The Islands of Dr. Thomas by Francoise Enguehard Page A

could appreciate the sailboats, three- masters, brigs, and schooners cutting a fine figure on the banks. But aside from the boats themselves, she could find nothing that connected the photos to the islands. On the other hand, she liked to look at every little detail of the ones taken on the decks of fishing boats. These ones reminded her of the working class world of Émile Zola’s novels, which were taught in high school that year. Although there were no mines or shantytowns in the photos, the scene was just as sad: The men, overworked, dirty, freezing cold (it was easy to tell), were catching, splitting, and cleaning the cod.
    â€œHow did the doctor manage to take such clear shots when he was standing on the deck of a boat in constant motion, and with everything going on around him?” she asked Jacques, after she had shown him the series of photos.
    â€œAnd what was he doing on a boat, anyway?” she added.
    Other shots showed the ships in the Saint-Pierre harbour, while the fish were being taken off the boats and weighed. One in particular fascinated her. Cod was piled on a scale, and all around stood the men who had loaded it. There was salt everywhere: on their clothes, in their scruffy beards, on the deck. The photo was the colour of a shroud, allegory of death, faithful companion of the Terre-Neuvas as they sailed the seas. Suddenly, rather than Zola, the image brought to mind passages from Pêcheur d’Islande , a novel she had read a few years ago. She realized that the author, despite her earlier impressions, had not exaggerated anything. Would François like this photo? She could not decide right away, so she put it to one side. She remembered what her grandmother often used to tell her: “We are here only because of the cod. Everything that happened was related to it. Lucky for some, unlucky for others. In Saint-Pierre, just like in Miquelon, the meaning of our life has always been fish...fish and nothing but fish.”
    She began a new pile next to the pile of rejected photos, which she would have to look at again later. Time was running out. The end of the school year was just around the corner, and her family would be going to Langlade for the summer holidays. She would only be back in Saint-Pierre at the beginning of September, right before school started again. The family wanted to make the most of the summer paradise.
    Already, preparations were underway. There was only one way to get to Langlade, a weekly mail boat that brought the supplies: bread, meat, fresh fruit, and vegetables. For the common necessities, they had to plan and pack carefully, so they would not find themselves missing something essential. You did not want to start making a cake only to realize you did not have enough sugar, look for pasta to eat with your ham and find only alphabet soup noodles, or even worse, get a picnic basket ready for the mid-afternoon snack and notice that there were no teabags or cans of milk left. It was a bit shameful to have to go to your neighbour’s—who, like the ant in La Fontaine’s fable, had never been caught “without”—to borrow a cup of sugar, a box of noodles, or a dozen teabags. And then you had to contact the grocer in Saint-Pierre and give him the grocery list so that you could replace the items from the neighbour’s pantry as quickly as possible. The neighbour would give you an indulgent smile that seemed to suggest she was thinking how badly organized the family was.
    Having experienced this many times in the past, Mother and Grandmother tried harder every year to better prepare their supplies, and filled every box they could find—empty crates of condensed milk, Sunkist oranges, Johnny Walker whisky—with supplies, tied them up neatly, and stored them in the entryway. The pile was getting higher every day.
    Sardines in oil and Géo brand pâté for picnics; boxes of soup mix for busy evenings; sauerkraut, blood pudding, and