adorning his forehead. Having merely got what he deserved, he rejoiced in having touched the Old Man with the moving tale of all his misfortunes. The latter was beside himself as he ran up to him.
“You, Legris! You! I knew it was you! You were behind the ruckus last night! I should’ve known! Legris is back!”
His counterpart awaited the rest, quiet and sarcastic.
“Same old story!” lamented the Old Man, calling on me as a witness. “The typical scenario: Legris gets the Indians to drink, buys beer all night, gets beat up in the morning and afterwards, has the gall to show up and complain!”
So much for the proceedings. The affair was understood.
“And now,” the Old Man went on, “you’ll ask me to call the Tocqueville police again? As if they weren’t already on to your little number?”
Legris, who’d seemed distracted, straightened up completely, like an actor who’s just been prompted.
“You think I’ll let the shirt be taken off my back? They broke into my trailer and made off with a hundred pounds of meat! My freezer’s totally demolished!”
The Old Man, secretly gratified by his role, was heading to the phone on the wall near the counter, fulminating. A determined Legris was on his heels, shouting, “Come on! Dial the number! I want the whole bunch locked up! Bastards!”
The Old Man dialled, affecting a solemn attitude. Receiver in hand, Legris interrupted the account of his misfortunes to collect himself for a moment. Something then clicked in his mind, and he abruptly hung up, burning with rage, “Don’t need the pigs for that! I’ll personally take care of the Siwashes! Without us, they’d still cover their asses with animal hides!”
Sharing his burden had been enough to wash away the offence. The Old Man wouldn’t budge, but you could feel he’d calmed down considerably. The familiarity of this masquerade and the predictability of its outcome rewarded him each time. All Legris required was a little attention. Besides, seeking intimate conversations with the police really wasn’t to his advantage. The Indians acted as foils to him; in fact, they allowed him to think he was superior, a kind of heretical Christ offering to suffer for their salvation.
But, to ensure everyone was happy, the Old Man still had to trot out his bugbear, infused with biblical wrath. “You son of a bitch! You wasted my time again! I’ve always told you: don’t make them drink, don’t make them drink! Never, do you hear?”
Fingers in his ears, Legris walked away sniggering, regaling in the commotion he discovered he was still able to cause. His bruises already began hurting less and he mused about other happenings.
“Never make them drink!” barked the Old Man, plunking himself before me, though I hadn’t caused him any problems.
Passing near me, Legris repeated, fire deep in his eyes, “Without us, they’d still wear animal hides over their asses.”
The Old Man often looked outside worriedly, vigorously scratching his groin.
“Still, fat Lili will have to show up, one of these days...”
When asked who Lili was, he shrugged compliantly. “You’ll get to know her, don’t worry....”
I believe I caught a knowing smile across Benoît’s lips.
My progress with the cash register was hopelessly slow. My calculating knowledge was practically non-existent, and my preferred customers were Indians. With them, commercial relations were surrounded by a pleasant simplicity. Thrift had no hold on their imagination and they were completely oblivious to the most widely accepted notions of economy. One day, Cowboy came in to buy instant coffee along with Karate Kid. He went down the aisle, then returned with a tiny container he placed on the counter between us.
I nodded.
“You know, Cowboy, it’s much cheaper when you buy a large container.”
“Yeah, but a small ones easier to carry.”
And he shoved it into the pocket of his jacket, while I stumbled on his logic. I heard him pronounce the ritual formula, “Put it on my tab.”
I pulled a yellow card with overcrowded columns from a folder.
Cowboy and the Kid lingered for a while. We spoke about this and that, about the Incident, Salomé, Flamand, and the hotel. Salomé had dropped out of sight for some time, and they told me she was back on the reserve, participating in a family celebration. Cowboy frowned when I queried him.
“Don’t know.”
“Has she returned to her mother?”
Cowboy and the Kid exchanged glances.
“Gisèle must
