It was a rainy, dark October evening. As I was driving along St. Huber Street, my wipers were working at full speed. “Ugh, what a terrible rain!” I muttered. The city had surrendered to the rain; the roads had turned into huge mirrors reflecting the streetlights.
When
I opened the garage door with the remote control and entered the parking lot of
our building overlooking the Old Port, I took a deep breath. “What a horrible
rain! Finally home. Is this city testing me or what?” I whispered to myself.
It
had been two months since I moved to Montreal. The famous cold weather everyone
warned me about still hadn’t arrived. In fact, October had been unusually warm
and sunny. But today, for some reason, a heavy tropical rainstorm had started
and continued non-stop all day.
I
parked our Saab Cabrio in its spot. My partner Charles had found this old
beauty in Quebec and, imagining the smile on my face, had carefully cleaned the
leather seats and polished the body.
I
opened the car door, placed both feet on the ground before getting out of the
low vehicle, and felt a pain in my back as I stood up. I wasn’t exactly old
yet. I was about to turn fifty-five next month. But lately, I had been battling
pains in my back, neck, and knees. The health problems I’d faced in recent
years had forced me to descend from the world of gods into the world of
mortals. My genetic heritage had certainly overworked my internal organs as I
aged, but luckily it had added beauty to my appearance, turning me into a
graceful, attractive, and sophisticated woman. Instead of the shy, timid girl
of my childhood, I now saw a poised lady in the mirror.
I
slid the driver’s seat forward and took my green leather backpack and small
handbag from the back seat—souvenirs from Venice last year. Over the past year,
with my partner’s insistent suggestions, I had gotten used to using a backpack
to protect my back. I had also given up stuffing my bag to the brim; now I
carried only my laptop and a few essential items. Apart from a lipstick and a
small perfume, I no longer carried makeup. In the past, I used to carry huge
handbags, filled with things I didn’t even know about. Sometimes, even God
wouldn’t have been able to guess what I’d pull out of them. My ex-husband
Daniel used to laugh and call it my “Woopy bag.” Woopy, apparently, was a
magician character from a children’s TV show he used to watch, famous for pulling
all sorts of things out of his bag.
I
got into the elevator and pressed the button for the eighth floor. The thought
of climbing nine flights of stairs from the garage had crossed my mind—it
would’ve been good exercise for my legs and heart—but I’d never tried it.
Since
we were only planning to stay in Canada for at most two years, we had rented a
furnished apartment. We were enjoying certain luxuries we weren’t used to in
Europe: a lobby, a swimming pool, a gym, and a sauna.
When
I started my career, I’d immediately taken out a loan from the bank where I
worked and bought my own home. Now, living in a rental, surrounded by furniture
chosen by someone else, gave me the odd feeling of long-term hotel living.
Canada
felt too Americanized for chronic European romantics like us. We missed streets
steeped in history. Even Quebec French sounded to our ears like an American
speaking French. The helpfulness of people in North America, though
appreciated, often felt a bit fake to us. But after all, we weren’t here
permanently. We weren’t condemned to this place, and we were content with our
expat-tourist hybrid lifestyle.
The
elevator doors opened on the eighth floor. My neighbor’s door was open, and the
entrance was full of suitcases and shopping bags. I had met the small,
white-haired woman in her mid-sixties before, but it was the first time I saw
her husband, who was much bigger, overweight, and had messy hair. Other than
two of the six apartments on our floor, I had no idea who lived in the others.
The
elderly couple introduced themselves briefly. They said they usually stayed at
their second home outside the city and only came here for work every two weeks.
When they learned I was Swiss, ten minutes later, the man knocked on my door. I
hesitantly opened it, and he said a sentence he’d learned in German. “Typical
Canadians and their intrusiveness,” I thought. The other day we’d invited one
of my husband’s colleagues over, and he had casually opened our fridge. Opening
the fridge in someone’s home on a first visit—this mixture of friendliness and
overfamiliarity—seemed unique to Canadians.
Even
though I felt completely safe in this apartment, I always locked the door. The
main entrance to the building was always locked, but delivery people rang the
doorbells, and the residents would buzz them in from upstairs. There were also
many homeless people in the city, and they might try to sneak into the warm
lobby during these deliveries.
Since
my brain was capable of producing infinite disaster scenarios, when my neighbor
knocked, I felt a little jolt of anxiety. Once again, I was convinced how right
I was to always lock the door.
My
husband worked in a factory in the industrial zone of Granby, about eighty
kilometers away. He spent two hours a day in the car and always came home later
than me. During that time, I would tidy up the house, do the ironing, or go to
the gym.
Now,
because of the heavy rain, the evening had gotten even darker. But the last
rays of the sun had found a small gap in the clouds, making the silver dome of
the Bonsecours Market shine brilliantly. I had started painting the incredible
view from our apartment onto a canvas, to take it back to Europe as a memory.
The canvas still stood half-finished on the easel, and for weeks I hadn’t been
able to continue. Besides, the light wasn’t quite right tonight, and honestly,
landscape painting didn’t give me much pleasure. I had always been inclined
toward painting, but I preferred portraits and figures. The details and chaos
of rooftops, terraces, and chimneys tired me out.
Indeed,
the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and bedroom captured the
endless view like a painting. Especially when we turned off the lights, I
couldn’t get enough of looking at the scenery. That evening, I took off my work
clothes, put on my shorts, sat on my yoga mat, and watched the view. I picked
up the dumbbells and lifted them half-heartedly, just to feel like I’d done
some exercise.
Then
I heard the key turn in the lock, and I ran to the hallway to greet my partner.
We hugged warmly and kissed. But his face looked tired. As soon as he hung up
his coat and took off his shoes, he started telling me without me even asking.
That
morning, when he went to get into his car, he noticed a huge crack in the
windshield and found a note on it. The police had caught the person who did
it—a man who had smashed the windows of twenty other cars but had turned
himself in without stealing anything.
“Really?
Why would someone do that?” I asked. Then, as if answering my own question, I
said, “Could it have been one of the homeless? Maybe he thought he’d be more
comfortable in jail as winter approaches.” My husband nodded in agreement. His
colleagues had come to the same conclusion. It was actually a tragic situation.
What a decadent solution. Twenty car owners had started their day annoyed by a
cracked windshield, gone to the police station to file reports, talked to
insurance companies, made repair appointments—a waste of time, effort, and
money. All because this city still hadn’t found a solution for its homeless.
I
took a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge and poured two glasses. I handed
him one, looked into his eyes, and said, “Santé.” Another ordinary evening was
beginning on the new continent.
