Chez Chantal

Extracted from the ubiquitous notebook. Because it was there, and it remembers better than I do.

In a corner of Charlevoix, where the village of La Malbaie, the Saint-Lawrence River and the train tracks meet, there is a building that was once a very tiny house. It is now a restaurant and store, neon-lit, selling everything from hot dogs and Pepsi to cappucinos, postcards, and fireworks. The exterior walls, like those inside, are plastered with posters and advertisements -- for motels and movies and concerts and whale-watching tours -- and all around are brown chairs and tables, some with umbrellas. Few cars drive by, but those that do are invariably filled with teen-agers, laughing, four of them crowding in the front seats...and occasionally a particularly drunken young man will stand up through the sunroof of his friend's car, grinning and shouting at no one at all.

It is a Monday at the end of August, and my brother has led us here in search of ice cream -- mint chocolate chip for myself and my father, swirled soft cones for the younger two.

There are two people working in the store. One is a youth who reminds me of Weiner, despite little physical resemblance. It has something to do, I suppose, with the tilt of his white uniform cap. The second is a girl with brown hair tied back; I cannot see her face, for she is standing at the back of the vast area behind the counter, near where a flight of red steps ascends to the unlit second story. By the window is a display of figurines and trinkets that my father cannot resist inspecting. Once in our new green van, he declines to show his purchase, hidden in its white plastic bag.

Outside, a waxing half-moon dances behind clouds. To the right of the store is a street and one last line of houses, a a phone booth crammed on the border between two private lots, as if in afterthought. To its left is a single railroad track, and a fenced-in area. Beyond the fence lies the bay, the Malbaie, and beyond the bay is the river and the ocean. There is a black motor scooter leaning against the fence, which -- in the absence of other signs of life -- I conclude surely belongs to one of the store's employees.

I finish my mint chocolate ice cream as I walk back to the car, savouring the last bite. My mother looks at the sky.

"Let's go for a drive," she says.

So we get home, and Emma's room, which was supposed to be painted dark blue and light yellow, has been painted dark blue -- and light pink. But at least Ambrosine is alright (one gets paranoid) and tomorrow I'll walk over and pick up the birds. And then, straight to hell, or hours locked in my room (metaphorically...I have no door) writing summer reading reports.

Alright, lyric break.

Morning found us calmly unaware

Noon burned gold into our hair

At night, we swam the laughing sea

When summer's gone, where will we be?

-Yes, it is The Doors.

Banana.