Before he left he snapped at Francine Beaupré, who was fluttering her eyelashes at a new candidate, a wrestler-type with little pig eyes and bulging muscles under a skintight shirt that was too thin for late October.

“Call me back when you’ve got a milk commercial!”

Fall had arrived overnight. All at once. No more Indian summer, no more mildness in the air, no more colours on the trees. The wind had blown the leaves away, the sky had become overcast, and then the rain, an autumn storm already smelling of November and the first frosts, had come and drenched everything, drowned everything. Montreal was hanging its head.

As he walked back up Bloomfield, Mathieu was thinking about how beautiful Outremont had looked just the day before, and of the emotions he’d felt when he got off the bus on his way to Jean-Marc’s, remembering the treeless neighbourhood where he’d grown up. Overnight everything had turned ugly, as if Outremont were in transition between the extravagance of summer’s final bouquet and the wait for the first snowstorm.

Everything matched his mood and he took a malicious pleasure from it, as he had in Provincetown a few weeks earlier.

Mélène was coming towards him carrying a huge bag of groceries. He offered to help. She refused pleasantly, ­claiming it was her only exercise of the day. They climbed the stairs together.

“Aren’t you working today?”

They had stopped on the landing that separated Jean-Marc’s balcony from Mélène ‘s front door.

“I had an audition so I finished early . . .”

“How was it? From the look on your face . . .”

“It was my fourth flop in a row . . . They just want big oxes, so what can I do . . .”

Mélène shifted her package to her other arm.

“Want to come in for a coffee? You can tell me all about
it . . .”

“Actually, I’ve been wanting to see you . . . Jean-Marc must’ve told you about last weekend . . . I think he’s really upset!”

Jean-Marc

Jean-Marc

The phone rings.

I’m in mid-béchamel, a sauce I really hate to make but Mathieu adores it—oh yes, after two months it’s still the intimate little dinners with candlelight and music, and why not. Never mind, they’ll call back. Four rings. Five. Six. Must be important . . .

“Hello?”

A tiny voice, distant and feeble.

“Hello Jean-Mak? It’s me!”

I feel my forehead break out in a sweat. On top of everything I hate talking on the telephone . . .

“Hi, Sébastien, how are you?”

A breath, some gurgles, a laugh, a few incomprehensible words. Then silence.

“Say it again, Sébastien, but slow down, I can’t understand you.”

Repeat performance. I still don’t get one word.

Panic.

“Sébastien . . . Daddy isn’t home from work yet . . . You wait and call back later, okay? No, listen, I’ll tell him to phone you, alright? Kiss kiss.”