Québécois.”
They never realized that hundreds of people before them had said just the same thing. People who came up in the supermarket while you were looking at the rows of canned soup would say what giant fans they were of Étienne Tremblay and how some of their fondest memories were of watching us on television at Christmastime.
I started walking down the street. He started following after me, waving his crew along. He had known that Nicolas and I would never co-operate if he asked us in advance. That was why he was outside our door with all the cameras.
“I’ve been pitching it as an idea for
Le Téléjournal
,” Hugo said. He was kind of breathless from having to talk while running after me. “They’re looking for a topical hook. But I saw the photo of you on the cover of the newspaper and I thought, the time is now. And if I don’t start on this right away, well somebody else will. That would kill me. I’ve had this idea in my head for years, since film school. It belongs to me.”
Someone from the crew hurried in front of us, to film while we were walking. Another girl stuck a boom mic between us from behind.
“What photo are you talking about? Actually, never mind. I don’t want to hear about it. I really can’t be standing here talking. I’ve got to get to work.”
“Can we film you at work?”
“No!”
“Can I see if Nicolas wants to talk?”
“Are you insane? You can’t talk to him. You know this. You must know this!”
“Yeah, I guess I’m a little intimidated by him. Do you think that’s crazy?”
I looked at Hugo. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Judging from his pudgy belly, he had never missed a meal in his life. His kind mannerisms implied that he had had a perfectly normal, happy middle-class upbringing. This led me to believe that he couldn’t actually handle the Tremblays. He had only seen the Tremblays on television and had no idea what he was getting into. He had never encountered narcissism quite like that embodied by my father. And he certainly had had no prior experience of the sort of hysterical fits that my brother was capable of.
He was after a fairy tale, but there was only tragedy, chaos and squalor behind the doors that he was knocking on.
Every time I said anything, Hugo held a large microphone up to my face. The other members of his crew were following us down the street. It was drawing attention. And despite the fact that I had been recently riding in a convertible and waving wildly at everybody passing by, I suddenly felt a deep, deep need for anonymity.
“Nobody cares about the Tremblays. Everything that there is to say has already been said.”
The neighbour was beating her Indian carpet violently with a broom. One of the birds burst off the pattern and flew into the air. It circled around my head and went down the street toward the river. I followed after it and the crew went sadly back to their van.
The first thing you saw when walking into the magazine store where I worked were all the piles of newspapers by thedoor. I was on the front page of one of them with my robe and sceptre. The headline read, “ NOUSCHKA LEADS SAINT-JEAN-BAPTISTE CELEBRATION .”
The article beneath the photo was about the referendum that would be held in the next year for Québec to separate. I hoped people would concentrate on that and never mind me. I stared at the photograph. There was my face right next to all the Québécois cinema stars screaming at me from the covers of magazines. Those guys had so many problems. They had been molested by their managers. They had been forced to sing Christmas carols so often that they couldn’t enjoy the holiday. They had had to pass themselves off as twelve for six years in a row. They had been addicted to cherry bombs. They were wonderful. I wished I hadn’t been a minor celebrity, so that I could enjoy this world like everybody else.
I went behind the cash to await the customers. There were lucky dollar bills Scotch-taped
They never realized that hundreds of people before them had said just the same thing. People who came up in the supermarket while you were looking at the rows of canned soup would say what giant fans they were of Étienne Tremblay and how some of their fondest memories were of watching us on television at Christmastime.
I started walking down the street. He started following after me, waving his crew along. He had known that Nicolas and I would never co-operate if he asked us in advance. That was why he was outside our door with all the cameras.
“I’ve been pitching it as an idea for
Le Téléjournal
,” Hugo said. He was kind of breathless from having to talk while running after me. “They’re looking for a topical hook. But I saw the photo of you on the cover of the newspaper and I thought, the time is now. And if I don’t start on this right away, well somebody else will. That would kill me. I’ve had this idea in my head for years, since film school. It belongs to me.”
Someone from the crew hurried in front of us, to film while we were walking. Another girl stuck a boom mic between us from behind.
“What photo are you talking about? Actually, never mind. I don’t want to hear about it. I really can’t be standing here talking. I’ve got to get to work.”
“Can we film you at work?”
“No!”
“Can I see if Nicolas wants to talk?”
“Are you insane? You can’t talk to him. You know this. You must know this!”
“Yeah, I guess I’m a little intimidated by him. Do you think that’s crazy?”
I looked at Hugo. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Judging from his pudgy belly, he had never missed a meal in his life. His kind mannerisms implied that he had had a perfectly normal, happy middle-class upbringing. This led me to believe that he couldn’t actually handle the Tremblays. He had only seen the Tremblays on television and had no idea what he was getting into. He had never encountered narcissism quite like that embodied by my father. And he certainly had had no prior experience of the sort of hysterical fits that my brother was capable of.
He was after a fairy tale, but there was only tragedy, chaos and squalor behind the doors that he was knocking on.
Every time I said anything, Hugo held a large microphone up to my face. The other members of his crew were following us down the street. It was drawing attention. And despite the fact that I had been recently riding in a convertible and waving wildly at everybody passing by, I suddenly felt a deep, deep need for anonymity.
“Nobody cares about the Tremblays. Everything that there is to say has already been said.”
The neighbour was beating her Indian carpet violently with a broom. One of the birds burst off the pattern and flew into the air. It circled around my head and went down the street toward the river. I followed after it and the crew went sadly back to their van.
The first thing you saw when walking into the magazine store where I worked were all the piles of newspapers by thedoor. I was on the front page of one of them with my robe and sceptre. The headline read, “ NOUSCHKA LEADS SAINT-JEAN-BAPTISTE CELEBRATION .”
The article beneath the photo was about the referendum that would be held in the next year for Québec to separate. I hoped people would concentrate on that and never mind me. I stared at the photograph. There was my face right next to all the Québécois cinema stars screaming at me from the covers of magazines. Those guys had so many problems. They had been molested by their managers. They had been forced to sing Christmas carols so often that they couldn’t enjoy the holiday. They had had to pass themselves off as twelve for six years in a row. They had been addicted to cherry bombs. They were wonderful. I wished I hadn’t been a minor celebrity, so that I could enjoy this world like everybody else.
I went behind the cash to await the customers. There were lucky dollar bills Scotch-taped
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