Roxanne Bouchard: We Were the Salt of the Sea

‘I know. I’m on holiday and I have to learn how to do nothing, but it’s harder than it looks.’

He placed the blades down lovingly on a wooden chopping board, which also looked new.

‘Well let me tell you, you’re going to need the guide! Have you seen the Gaspésie tourist guide they printed?’

‘No.’

‘They sent me a whole stack just the other day. If you’re thinking of hitting the road, you have to let me show you!’

He reached over and plucked one from the rack, opening it and leafing through the pages in front of me.

‘Will you have a look at that! See all those lovely colour pictures? Let me tell you something, tourists normally take the circle route, you know. But you have to come around the north side, though! See how they’ve thought it all out? You start off along the coast, “Visit the Reford Gardens, see the famous salmon run and six-wedding house in Matane”, it says, then after that you’re into the Haute-Gaspésie. Let me tell you something, I don’t know if they’re any higher up than the rest of us, but in any case, here’s what it says: “You’ll be amazed by the wind farm in Cap-Chat and won’t want to miss the Parc national de la Gaspésie or the La Martre Lighthouse Museum.” Then you move on to the point, “and its colourful villages and shops, the Northern Gannets of Bonaventure Island, Percé and the Rock, and Forillon National Park.” And last but not least? Ah! Ah! The Baie-des-Chaleurs, “where the whole family can relax and enjoy a swim in the sea!” Then, after all that, let me tell you, you get back in your car and drive up through the valley to get back to Montreal as fast as you can along with everyone else and their uncle to make sure you don’t miss the Labour Day Weekend traffic jam, and you get home absolutely whacked after driving three thousand kilometres – just in time to do your laundry and start back at work the next day!’

He slammed the guide shut, rolled it up and waved it over his head like an evangelist shaking a satanic flyer.

‘Let me tell you something, sounds like a dream holiday, right? Well, it isn’t! Listen here, mam’zelle Catherine, you can hop in your car right now and play the tourist all the way from southwest to northeast, but what good will it do you, eh? None at all! Everywhere else, the villages are poor, the motels are cheap and nasty, the restaurants are drab and the sea’s freezing cold! Everything the shops sell is tourist tack! Nothing but knock-offs, mugs that say “Percé” and shot glasses with pictures of the Rock on them, Canada tuques , lamps made of shells and number plates that say, “My wife loves your hot rod!” A load of old codswallop, if you ask me! And let me tell you, you’d be sleeping in a pigsty! Show up any time after five and the guy on the hotel front desk will try and tell you you’re lucky to be able to spend the night at his sister-in-law’s who rents out a stupid little room with a view of the back yard, for silly money! Is that what you want, eh?’

‘What? No.’

‘No!’

There was a clang as he pitched the tourist anti-bible straight into the gaping-wide waste bin.

‘And that’s not all, if you go up towards the point you’re only going to have to follow the guide backwards, and that’d be one heck of a pain, especially being on holiday and all! If there’s a road well travelled, it’s a heck of a lot easier to just follow it! And you, mam’zelle Catherine, you don’t even need to go all that way around because you’re already here! Feeling bored already, are you? It’s just because you haven’t settled in yet!’

‘Ah—’

‘Let me tell you just one thing, mam’zelle Catherine, them tourists, they bring too much of themselves on holiday, they do. When you take off, you have to leave yourself at home, you know!’

‘Ah—’

‘Listen, it’s all very well for you to go on up to the point, but let me tell you, you’re a heck of a lot better staying here with us. At Guylaine’s!’

Having finished his little spiel, he went off to fetch a bag from the kitchen. From the bag he delicately extracted a new apron, which he proudly unfolded and carefully put on. Emblazoned across the chest in embroidery was his latest title, ‘cook’s helper’. Pulling on a silly little hat, he placed his clean knives down on the new chopping board.

‘Renaud…?’

‘Yes, mam’zelle Catherine, what can I do for such a lovely, lovely customer as yourself?’

‘Vital… Do you know Vital, the fisherman?’

‘Ah! Well, let me tell you, you’re in love, aren’t you? Your heart melted into a puddle when he serenaded you with his famous “Christ in a chalice!” didn’t it? And now you’re going to want to polish your shoes and get married, eh? Guylaine! You’ll have to make her a wedding dress! Our tourist’s getting married!’

Guylaine had barely set foot in the door when the barrage hit.

‘Oh, really?! Who to?’

‘Let me tell you, to Vital!’

‘To Christ in a chalice? He’s already married, Catherine.’

I was flailing like a lobster in a pot of holy water.

‘No, that’s not it! I met Vital down at the café and he told me about the—’

‘About Cyrille Bernard, eh!’ Renaud interrupted.

‘Cyrille Bernard? Who’s he?’

‘Cyrille, he’s single, you know…’ Guylaine chimed in.

‘I’ll give Vital a call tonight so he can introduce you! Are you going to the café tomorrow? Because let me tell you something, mam’zelle Catherine, when your soul’s all adrift, it’s because your heart’s not tied down! And you know what, you can count on us lot to find you your someone to love!’

‘Renaud’s just pulling your leg, Catherine, but he’s right. Cyrille, he’ll take your mind off things.’

‘Oh, you’ll see, you won’t be wanting to go to off to Percé or on any of those other flights of fancy!’

Okay, then. I might as well say it right off the bat. When I found myself swept up in the glorious love story every fairy tale I read as a child guaranteed would happen to me and every other girl, I didn’t know how to handle it.

I never talked about it. Never. I’m not naturally gifted when it comes to matters of the heart and it was hard for me to admit to my betrayal. Nine years of living together, and I sent it all up in smoke in a single night. One misguided spark was all it took for me to reduce our relationship to ashes.

So shame had left me afraid to take a seat again at the strip-poker table of love, and I prudishly buttoned the collar of past romance all the way up to the lump in my throat. Out of fear, hopelessness or avoidance, I tooted the single horn, proudly proclaiming ‘I’m a free woman!’ to all and sundry and swallowing my lonesome nights with reheated pasta and chick flicks starring disgracefully romantic actors. Truth was, I didn’t quite know what to make of that awkward loneliness, and silently I dreamed of testing the waters. My heart was a burned-out shell. I doubted love could relight my fire, yet I secretly lived in hope.

The previous day, seeing the carefree strength of Tall, Indigenous Jérémie had made an impression on me, arousing my curiosity. Obviously, then, I was keen to meet the other fisherman. And so that morning, when I was still barely awake, I leaned out the window of my room to look down at the wharf. No sign of the boat belonging to the curiously named Cyrille Bernard. Faster than lightning, I cleaned myself up, made myself up, dolled myself up. I opted for my prettiest summer dress, the one with the plunging neckline, and slipped on my high heels. In hindsight, it did seem strange to put on make-up and high heels to go and meet a man who’d just got back from fishing, but I never could strike quite the right chord with femininity.