THE BRASS BAND
He opened the window so he could hear the music better. It was
a marching tune played on brass instruments and drums. He
leaned outside, but it was coming from the other end of the Terrasse
Dufferin. The weather was fine so he decided to go out and have a
look. He went down the five floors.
In the distance he saw a crowd in front of the Château Frontenac.
He went up and joined them. The band consisted of a handful of
musicians, along with jugglers, clowns, a woman singer and a black
dog.
The singer was finishing her song. He couldn’t help smiling: it
was “La Java bleue.” The crowd picked up the refrain. There was
applause and the singer, who was wearing a long green dress with
gold sequins, made a comical bow. Then the musicians put away
their instruments and leaned against the guardrail of the Terrasse.
He stood next to them so he could hear what they were saying.
They had come from France at the invitation of the Festival d’Été.
It was their first visit to Quebec City. They’d probably been there for
a few days already because they seemed very familiar with the broad
bay that spread before them, with the south shore, the Beauport Hill,
the Île d’Orléans nestled in the arms of the St. Lawrence River, and
the mountains of Charlevoix far away on the horizon. They didn’t
hide their admiration of the expanse of this landscape.
From the corner of his eye he noted that the person leaning on
the guardrail to his right was a woman. She had a white T-shirt
and
jeans of a blue that was neither too pale nor too dark – exactly the
way he liked them.
She turned towards him.
“The view is magnificent!” she said warmly. Her voice was
slightly husky.
“It is,” he said.
“I thought that the Rhône was a great river but this one is much
wider.”
“Do you live in the Rhône valley?”
“Quite close. Near a small town called Tournon. Do you know
it?”
He nodded. The woman came closer. She had curly grey hair and
a bony face like Katharine Hepburn’s. A beautiful face. A mixture
of tenderness and strength.
“Are you with the band?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, “but I’m not a musician. I handle bookings,
reservations – all the practical details. I’m a little . . .”
“A little . . . everybody’s mother?”
She smiled very sweetly.
“Do you like cats?” he asked abruptly. Then right away, he wished
he hadn’t asked, he waved his hand as if to tell her not to worry about
it. He looked at her to see if her face had changed but no, she was
still smiling.
“My name is Marie,” she said.
He coughed to clear his throat.
“People call me the Driver. I have a van full of books – a bookmobile.
My job is lending books.”
“Do you have a regular route?”
“Yes. I visit the small villages between Quebec City and the North
Shore. It’s a big territory . . . I make one round in the spring, one in
summer and one in the autumn.”
He had trouble getting out the last word and his face darkened.
The woman looked at him more closely. He turned his head, peered
out at the misty horizon. They stood there in silence, side by side;
they were the same height and they both had grey hair.
The members of the band moved away from the guardrail and
gathered up their belongings.
“I have to go,” said Marie. There’s another show tonight. Will
you come?”
“All right . . . I was late for the last one. I got here at the end.”
“I know. I saw you.”
“You did?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes were greyish blue and slightly
mocking.
“It’s at nine o’clock,” she said. “Right near here, on the little
square called . . .”
“Place d’Armes?”
“Yes. There are trees so we can set up the high wire. The name of
the tightrope walker is Slim. At night it’s really wonderful.”
She left and joined the others.
It was five p.m. by the post office clock. He took a few steps in
the direction of his place and then turned around, but the band had
already disappeared. He bought an ice cream cone at the big stand
on the Terrasse.
Copyright © 2021 by Jacques Poulin. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
