29 Votes
673
Views
Views
Chapter 1:- Francine is Dead
Roger had been waiting a long time for Francine to die. He could not say which one of her numerous ailments would deliver the coup de grace. In discussion with her son, Jean-Pierre, earlier that month, it had seemed that Francine would die of a stroke. She’d had her first one in January, which had left her entire right side paralyzed. But what actually killed her was a pulmonary embolism.
Jean-Pierre was very difficult to console. The landlord had long maintained that just as soon as Francine had breathed her last, Jean Pierre would be out of a home. He adamantly refused to put Jean-Pierre’s name on the lease. Roger didn’t know the source of the long-held antagonism between Jean Pierre and the landlord; all he knew is that apartment 8092, rue de Gaspé, Montreal, would soon be empty, and the plan to take over the corner of the block would be complete.
“I’m moving to Pointe aux Trembles,” announced Jean-Pierre, the morning after the funeral. His customary Export A was hanging from his lip; his customary threadbare sweater was hanging so low around his neck that when he leaned over to stroke Molly the dog, Roger glimpsed the man’s hairy nipple. “I have a friend who will let me stay for a while, and I’ll be closer to work.”
Roger nodded approvingly.
“I won’t wait to be kicked out,” Jean-Pierre continued. “I could wait until September, but I won’t let him have the pleasure.”
“Maybe it’s for the best,” said Roger.
“Ouaih, it’s for the best,” said Jean-Pierre.
Molly started to whine. She was never a happy dog, even at the best of times. On this – the most beautiful day of May, with a soft and humid heat that carried the scent of fresh buds and blossoms – Molly nevertheless held a grudge against the world, probably as the result of too many kicks. Jean-Pierre told Molly she was about to be locked indoors. He disappeared from the doorstep, and Roger took advantage of the opportunity to likewise disappear.
His own pet, Ninja the cat, lazily greeted him at the top of the stairs. She liked to stretch in front of the door, as if daring him to trip over her. Roger picked her up briefly and kissed her damp nose, and she, in turn, gave his nose a gentle lick.
“To think you clean your bottom with that,” he observed, then set her down and went to his bedroom, where Cassandra, one of his current girlfriends, was still sleeping in bed.
Roger had been waiting a long time for Francine to die. He could not say which one of her numerous ailments would deliver the coup de grace. In discussion with her son, Jean-Pierre, earlier that month, it had seemed that Francine would die of a stroke. She’d had her first one in January, which had left her entire right side paralyzed. But what actually killed her was a pulmonary embolism.
Jean-Pierre was very difficult to console. The landlord had long maintained that just as soon as Francine had breathed her last, Jean Pierre would be out of a home. He adamantly refused to put Jean-Pierre’s name on the lease. Roger didn’t know the source of the long-held antagonism between Jean Pierre and the landlord; all he knew is that apartment 8092, rue de Gaspé, Montreal, would soon be empty, and the plan to take over the corner of the block would be complete.
“I’m moving to Pointe aux Trembles,” announced Jean-Pierre, the morning after the funeral. His customary Export A was hanging from his lip; his customary threadbare sweater was hanging so low around his neck that when he leaned over to stroke Molly the dog, Roger glimpsed the man’s hairy nipple. “I have a friend who will let me stay for a while, and I’ll be closer to work.”
Roger nodded approvingly.
“I won’t wait to be kicked out,” Jean-Pierre continued. “I could wait until September, but I won’t let him have the pleasure.”
“Maybe it’s for the best,” said Roger.
“Ouaih, it’s for the best,” said Jean-Pierre.
Molly started to whine. She was never a happy dog, even at the best of times. On this – the most beautiful day of May, with a soft and humid heat that carried the scent of fresh buds and blossoms – Molly nevertheless held a grudge against the world, probably as the result of too many kicks. Jean-Pierre told Molly she was about to be locked indoors. He disappeared from the doorstep, and Roger took advantage of the opportunity to likewise disappear.
His own pet, Ninja the cat, lazily greeted him at the top of the stairs. She liked to stretch in front of the door, as if daring him to trip over her. Roger picked her up briefly and kissed her damp nose, and she, in turn, gave his nose a gentle lick.
“To think you clean your bottom with that,” he observed, then set her down and went to his bedroom, where Cassandra, one of his current girlfriends, was still sleeping in bed.
