Amuse Bouche (5 page)

It was after 11:00 p.m. when I finished packing.

I was about to pour a glass of wine and relax but Barbra had other ideas. Barbra is a robust, four-year-old Standard Schnauzer with a wiry pep-per and salt coat, strong, rectangular head and cropped ears and tail. Barbra is affectionate but not effusive, lively but not restless, fairly inde-pendent, occasionally playful but usually laid back and serious. She prefers communication by way of eye contact rather than barking. If I am the king of my castle, she is the queen. We are wholly compatible housemates. Usually.

She was standing as still as a wax figurine at the front door. It was time for a walk. The nice thing about Barbra is that she won't whine or bark incessantly until I agree to take her out.

She simply stands at the door and stares at me
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whenever I happen to pass by. If I continue to ignore her, she'll eventually begin following me around the house with a look of utter disappointment in her eyes. It wasn't worth it. I dutifully retrieved a harness for her and a coat for myself. She didn't reveal any particular excitement. I had simply met her expectations for regular exercise and she was glad, but there was certainly no reason to jump about and act silly.

A self-disciplined animal.

I had planned to leave a message for my neighbour the next morning asking if she would keep an eye on the house while I was away, but as we passed her home I saw Sereena on her front porch. She was leaning against the railing studying the stars, a wineglass in her hand. Sereena Orion Smith is best described by that song from the early eighties, "I've Never Been To Me" by Charlene. She is probably forty-something—I don't know, I don't ask. Once a raving beauty, Sereena's past life of drugs, alcohol and all-night partying shows in her rough-ened face. I have no doubt that indeed she has been "undressed by kings...and seen some things that a woman ain't s'posed to see." And now, she is simply relieved to have survived, maybe a little disappointed things turned out the way they did, but content to live a quieter life. She never boasts of her travels or experi-

.Arouse Bouche

ences or the famous people she once knew and is never impressed by anything or anyone—like someone who has seen and done it all and knows it ain't so great. Many people consider her abrasive and gruff. And maybe she is. But the thing I like about Sereena is that what you see is what you get. There's no bullshit when it comes to her. My other neighbours are friendly enough, but Sereena really listens, really cares; she's someone who still gives a damn.

Barbra and I made our way down the short pathway to Sereena's porch. "See anything up there?"

She didn't look down at first, as though our approach was not of particular interest to her.

"More than you think."

"I just wanted to tell you I'm going to be out of town for a few days. Barbra is going to visit Brutus but I was wondering if you'd keep an eye on the place."

She gave me the look. Even with her excess-ravaged face, in the softening moonlight Sereena Smith was a stunning woman. "That depends on where you're going. Perhaps I'll join you."

With anyone else this would have been an idle joke. With Sereena that wasn't necessarily true. "Paris to start. After that, I'm not sure."

"I love to travel that way. Plan the first day
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and wing it after that. Are you in need of company, sweetheart? I could get away."

"Maybe next time. It's work."

"Really?" She patted the railing next to where she stood. An invitation to join her.

"Wine?"

I shook my head. "Thanks. I have an early flight."

She glanced at her watch and scoffed. "Can't be that early. Of course I'll watch the house.

How long? I assume my key will still work."

"Yes it is. Don't know. And yes it will."

"Don't know? I can't promise to be here indeterminately. Life is full of unexpected opportunities."

"It won't be that long. Maybe a week?"

"Fine. Do you speak French?"

I grinned. "Just enough to piss them off"

"Good boy.
Au revoir
, Monsieur Quant." Her accent was perfect.

"
Au revoir
, Madame Smith." Mine wasn't.

I LOVE SASKATOON. Living in a small, Canadian prairie city is one of the best-kept secrets in the world. Not too small, not too big, relatively safe, relatively inexpensive, clean and only the unimaginative cannot find enough to do. Even so, Saskatchewanians do have wanderlust.

From the oldest wheat fanner to the poorest university student, it seems they've all travelled, oftentimes far beyond the province's rectangular border. With temperatures that can dip below minus forty degrees Celsius, fitting in a short getaway during the winter months is often a popular choice. Let a tropical sun colour your cheeks. Get jostled about on one of the great retail streets of the world. Experience the culture of another country. Hear foreign languages, smell the unfamiliar, taste the exquisite.

What a rush. The only problem is physically getting out of town. It's a sad fact that the Saskatchewan traveller cannot get anywhere flying direct from Saskatoon. Connect, connect, connect and then maybe you've made it out of the province. I'm exaggerating—slightly.

I left Saskatoon at 11:00 a.m. Wednesday morning and landed in Toronto at 4:00 p.m. It was only a three-hour flight but at this time of 52

Anthony Bidulka

year, there's a two-hour time change between Saskatchewan and Ontario. My flight to Paris left Toronto at 7:30 that evening and I arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport seven hours later at 8:30 a.m. The total time change from Saskatchewan was now eight hours and 1 felt every one of them weighing down on my eyelids as I made my way to the plane's exit. I should have been nestled in my bed entering REM sleep rather than greeting a bright new day. What made it worse is that everyone seemed a co-conspirator in the perverse cha-rade. The steward wished me a cheery good morning as I stepped past him. Hadn't he been on the same flight as I was? It wasn't morning.

It was the middle of the night and no amount of scrambled eggs and orange juice served in plastic containers was going to convince me otherwise. I grumbled at him. I can be a grouch in the morning.

Even though I'd been to Paris once before, I still needed my wits about me to navigate the international airport terminal. I found the baggage carousel without trouble and was pleasantly surprised when my bag was the first one to appear.

The airline gods were looking out for me. I pulled the suitcase off the conveyor belt feeling
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somewhat superior to my fellow travellers. They looked at me with various degrees of dislike, some half-dazed from lack of sleep and some half-crazed from lack of nicotine. I walked away without an ounce of guilt, pretending to be a VIP

who rightly deserved his luggage first.

Opportunities like that don't present themselves often. It's important to take full advantage when they do. Sereena taught me that.

I entered a flood of swiftly moving humanity. By now Chavell would have contacted Solonge Fontaine and told her to expect my call.

I was to arrange a meeting time with her as soon as I landed. Good idea, but it would have to wait until I found coffee. It didn't take me long.

I paid the exorbitant price, found a table to lean against and took the first exquisite sip of the dark, full-bodied, French cafe. No matter what a label tells you or waiter promises, there is nothing like it in Canada. As I savoured the caffeine, I watched the constant stream of travellers—a people-watcher's delight. Not only for the eyes but for the ears as well. There seemed to be as many languages spoken as manners of dress and colours of skin. It was a United Nations fashion show.

After I finished my drink I found a telephone booth where I waited in line behind a tall, elegant woman made even taller by her mile-high, 54

Anthony Bidulka

multicoloured turban. I didn't mind. When I had to, I could nap on my feet. When it was my turn at the phone I spoke with someone I understood to be Solonge Fontaine's assistant. I might have gotten that wrong as my French was a little rusty. (At Uncle Lawrence's suggestion, I had taken French immersion classes several years before. He said it was the language of good taste and sophistication and that I'd be unprepared to enjoy the world without it.) The assistant told me "Madame" was expecting me and could receive me mid-afternoon at her apartment. I wrote down directions and hung up. I had a few hours to kill.

A lovely young woman behind the Sixt car rental counter presented me with the keys to the C180 Mercedes Chavell had arranged for me.

She warned me against taking the vehicle into Italy. Apparently expensive French rental cars were common targets for Italian thieves. I assured her 1 had no intention of driving into Italy and got the feeling that if I had, I'd be looking elsewhere for a vehicle. I found my car in the Sixt parking lot and acquainted myself with its features. Except for the language used on the dashboard instruments, everything looked familiar save for one button that seemed to indicate I could eject a fellow passenger through the sunroof. That could come in handy. Suddenly I 55

Amuse Bouche

felt like James Bond. I opened my map of Paris and laid it over the steering wheel to plot my course.

Later, as I headed into the bowels of Paris, I was grateful for the proliferation of signs telling me in no uncertain terms where to go. Signage was not the problem—it was the millions of cars and trucks and vans and motorized scooters whizzing by me like a movie on fast-forward.

I've always thought there should be a tourist's lane, but no one pays attention to my ideas. The last time 1 was in Paris I drove around the Arc de Triomphe traffic circle several times, each time helplessly watching my exit sign speed by before I found the reckless courage to go for it.

Now, on a multi-laned highway leading me into the core of the great city, I kept my speed as slow as I dared. I knew from past experience that most of the honking going on around me wasn't road rage but rather drivers saying, "Hey, I'm here and I want to get in front of you." I always let them. Europeans tend to use horns as a means of communication, not an expression of anger.

My hotel, Residence la Concorde, proved difficult to find. There wasn't a noticeable exterior sign or expansive driveway like most North American hotels. There were no tell-tale valets or bellhops standing curbside anxiously wait-56

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ing to serve me. Exasperated, I found a parking spot near where my map suggested the hotel should be and continued my search on foot. I didn't have far to go. Only two doors down from where I'd parked, and voila! There it was.

Residence la Concorde. I knew this from a tiny, brass plaque next to a green door on a nonde-script five-storey building that butted right up against the sidewalk. Under the plaque was a black-nosed buzzer. This was the extent of the hotel's exterior presence. How could I have missed it? This was definitely not the Sheraton.

I rang the buzzer. After a moment an elderly porter opened the door. Without conversation he grabbed my bag with a gnarled hand and led me up a narrow flight of stairs. Normally 1

would have felt bad about having an old man lug my heavy suitcase all that way, but I was too busy worrying about where the hell he was taking me. From what I could see on our way up it appeared we were in a rundown apartment building. Where was the hotel? Where was the foyer with marble floors? Where was the concierge desk? And where, for goodness sake, was the lobby bar? On the third floor landing the porter deposited my bag and stood back expectantly. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. He looked me square in the eye and said something completely unintelligible. I began to
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panic. Was that French? If it was, I had taken the wrong class. I glanced about and noticed a small, square opening the size of a hardcover book at chest height in the scuffed up wall in front of me. 1 stepped forward, crouched down and peeked through it. I saw a severe-looking woman watching us without any particular interest. I smiled. No noticeable response.

"Is this Residence la Concorde?" I asked in what I hoped was passable French.

She replied something that sounded a bit like French at supersonic speed.

"I'm sorry," I said, speaking slowly, hoping it would encourage her to do the same.
"S'il vous
plait? Veuillez parler mains rapidement?
Can you speak slower? I didn't understand what you said. Could you repeat it?"

"You're looking for Residence la Concorde?"

she answered slowly and intelligibly.

"Yes!" I suppose I didn't have to sound so excited, but I was glad to have understood her.

"Then you are there," she stated.

For a moment we kind of stared at one another, not sure who should make the next move.

"Name?"

"Russell Quant." Finally, something I could say in English.

"Would you like to see the room?" she said 58

Anthony Bidulka,

after mercifully finding my name in the register book and placing a big checkmark next to it.

Was there only one? "Yes. Thank you."

I heard a buzzing sound and the woman's slanting eyes directed me to a door on my right.

The porter had disappeared. I guess the rest was up to me. Maybe he was mad 1 hadn't tipped him? 1 opened the door, grabbed the handle of my bag and pulled it behind me into the depths of Residence la Concorde. Beyond the door was a high-ceilinged, dim passageway that smelled of yeast. Perhaps someone was about to bake bread? Madame-Behind-the-Window greeted me with a tight nod. She briskly led me down the hallway pointing out the amenities of the hotel as if she were a tour guide. 1 caught less than half of what she said. We passed a small alcove crowded with four small round tables.

My translation suggested a continental breakfast would be served in this room from 7:30 a.m.

to 9:00 a.m. and not one second earlier or later.