Who was Cassandra?
In the Iliad, she is described as the loveliest of the daughters
of Priam (King of Troy), and gifted with prophecy. The god Apollo
loved her, but she spurned him. As a punishment, he decreed
that no one would ever believe her. So when she told her fellow
Trojans that the Greeks were hiding inside the wooden horse...well,
you know what happened.
the cassandra pages
words, pictures, and a life
Saturday, August 21, 2004 LE COUPABLE (CULPRIT)
It's an uncharacteristically grey day here, and a little cooler, making me feel that autumn is around the corner even if I can't see it. Last night we shared a dinner of pasta with sauteed red peppers, carrots, onions, mushooms, and leftover salmon, with a salad of beautiful sliced Quebec tomatoes and wrinkled oil-cured olives. Afterwards, J. did what I asked him to, and tried to open a bottle of Lebanese olive oil he had bought recently. It had a narrow neck with a gold metal cap that I hadn't been able to remove; as we've discovered before, foreign packaging can be pretty funky. Similarly unsuccessful, J. brought out a pair of vice-grips and tried to torque the cap off. I heard an expletive, and saw him head for the sink and turn on the cold water: the metal collar had stayed welded to the glass, and instead the whole neck of the bottle had broken off, slicing his hand in the fleshy part between the thumb and first finger. I got into the kitchen in two or three short steps and said, "Ok, how bad is it? Show me." He held out his hand and my stomach dove; there was a deep gash with welling, dark blood. "That needs stitches," I said.
"Where am I going to get stitched at this hour?" he replied.
"There's a clinic right over on Papineau."
"Is it open now?"
"I don't know, but it's close by."
We looked more closely at the cut. It was a pretty good one, but already bleeding less. "I think it will be all right," he said, pretty jauntily, I thought, considering the circumstances, and how upset I am whenever anything happens to my own hands. And I had to agree, it didn't look as bad as I'd first thought. "It didn't hit anything important," he said. Yeah, I thought, just your precious hand. By then we were sitting on the sofa.
"I hate it when anything happens to you," I said, holding his shoulder while he kept pressure on the cut with his other hand. "And we don't even have any gauze or pads or adhesive tape..."
"It's OK. Let's just go up to Mont Royal and get some bandages. We can ride our bikes."
"You've got to be kidding!" I said. "You can't ride your bike like that. If you can walk without it bleeding all over everything, let's walk."
So we went into the calm, still-warm night, past the nasturtiums and impatiens still glowing orange and red in the darkness, the lush ferns and shrubs in people's small street gardens. A cat, out on its own errand, led us up the block. A young woman passed us, walking in the opposite direction, wearing a denim jacket and a wool scarf wrapped around her neck.
"Have you noticed that people were here wear parkas and wool scarves in the summer?" I asked. He nodded. "Yep, I have. I guess it goes with the thing of carrying around hockey sticks all year."
The pharmacy was open, and after a brief search we stood facing a whole section of bandages, many in shapes in sizes and of types we'd never seen before. "This is interesting," I said, picking up a box of oval clear bandages.
"It certainly is," he said, equally fascinated.
"What a good sport he is," I thought, admiring him for the ten-millionth time in our long life together. We ended up with a box of German bandages and a new word -- band-aids are pansements, in French -- and a bottle of liquid bandage, something new that a friend in Boston recommended a while back, and walked back home, contentedly eating bits of a chocolate bar I happened to have in my pack.
Today his hand is sore but already healing; how amazing the body is. Knock on wood - we seem to have ducked our potential first-encounter with the Canadian health care system.
Thursday, August 19, 2004 (To the readers who may have read this in its incomplete state last night or early this morning, apologies; the first three paragraphs got "published" without me being aware of it; to my eyes, the entire entry appeared lost when I went to bed - but voila! - here it is. Now I'll finish writing it!)
A LA BIBLIOTHEQUE
After a productive morning and half-afternoon of work, we decided to ride up to Avenue Mont-Royal and see about getting a library card at the local bibliotheque. After a leisurely bike ride, stopping once at the velo shop to buy a petite feu clignotant ( a little blinking light) to clip to our backpacks during nighttime bike rides, we arrived at the Maison de la Culture for our arrondisement and locked our bikes.
"You've got to do this one," said J., who had negotiated the blinker-purchase with aplomb. "This is way beyond my skill level."
We spoke first to a very nice young woman at an information desk for cultural events in the Plateau. Beyond her, in an exhibition hall, were brightly-colored drawings. "We have just moved here and we have a few questions," I said. She smiled, and to our surprise, stood up to talk to us. I can't remember the last time anybody behind a desk did that.
"Oui," she said, "and bienvenue! I will do my best to help you." We asked if, as property owners and parttime residents of the Plateau, we would have access to various facilities like the libraries and swimming pools, or the many classes offered by the cultural wing of the local government (and subsidized by the city - through taxes). "I believe you can have access to all of these," she told us, pursing her lips in that so-French way, "and why not, you are here, you are paying taxes, correct?"
She explained that we did have to show proof of residency at the library, and smiled warmly again. "You can go and see, just here," she said, gesturing toward the door to our right that led back into the Mont-Royal branch of the library. "Your cards will work at any branch though."
So we went back into the library and went up to the desk, waiting for four people to check out their books. The person we spoke to was a thin, wiry man; precise and rather solemn; and so soft-spoken that we had to lean close to hear him. I spoke my usual mixture of French and English, and the more French I spoke, the more it seemed he warmed up. "Do you have proof of residency?" he inquired. "The permitted forms are a local driver's license, utility bills in your names showing your Montreal address, a bank account statement in your name with the address..."
J. had come prepared, and he handed the librarian a Hydro-Quebec bill, the contract for our apartment, and a bank statement. "No," said the librarian, looking at the contract. "This is not a permitted form." He handed it back to us, and turned to the statement from the Royal Bank. "And this statement has a P.O. Box for your address, and it is in Vermont." We looked and it was true.
"Well, then can you use the Hydo-Quebec bill?" J. asked.
The librarain studied it. "Yes," he said, "here it all is, the street address...but," he looked up at me, "your name is not listed, only your husband's."
"Well, yes," I said, "the utility bills are not in my name, but the bank account is joint."
"Yes, but it doesn't show your address in Montreal."
J., who was already being much more patient with these regulations than he usually is, said, "But the contract has a clause in it showing that we are married. Can't you.."
"No," said the librarian, looking a little more sympathetic, and even slightly amused at us, "I am sorry. It is not permitted...Shall we do yours, though?" While J. and I discussed how to get a proof that would work for me, the librarian started filling out the forms and wrote J.'s name on a white plastic card with a marker, then cut a piece of clear plastic tape and stuck it over the letters to keep them from smearing. Doing this activity seemed to soften his manner. "Here," he said, "do you read any French?" I said I did. "I'll give you the library information in English, though, it will be easier for you." He handed J. the card. "This is your card, it will work in any one of the libraries, and you can also return books from here to any branch. You can take out a maximum of 25 documents at one time." He explained the rules for fines on overdue books, and we nodded. Then he suddenly leaned forward and whispered to J., almost conspiratorially, "Your wife can use your card anytime, you know. Anyone can use it! But you are responsible. Okay?"
We smiled, suddenly relieved - our local university library cards cost $100 a year and are not transferable, ever - and took the books and papers from him, stashed everything back in J.'s knapsack, and began looking around. The library was in three sections: the children's area, fiction and periodicals - here, this being the Plateau, there were perhaps six very long stacks of romans francais (French novels), one of English, a section of Spanish books, and a large collection of graphic novels, and another section devoted to non-fiction. "My God," said J. "it's Dewey-Decimal." And it was, the first Dewey-Decimal system I've seen in probably thirty years (although I'm sure it's still used in many parts of the U.S.) "Well," I laughed, "it's not as if the Library of Congress applies here. I used to know this system by heart." "So did I," he said, looking about us with wonder.
Everything in the rooms felt old-fashioned; except for the computers, which had a very quick and easy look-up system for the central catalog, the library felt like a time-warp. People sat at long tables reading, taking copious notes by hand on lined paper. An old man peered at a newspaper through a magnifying glass. There were a few comfortable upholstered chairs, but not many; the basic feeling was like a standard high school library from the early seventies - but that is not a criticism! I liked it. There was a respectful air in the room, as if the people were serious, and a code of silence was agreed upon. "Look," I whispered, gesturing toward one of the little desks against one wall, with a label saying something in french that i took to mean "language practice station". Set into the desk was one of those little machines from high school French language lab, with buttons for "forward" and "repetez". "It was always a good way to learn," I said.
J. chose a book - an atlas of historic Montreal - and took it up to the desk. A different librarian took it from him and then shook her head. "You see," she said, showing him the spine, "this is from the reference section and it doesn't circulate. But ask one of the librarians. I am sure we have something similar that you can take out." She handed it back to him, and, shaking our heads in wonder at our own denseness, we trudged back and replaced the book.
"OK," said J. "That's enough for today," and we went out to practice, one again, the new routine of managing bike locks and knapsacks and keys and helmets without feeling or appearing completely clumsy. We looked at each other and laughed. J. said, "It's simple. First you learn how to get a card. Then you learn how to take out a book... want to go explore some more before we go home?" and off we rode, down a new street.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
On the drive up here to Montreal, we pass a highway sign that reads "45 degrees north. Halfway between the equator and the North Pole." That's pretty far north, some of you might think, as I used to. But after I stood, a year or two ago, staring at a huge map of Canada on one wall of the McCord Museum in Montreal, I realized that those additional 45 degrees contained an enormous landmass about which I knew very little. To me it was just - the north. Polar bears. Tundra. Snowy owls. Hudson's Bay, Labrador, and lost explorers; ice-breakers and the cries of ptarmigan.
When you look at a map of Quebec, where I live, there is a busy-ness of names and dots marking the cities and towns, the populated areas of the province, along the southern edges of the map, next to the familar cities and towns of the northeastern United States. But unfold the map, and keep unfolding...to the north of Montreal and Quebec City lies a vastness with nary a dot at all, just a land of lakes and mountains and then flat tundra stretching north, north, always north. The distances are big too, mirroring the dislocation from all that is familiar. Today a friend sent an email about a recent trip to the Sageunay River, a six-hour trip up the St. Lawrence from here by car.
"The three-hour sea kayaking excursion was all we could have hoped for and more. We paddled upriver, close to the large granite boulders which made up the shore of this deep (350 m) river. We snuck up on a seal playing along the edge. We crossed over to the other side just as the tide was changing, offering us one wave to test our sea-worthiness. After a break grazing on low bush blueberries and a neat apple-like berry, we headed home. As we were once again crossing the river, we spied the white backs of breaching beluga whales. This was thrilling in itself. I hadn’t realized they swam upriver to play.
Well, while we sat in our kayaks in the middle of the river, we were slowly approached by these amazing mammals. They came up and explored us. One breached right behind my husband (in the back of our two person kayak) and then swam up to me, turning slightly to look up and say hi with his fin (at least that is what it felt like). We couldn’t have asked for a more intimate encounter."
Here in this city, where right now I hear the cries of seagulls from the St. Lawrence, into whose gulf those whales had swum, such stories of the northern wilderness feel far away. The brevity of summer, however, cannot be ignored. I can already detect a difference in the length of the days, and the changes are more noticeable because of our week-long absences. Last night I watched the sunlight fade at dinnertime, considerably earlier than when we first started living in the city a month ago. We went for a walk in the park to catch the fading light, stopping to watch a couple of innings of little league baseball, and then following the curve of the lake while children flung their last breadcrumbs to the flock of waiting ducks. People of all ages sat on the green benches along the water, watching the play of the fountain, talking, reading, while others glided by on bicycles or rollerblades. Under the trees, three men sat playing guitars and singing; lovers lay together on blankets; family groups finished up their picnics. "There's a catalpa," I said, pointing the tree out to J. "I'm just beginning to notice individuals - trees, people - everything up to now has been overall impressions." He nodded, agreeing. Feeling the fingers of fall, I felt slightly melancholy, but as we walked up the allee of trees back toward the street, with J.'s arm warming my shoulders, we passed a young woman on a bench, writing intently in a notebook, and I said, "This is going to be a wonderful place to be a writer."
Monday, August 16, 2004
A couple nights ago, tired, we ate at the local diner. It’s a five-minute car ride from the house, and is the real thing: a semi-restored original with a metal exterior and linoleum floor, a long counter with swivel-stools, and jukeboxes in each booth. A white board near the entrance listed the Friday night specials: roast beef dinner for $10.95, baked or fried haddock for 9.95, or a fisherman’s platter for $12. We sat down and said hi to the waitress, who brought menus and paper placemats with ads for local businesses printed in red ink. She came back in a few minutes and asked, “What’ll you have?” J. ordered a hamburger with fries: $4.95. I asked for a fried fish sandwich with a side order of baked beans -- OK, a little weird but I felt like eating baked beans, and J. dislikes them so I only get them at potlucks or a diner. “Do you want fries with that?” she asked. “Onion rings?” I looked dubious. “How about sweet potato fries?” “OK,” I said, giving in.
Our dinners arrived. Mine wasn’t a standard fish burger at all, but a real piece of fried haddock, not greasy, in a bun with a slice of tomato and some curly lettuce. The baked beans came in their own little beanpot, swimming in a sweet, thick molasses sauce with pieces of salt pork, and the sweet potato fries were delicious. We ate quietly, listening to the conversations around us and reading the signs on the wall behind the cash register:
“Everyone here brings happiness…some by leaving, some by coming in.”
“This is not Burger King. You don’t get it your way, you take it my way, or you don’t get the damn thing.”
“The complaint department is in the back…he’s the big bald guy wearing leather and riding the Harley…good luck!”
“Do you think the jukebox works?” I asked J. “Don’t know,” he said. I fished out a quarter and chose two old Patsy Kline songs from the faded list of pink, blue and pale green titles, punching in #140 and #240. Nothing. “Guess not,” I said, and when the waitress came to settle up the bill we mentioned that the jukebox didn’t work. “How much did you put in?” she asked. “A quarter,” we said, and she immediately handed us one from her apron pocket. “I’m trying to get somebody to come and repair them,” she said. “Do any of them work?” I asked. “Nope,” she said, shaking her head. “More coffee?”
An older guy came in and sat down at the counter. He was heavy and tired, and told the younger waitress it had been a long day at work. He was wearing a black t-shirt and shorts with a big chain looped up to his waist, and black leather ankle-high lace-up boots, and just above the right one he had an angry-looking burn on his leg. He propped himself on the counter and sighed heavily. “What shall I eat tonight?” he was asking as we got up to leave. “The meatloaf's pretty good, I think you’d like it,” the waitress told him, sweetly, and he said, “OK, I’ll have it,” as we walked out the door.
