I waited a good two minutes, I even figured François had forgotten me. The P’tit Café must have been mobbed; I could hear snatches of conversation, food and drink orders, laughter. The straights’ Happy Hour seemed livelier than ours.

“Hello?”

I jumped; I hadn’t heard him coming.

“Hello. Umm . . . you don’t know me . . . You probably don’t remember, I was with Mathieu on the terrace Friday
night . . .”

I’d expected silence and I got it. Finally he said:

“Yeah . . . I remember. What do you want?”

“To apologize to Mathieu, but I haven’t got his number . . .”

Mathieu

Mathieu

Sprawled on the living room carpet with the Festival des Films du Monde programme open in front of him, Mathieu was using a yellow hi-liter to mark the films he wanted to see. This initial selection was perhaps the most interesting one, because it would allow him to dream of ­seeing everything, from the blockbusters that would bring out le tout Montréal to the obscure little offerings that wouldn’t attract a soul and would disappear forever as soon as the Festival was over. His leaflet had yellow splotches on both sides; black Xs, check marks and circles would be added later, to indicate his first, second and third choices, steps that got harder and harder as concessions and ­sacrifices became a drag.

For two years now Mathieu had taken his holidays at the end of August so he could disappear into the Cinéma Parisien from morning till night, eat bland-burgers on the run, stuff himself with chips and Coke, run from theatre to theatre without even taking time for a pee, happy, excited, often exhausted, constantly alert. He was one of the first to arrive every morning, his I.D. card pinned to his shirt, and he often stayed on at night to discuss the day’s offerings with acquaintances or total strangers. He would emerge from the festival pale and burned-out, his brain on fire. Then he’d go to Ogunquit or Provincetown to recuperate after Labour Day, at the blessed moment when the raucous tourists had left New England and the resort towns reverted to simple fishing villages.

When he came back to work in mid-September his ­colleagues said, “Here’s our film freak! He’ll tell us about every movie that’s on in Montreal so we won’t have to see one till Christmas!”

Which he did: he’d describe the Bulgarian films, the American tourists, the international celebrities, the local stars (not nearly as discreet and sometimes downright loud), the screenings that brought reverent crowds, others that were booed . . . At Eaton’s he was known as “the Festival freak” and he didn’t mind at all. He’d even converted to “serious” films a few of the people he worked with, who now patronized the Dauphin and the Elysée almost as often as the mainstream theatres—a fairly stunning victory and one he was glad to claim.