before them.
He had framed the bill from that night at Toqué!, still the most magical night of his life. It hung on the wall in his kitchen, where he made an Americano and watched the morning summaries of the federal election. The Conservatives had prevailed, with a minority, but Westmount-Ville-Marie had gone to the Liberals. He wrote a note of condolence and fond wishes to Stéphane Isidore. His neck was stiff from sleeping in a hospital chair for six hours, but with medication, yogurt and granola, and a redemptive session at the ironing board, he was ready to return to work. His phone had been flooded with data, but he could not sufficiently steel himself to hear or see any of it. Instead, he simply dialled his father’s cellphone number. To his delight, no one answered, so he left a rather long and inspiring message. A poem, really. “We’ll all soon see, Mom and Dad, that this accident was really the catalyst for so much positive change in your lives.”
The black sapphire metallic 335i sedan was his superhero phone booth, spotless and dark, filled with the scent of triumph and, this morning, baroque chamber music. He pulled over at the congested corner of Roy and Drolet to mail his letter to the Conservative Association of Westmount-Ville-Marie. The morning wind was warm and cool at the same time, and smelled of bakery. His decision to forget the fire, Alicia, the on-air gaffe, his naked father, had cleansed him of anxiety. Montreal opened to him, as it always did. He said, “ Bonjour, Monsieur ” and “ Bonjour, Madame ” to the francophone media workers who passed, in black boots or shoes, on their way from renovated houses on the Plateau to the game show studios on Saint-Laurent. He complimented a retired gentleman in mustard slacks on the splendour of his poodle.
A woman on an old bicycle, with one speed and a basket, waited to cross Drolet. She ventured too far into the street and tried to steer back onto the sidewalk, but she caught her skirt in the gears. The bicycle wouldn’t move. Gingerly, she tried to tug the fabric out. He shouted for the woman to get off her bicycle and carry it to the sidewalk, to safety, and she turned to him. “ Quoi? ” she said.
“ Allez à la …” Toby was too far away from her, in the wind, to be heard.
A taxi with its light off sped southward on Drolet. The woman looked at Toby instead of the traffic and did not see it. “ Quoi? ” she said again.
Toby gestured madly toward the bank of cars, led by the green taxi. As the woman shifted her attention back to the traffic, her heavy bicycle rolled forward slightly and the taxi clipped the front wheel. She cried out and at once flewsideways off the bicycle and into the pile of dust and decomposed leaves that had gathered at the mouth of the storm drain. The contents of the basket, her handbag and its secrets, lay strewn about. Cars behind the taxi had stopped, though it had continued along. Toby ran to the woman and helped her up onto the sidewalk. Then he pulled her bicycle to safety and gathered up pens, tissues, an address book, a tiny photo album, three blank postcards, her bulky wallet, one condom, and a set of keys.
Back on the sidewalk, he asked the woman, in French, if she was injured. She listened, with large green eyes and thick lips slathered with gloss, but did not respond. Toby wiped the dust from her arms and shoulders. She was pale and thin and agitated, the uncharismatic daughter of Mick Jagger and Carly Simon. On her feet, she turned around as if before a mirror and felt her body quadrant by quadrant until she reached her right leg. She lifted her torn red skirt to reveal a pair of black nylons. They had ripped in three vertical strips above the knee, and tiny bits of gravel and sand were embedded in the wound. She wept briefly, with one hiccupping sob.
A gentleman is obliged to carry a dress handkerchief, along with a square of white linen, for emergencies. Brooks Brothers manufactured lovely
He had framed the bill from that night at Toqué!, still the most magical night of his life. It hung on the wall in his kitchen, where he made an Americano and watched the morning summaries of the federal election. The Conservatives had prevailed, with a minority, but Westmount-Ville-Marie had gone to the Liberals. He wrote a note of condolence and fond wishes to Stéphane Isidore. His neck was stiff from sleeping in a hospital chair for six hours, but with medication, yogurt and granola, and a redemptive session at the ironing board, he was ready to return to work. His phone had been flooded with data, but he could not sufficiently steel himself to hear or see any of it. Instead, he simply dialled his father’s cellphone number. To his delight, no one answered, so he left a rather long and inspiring message. A poem, really. “We’ll all soon see, Mom and Dad, that this accident was really the catalyst for so much positive change in your lives.”
The black sapphire metallic 335i sedan was his superhero phone booth, spotless and dark, filled with the scent of triumph and, this morning, baroque chamber music. He pulled over at the congested corner of Roy and Drolet to mail his letter to the Conservative Association of Westmount-Ville-Marie. The morning wind was warm and cool at the same time, and smelled of bakery. His decision to forget the fire, Alicia, the on-air gaffe, his naked father, had cleansed him of anxiety. Montreal opened to him, as it always did. He said, “ Bonjour, Monsieur ” and “ Bonjour, Madame ” to the francophone media workers who passed, in black boots or shoes, on their way from renovated houses on the Plateau to the game show studios on Saint-Laurent. He complimented a retired gentleman in mustard slacks on the splendour of his poodle.
A woman on an old bicycle, with one speed and a basket, waited to cross Drolet. She ventured too far into the street and tried to steer back onto the sidewalk, but she caught her skirt in the gears. The bicycle wouldn’t move. Gingerly, she tried to tug the fabric out. He shouted for the woman to get off her bicycle and carry it to the sidewalk, to safety, and she turned to him. “ Quoi? ” she said.
“ Allez à la …” Toby was too far away from her, in the wind, to be heard.
A taxi with its light off sped southward on Drolet. The woman looked at Toby instead of the traffic and did not see it. “ Quoi? ” she said again.
Toby gestured madly toward the bank of cars, led by the green taxi. As the woman shifted her attention back to the traffic, her heavy bicycle rolled forward slightly and the taxi clipped the front wheel. She cried out and at once flewsideways off the bicycle and into the pile of dust and decomposed leaves that had gathered at the mouth of the storm drain. The contents of the basket, her handbag and its secrets, lay strewn about. Cars behind the taxi had stopped, though it had continued along. Toby ran to the woman and helped her up onto the sidewalk. Then he pulled her bicycle to safety and gathered up pens, tissues, an address book, a tiny photo album, three blank postcards, her bulky wallet, one condom, and a set of keys.
Back on the sidewalk, he asked the woman, in French, if she was injured. She listened, with large green eyes and thick lips slathered with gloss, but did not respond. Toby wiped the dust from her arms and shoulders. She was pale and thin and agitated, the uncharismatic daughter of Mick Jagger and Carly Simon. On her feet, she turned around as if before a mirror and felt her body quadrant by quadrant until she reached her right leg. She lifted her torn red skirt to reveal a pair of black nylons. They had ripped in three vertical strips above the knee, and tiny bits of gravel and sand were embedded in the wound. She wept briefly, with one hiccupping sob.
A gentleman is obliged to carry a dress handkerchief, along with a square of white linen, for emergencies. Brooks Brothers manufactured lovely
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