POWELL LIBRARY by Carly Chan
WALKING IT OFF, IN MONTREAL by Sara Dobbie
Notre Dame rose up in the sunlight, intimidating all comers with its grandeur. Hundreds of people lined up expectantly, shuffled forward over time worn stones to enter through the courtyard gate. This was Claudette’s first visit to Montreal, and as the stained glass inside the basilica stunned her into contemplation, the hushed voices of fellow tourists trickled into her consciousness. German, Spanish. English, of course. Arabic, Chinese, but of all these melodic fluctuations of expression, there was only one strain that interested Claudette; French.
Given her first name, most people assumed she was Quebecois, but the only French blood in her family was a great-aunt by marriage on her mother’s side, who lived near the border dividing Ontario and Quebec. Once, a school friend had given her an Eiffel Tower keychain for a present, and the tradition caught on amongst family. She amassed all manner of French trinkets, and also a copy of Le Petit Prince in the original French. She read it a thousand times, fell in love with the lyrical phrases, the poetic expressions. Recently, this obsession with the language resurfaced when she bought a copy of Madame Bovary. It grew so dog-eared from marking her place while she looked up words in the French-English dictionary that pages were falling out.
Inside the basilica Claudette leaned back to view the blue ceiling bedecked with stars. She scooted over towards a group of people listening to a French tour guide, her mind pouncing on the words she understood to string together a loose translation. Ciel. Sky. Vierge. Virgin. Afterwards, she lingered near an English tour guide delivering the same speech, to compare her comprehension. Not bad, but the words blended together and became indecipherable at times. This, she told herself, was why she came, to become immersed in the language, because everyone said the only way to become fluent was to get out and talk to people.
The phone buzzing in her pocket reminded her that nobody knew she was in Montreal, the trip had been spontaneous, impromptu. Wincing, she eyed the message from her mother. Then the one from her sister. And then Craig. It seemed sacrilegious to text within ten feet of such gorgeously ornate depictions of saints and martyrs, but a quick glance informed her that people were taking selfies in front of the altar, so she shot back a quick reply to her Mom. Away for the weekend with friends. Her sister might sniff out the lie, but it didn’t matter. As for Craig, she didn’t care to answer him after the way they left things. Those last words of his, “You couldn’t make it on your own if you tried,” manifested themselves in the clench of her jaw.
Across the cobble stone street she wandered through the Place D’armes while a shaggy haired flautist performed with a Celtic band near the fountain. A couple had kicked off their sandals and linked arms, dancing barefoot to the rhythmic clapping of the crowd. Families posed in front of the monument to the city’s founder, great Clydesdales whinnied as they pulled carriages through honking traffic. Claudette loitered near a young family to eavesdrop on their French conversation, and gathered that the child was feeling tired and the mother wanted to go back to the room, but the father thought they should get something to eat first. Encouraged by her level of understanding, she decided to find a bistro where she could perhaps engage, at least with staff, en Francais.
The nerve of Craig infuriated her. To assume that he could move in because her roommate was leaving, was presumptuous, first of all. Their tentative relationship couldn’t endure that kind of pressure. “We shouldn’t rush into anything,” Claudette said, gently apprising him of her desire for independence. He called her evasive, told her she lacked the ability to commit, and then went on to say she was immature, inexperienced, and would fail.
As she strolled down Rue St. Sulpice she glimpsed a picturesque terrace near the corner. Parfait. She took a seat at a tiny table under a sea of red and white striped umbrellas. All around her the air thrummed with eloquence, even swearing in French sounded beautiful. A waiter approached her, she tapped her foot with anticipation. “Hello,” he said, “what can I get you?” Disappointed, Claudette paused before answering. “Coffee. Black, please.” She observed with interest as the waiter moved to the next table, and after an emphatic Salut, proceeded to enter into a lively discourse in French with the customer. Claudette realized she must be glaringly, unmistakably Anglaise. Impressive, though, the seamless way that this bilingual waiter could flow back and forth without a moment’s hesitation.
Another text from Craig absorbed her attention as she headed down le Promenade du Vieux-Port. “Seriously Claude, where are you?” She peeled her eyes away from her phone to absorb the sight of Le Grand Roue, the enormous ferris wheel spinning slowly against a backdrop of blue sky and sparkling water. The ships anchored in the harbor, the gulls arcing through the horizon, the cool air blowing in from the St. Lawrence, all served as affirmation that she could live life on her own terms. She was here, by herself, she was doing it alone. A woman tipped her head and offered a friendly Bonjour, which Claudette reciprocated. Screw Craig, she thought. He didn’t know a thing about what she was capable of.
There was an old expression that Claudette’s parents used with each other, and with their children when they were angry. Walk it off. Claudette took this quite literally and used to walk into the yard after disagreements with her sister, or around the block after a fight with a friend. When Craig insulted her she told him she wouldn’t be needing a ride home, and stormed out of the restaurant. Wanted to feel the pavement under her feet to calm her indignation. Then she walked up the stairs to her apartment, booked a room, bought a bus ticket, and packed a bag. She walked to the station, and eight hours after that she walked to her hotel in Vieux Montreal. She would walk it off all right, and maybe keep on walking.
The afternoon waned and Claudette wandered through markets where people haggled over souvenirs. She envisioned herself approaching one of the vendeurs, prepared a little French speech and committed it to memory. Each time she opened her mouth to speak, her confidence flew out in a breath. She listened eagerly to every snippet of interaction she could, giddy from drinking in the local slang. Finally, she came upon le Rue St. Pierre, a narrow road lined with quaint shops. French paned glass edged with bright blooms in window boxes spanned the second stories, and Claudette imagined what it would be like to visit France.
A sign hung over a wooden door advertising a book store, une librairie. Madame Bovary, she had decided, should be retired. She entered quietly, with more reverence than she gave even the basilica earlier. The man behind the counter leaned into a novel, bifocals sliding down the end of his nose. She scanned the rows of French titles, and after great deliberation made her selection. She half expected the clerk to greet her in English like the waiter at the bistro, nonetheless her palms were slick with sweat while he flipped over the book, scanned it and rang it up. He named the price, cinq cinquant, she handed him the money. “Avez vous le besoin d’un sac?” he inquired politely. Her eyes widened and it took her a full thirty seconds to decode the mystery of his fluid query, to separate each word, translate, and comprehend. He was asking if she needed a bag. Claudette straightened her posture, looked him right in the eye and responded, “Oui monsieur, s’il vous plait.”
Sara Dobbie is a fiction writer from Southern Ontario, Canada. Her work has appeared in Menacing Hedge, Trampset, Mooky Chick, Bandit Fiction, Change Seven Magazine, and elsewhere. Follow her on Twitter @sbdobbie.
Carly Chan is an artist and designer based in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work often revolves around her experiences and the cultures around her, culminating in art that seeks to express perspectives and aid local communities. Carly has been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation, the U.S. Presidential Scholars Program, Anthropologie, and the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. Some of her other work can be found online at carlychan.com.