to wearing them, just don’t take any unnecessary risks.’
The little Maltese bichon wagged his tail and came closer.
‘And this is Pipo!’
Julie didn’t even have time to smile. A taxi came tearing down the road. He was showing off, so he braked abruptly, only to skid foolishly on the ice. Taxis think the streets belong to
them just because they know them better than anyone else does. But you’re often in for a surprise when you think that way.
Bang!
Fortunately the rubbish bin he collided with was
empty and, more to the point, plastic.
‘I hope there won’t be too much ice on your journey, otherwise you might be in for a pretty long ride . . .’
The driver, looking sheepish, got out and put the rubbish bin back in place, and Julie smiled. She bent down to stroke Pipo, who probably didn’t get to enjoy a woman’s touch very
often.
‘Nice meeting you. I’m Julie, by the way!’
‘Michel . . .’
‘It’s really odd I’ve never seen you before . . . The dog looks familiar, but I don’t remember seeing him with you.’
Michel clenched his jaw. He couldn’t mention Simon, for fear of revealing their situation, and yet it was so obvious.
Beep! Beep!
The driver was in a rush to get back to his game of rubbish-bin skittles. Julie went back up the steps to lock the door to her little nest, then hurried back down and climbed into the taxi.
‘I’ll tread carefully, I promise!’
Michel watched the taxi take off in a zigzag across the ice. Once again, all he could think of was hiding. When Pipo lifted his leg for a final wee, Michel stared up at the windows of his
apartment. The situation was becoming unbearable. He had to bring it up again with Simon.
Boris Bogdanov could have opened his window to tell his neighbour from across the way what he had just witnessed.
‘Hey, your little cat has just got out!’
But he was not at all the sort you could count on. It might have meant going out and lending a hand trying to find the cat. Boris didn’t want to leave his place, not even for a few
minutes, in case the electricity suddenly got cut off. He turned to his aquarium. The four fish were still going around the exact same way. There on the floor, ready for an emergency, were a
thermometer, a camping stove and only three little gas canisters . . .
At Canada Dépôt a customer had seen Boris emptying the shelves of gas canisters and had protested vehemently to the checkout clerk. Boris had maintained that he
had the right to buy as many bottles of gas as he wanted.
‘I’m a free Canadian!’
‘Like hell you are! You can be a free Canadian all you want, but first you’ve got to show some solidarity with your fellow Quebeckers!’
A few customers applauded. People began to cluster around the source of this outpouring of wild, Russian despair, Boris alone against the world. The manager came over to settle things in his
best bombastic manner. Legally he had no right to stop Boris from buying as many gas canisters as he wanted, but under the circumstances, it was a matter of prestige, of corporate image. The very
mission of Canada Dépôt was at stake. This was not the time to go telling his customers that business had never been better, that he had sold all his salt, all his ice picks, all his
torches and every generator he had in stock, that he had tripled the order to be delivered tomorrow, and that he reckoned he would sell all of it in one day and beat his sales target, with a fine
bonus to come.
‘Young man, as the manager here, and given the forecast from the weather folks, I cannot allow this mass purchase. Come back tomorrow – I’m supposed to get more in. It’ll
be a pleasure to sell them to you.’
The manager of Canada Dépôt turned to his customers, and they all nodded approvingly. Normally they only came to him to complain, so he savoured this magical moment. Boris poured
his heart out, but his Russian accent wasn’t welcome on this day of great Quebecker solidarity.
The little Maltese bichon wagged his tail and came closer.
‘And this is Pipo!’
Julie didn’t even have time to smile. A taxi came tearing down the road. He was showing off, so he braked abruptly, only to skid foolishly on the ice. Taxis think the streets belong to
them just because they know them better than anyone else does. But you’re often in for a surprise when you think that way.
Bang!
Fortunately the rubbish bin he collided with was
empty and, more to the point, plastic.
‘I hope there won’t be too much ice on your journey, otherwise you might be in for a pretty long ride . . .’
The driver, looking sheepish, got out and put the rubbish bin back in place, and Julie smiled. She bent down to stroke Pipo, who probably didn’t get to enjoy a woman’s touch very
often.
‘Nice meeting you. I’m Julie, by the way!’
‘Michel . . .’
‘It’s really odd I’ve never seen you before . . . The dog looks familiar, but I don’t remember seeing him with you.’
Michel clenched his jaw. He couldn’t mention Simon, for fear of revealing their situation, and yet it was so obvious.
Beep! Beep!
The driver was in a rush to get back to his game of rubbish-bin skittles. Julie went back up the steps to lock the door to her little nest, then hurried back down and climbed into the taxi.
‘I’ll tread carefully, I promise!’
Michel watched the taxi take off in a zigzag across the ice. Once again, all he could think of was hiding. When Pipo lifted his leg for a final wee, Michel stared up at the windows of his
apartment. The situation was becoming unbearable. He had to bring it up again with Simon.
Boris Bogdanov could have opened his window to tell his neighbour from across the way what he had just witnessed.
‘Hey, your little cat has just got out!’
But he was not at all the sort you could count on. It might have meant going out and lending a hand trying to find the cat. Boris didn’t want to leave his place, not even for a few
minutes, in case the electricity suddenly got cut off. He turned to his aquarium. The four fish were still going around the exact same way. There on the floor, ready for an emergency, were a
thermometer, a camping stove and only three little gas canisters . . .
At Canada Dépôt a customer had seen Boris emptying the shelves of gas canisters and had protested vehemently to the checkout clerk. Boris had maintained that he
had the right to buy as many bottles of gas as he wanted.
‘I’m a free Canadian!’
‘Like hell you are! You can be a free Canadian all you want, but first you’ve got to show some solidarity with your fellow Quebeckers!’
A few customers applauded. People began to cluster around the source of this outpouring of wild, Russian despair, Boris alone against the world. The manager came over to settle things in his
best bombastic manner. Legally he had no right to stop Boris from buying as many gas canisters as he wanted, but under the circumstances, it was a matter of prestige, of corporate image. The very
mission of Canada Dépôt was at stake. This was not the time to go telling his customers that business had never been better, that he had sold all his salt, all his ice picks, all his
torches and every generator he had in stock, that he had tripled the order to be delivered tomorrow, and that he reckoned he would sell all of it in one day and beat his sales target, with a fine
bonus to come.
‘Young man, as the manager here, and given the forecast from the weather folks, I cannot allow this mass purchase. Come back tomorrow – I’m supposed to get more in. It’ll
be a pleasure to sell them to you.’
The manager of Canada Dépôt turned to his customers, and they all nodded approvingly. Normally they only came to him to complain, so he savoured this magical moment. Boris poured
his heart out, but his Russian accent wasn’t welcome on this day of great Quebecker solidarity.
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