I didn’t immediately ask what errand Thérèse had to run, or where exactly we were going. She rose and walked down the steps and onto the gravel path, over the ditch and across the grass to the bridge over the freeway, and I followed quickly behind. --What is this ditch? I asked her. --Oh, that?...That’s the wall of the old city. The field used to be outside it. Soldiers would do their drills here. This is the Champ de Mars, the field of Mars. I looked ahead of us. Sei had said Chinatown was not far away. Just ahead of us, just over the bridge over the freeway, I could see a building with Chinese features. The Hôpital chinois de Montréal. With the old wall gone, it seemed as if the freeway walled off the new city from encroaching on the old. Separating Sei Sato’s world from Shiori Kubo’s. -- Les filles du lys de la montagne, chapter five -- A Maria-sama ga miteru (“Marimite”) fanfic by Paul Corrigan -- Marimite concept devised by Oyuki Konno -- I -- We walked into the station and passed by the ticket booth. The attendant was still reading his newspaper, and barely looked up at us as we passed. It wasn’t until we had walked down the steps to the platform that I thought to ask: --What’s in your bag? --Oh this?...it’s cloth for making clothes. --You make your own clothes? --All of them. --I’m impressed, I said. I wouldn’t know where to begin! Your work is beautiful! --You flatter me. It’s not particularly expensive cloth. And I haven’t been making clothes that long. I never made my own clothes in Japan. I taught myself how here. I meant it too. It was simple, but Thérèse looked radiant in it, and if it was the work of a beginner, it didn’t show. The skirt seemed almost seamless, like Jesus’ robe. There were plenty of others on the platform—a sign the next train would not be long--but even so we sat down to wait. --But then is clothing that expensive in Canada? --Oh no. And if it were I could go to the St-Vincent-de-Paul. I used to do that. --But then why...? --Why? Ste. Marguerite didn’t have a St-Vincent to go to in the middle of the Canadian forest, did she? It wasn’t like France, where the convents could live on alms and the nuns could do nothing all day but pray. They would have starved! No. Ste. Marguerite and her sisters had to be completely self- sufficient. They couldn’t even have traded with the Indians for cloth—the Indians didn’t use it. So they made their own cloth and their own clothes. Even today the sisters are supposed to have full-time jobs. --And still make their own clothes? --Well, no. I do that because I want to. Because, Thérèse added, smiling a little apologetically, if I told you I was completely self-sufficient, I’d be lying. Even the sewing machine was given me. --By whom? --My cousin. Or I call him cousin, but he’s actually my fathers. I’m living with him at the moment. He owns a Japanese restaurant near Concordia. I work there part time. I won’t live with the sisters for a while yet. To tell the truth, he was rather surprised when I asked for one. --So why do you do it? To imitate Ste. Marguerite’s example? As the train entered the station Thérèse replied: --It’s a way to meditate on her. Yes, if you like. To imitate her as best I can. -- --Prochaine station, Place-d’Armes. The metro car was crowded, and we were very lucky that a couple in two adjacent seats decided to get off at Champ-de-Mars. We grabbed them as quickly as we could, Thérèse placing her bag by her feet in the aisle. --Are we going to see your uncle? I asked Thérèse at last. --No, no. Not yet. I have class this afternoon at Marianopolis. --Then where... --Villa-Maria station. It’s named after my high school actually. It’s right there by the entrance. I have a friend--an old classmate actually. She works in a shop nearby. There’s something I have to return to her. --Villa-Maria...that means “City of Mary” too, right? I asked. --Yes, it does. It’s a common name in the city. There’s even a skyscraper named for her. Place Ville-Marie. Didn’t I tell you? Thérèse added with a smile. Our Lady watches us everywhere here. --What about St. John the Baptist? --Yes, Thérèse said at last. He watches us here too. --Station Place-d’Armes. An old Chinese man got up at the station and walked past us to get out at the stop, kicking Thérèse’s bag by accident as he did so. It was enough to knock it over and send a couple of books falling out of the bag and towards me. I picked them up. Japanese comic books, of all things, by a woman called Yamaji Ebine, translated into French. Artwork of tomboyish-looking women on the covers. The name meant nothing to me, but the label did: Asuka Yuri. --Are these yours? I asked, as I tried to hand them to her as if I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. --No, they’re not. Thérèse was smiling as I looked up at her. --Disappointed? The train pulled out of the station as I tried to figure out how to answer. --Prochaine station, Square-Victoria. --Surprised, I said at last. --Actually, Thérèse went on, they belong to a friend of mine. --A Japanese friend? --Oh no! A Canadian. You’d be surprised. Japanese comics are very popular here. She insisted I borrow them. I was going to return them. --May I see? Thérèse looked a bit surprised herself, but answered: --If you like. One of the volumes was called Free Soul. I opened a page at random. Two women were standing in a city street, talking. Niki: On a joué ensemble en live, là-bas. Nos trompettes se sont croisées je ne sais combien de fois. J’ai vecu ça comme une expérience éblouissante de bonheur, extatique. Et puis il m’a tenue plusieurs nuits dans ses bras. En clair, ça voulait dire “Voilà, on s’arrête ici.” Me voici complètement libérée de lui. J’ai fini de le poursuivre. L’envie m’a prise de te l’annoncer. Souviens-toi de tes paroles: “Un père n’est pas un amoureux.” Et alors je suis venue te dire, “tu as raison.” Keito: Niki... Niki: Il n’est pas trop tard? Keito: Hein? Niki: Je veux dire: ton coeur bat toujours pour moi? Si c’est oui, je suis à toi. Je t’aime, tu sais, Keito. --Station Square-Victoria. --You see, Niki seduced Keito. For Niki it was just a fling, but she broke Keito’s heart. Keito thought Niki loved her, but Niki’s heart belonged to nobody but her father, a musician who traveled the world. Niki was a musician like him. But she had only rarely seen him. Perhaps that made him easier to love. I looked up at Thérèse. --You read it? --Certainly I read it, said Thérèse. --Prochaine station, Bonaventure. --But you’re right, she added. I’m as surprised as you are. Thérèse settled back in her seat, and went on: --When I lived in Japan, I as convinced that comics were the lowest, trashiest, STUPIDEST books you could possibly read. She turned to me, smiling sheepishly, and went on: --But now that I’m here I can’t put the blasted things down! --Why’s that? Do they remind you of home, then? I asked. --Yes, she replied. That’s one reason. Thérese looked away again. I still had the books in my hand. During all this she had not actually made any effort to take them back. I found myself gripping them tightly. There was so much I wanted to ask, and perhaps she wanted me to ask, and perhaps Sei had hoped I would ask. But if I hadn’t dared ask Sei, whom I knew as well as anyone, about Shiori Kubo, I could hardly ask Shiori Kubo herself, a woman I had never met before today. --Sei...at Lillian she knew a Shiori Kubo, I tried at last. Do you remember her? Thérèse looked back at me, a little too quickly. --What did Sei tell you about her? --Nothing, I admitted. Nothing at all. --Then how...? --From other people. --Other people say all sorts of things. You didn’t ask Sei yourself? --I didn’t want to. I knew about her. Everyone did. I didn’t need to know more. To ask would only have hurt her. --What did the others say about Shiori Kubo? --Station Bonaventure. I hesitated a moment. How to phrase this? --They said...Sei and Shiori loved each other. That Shiori had to leave Lillian because of Sei. That...it broke Sei’s heart. Thérèse thought about that a moment before replying: --Yes. Yes, I remember her. --Prochaine station, Lucien-L’Allier. We fell silent. Thérèse looked away from me again, her smile gone, replaced with shame. She had not, of course, said, “I’m Shiori Kubo,” even though she obviously realized now I knew who she was. She had said “I remember her,” the way one speaks of someone long dead. --Thérèse, I asked, is what they said about Shiori true? Thérèse did not answer. Rather her face turned reflective, and she said: --I’ve thought a great deal about St. John the Baptist while I’ve been here. I think it’s fitting he be the patron of this place. Don’t you? --What? I hadn’t thought about it that much, I admitted, not understanding. --You know why he went out into the wilderness, don’t you? --Yes, of course, I said. He went into the wilderness, living on nothing but locusts and honey, to baptize and preach the coming of the Messiah. --Do you think so? --That’s what’s written in the Gospel, isn’t it? --It is...but I asked you why he went into the wilderness. He could have baptized and preached the coming of the Messiah in the town. Why didn’t he do that, do you suppose? I thought a moment, the metro stopping as I did. --Station Lucien-L’Allier. --Isaiah and other prophets did the same, mortifying themselves in the desert. Didn’t they? I offered at last. --Yes, said Thérèse. But what occurred to them to do such a thing? --I’m not sure, I said as the car pulled out again. --Why? I asked? What do you think that it was? --Prochaine station, Georges-Vanier. Thérèse shut her eyes, and was silent a moment. At last she said, or rather recited: --In the days when the Israelites wandered in the desert the Lord gave a commandment to Moses. To purge their people of sin, the Israelites were to take two goats. One goat was for the Lord. The other was for the demon Azazel. The priests would take the goat for the Lord and sacrifice it. The other goat the priests were to drive away into the desert, taking the sins of Israel with it into some uninhabited land. --So...the goat for the Lord was Jesus, and John the goat for Azazel? --It was Our Lord who preached in the town and in the temple, and it was he would be the perfect sacrifice. Many thought John was the Saviour, but he was not. He knew that quite well. For the Saviour had to be free of sin. As it was when He finally came John begged Jesus to baptize him, to cleanse him of his sin. --What sin? Thérèse opened her eyes, seeming to be genuinely surprised. --You’re sure you don’t know? --No, I don’t, I said, because I didn’t. I remembered nothing of any sin St. John might have committed from the Bible or from catechism. --The wife of Herod hated John the Baptist, said Thérèse, and taught her daughter Salome to do so. You remember how Herod had Salome dance before him and his courtiers, offering her whatever her heart desired if she did? --I do, I said. She asked for the head of John the Baptist on a dish. --Prochaine station, Georges-Vanier. --I always wondered how a woman could hate a man so much, whom she had never met, that she would have her own daughter dance sinfully before her own father, just to do someone harm. How a daughter could willingly do such a thing. Until one day I realized how it could be. --What? --The man Salome called father was not her father, and the man her mother called husband was not her husband. Not in the eyes of God, anyway. --You mean... --Yes. I don’t know how--but John had sinned with the wife of Herod. When he realized what he had done he fled. That is why Herod’s wife hated John the Baptist, and taught Salome to hate her father. He had disgraced her. --But couldn’t she have said that to...to Herod? That she had been disgraced? --Well, yes, but how? To condemn him would have been to condemn herself. She would have been stoned as an adulteress, and she knew it. So she waited until the right moment came. --But...Saint John tried to carry away not just Israel’s sin, but his own? --Yes, said Thérèse. That’s exactly what I mean. --Station Georges-Vanier. --I...I never thought of it that way, I said at last. Thérèse suddenly laughed, and said: --You’re not the first person to say that to me! I’m sorry. I mustn’t be making much sense! --Prochaine station, Lionel-Groulx. --No, it’s all right, I said, smiling as best I could to reassure her. I suppose I thought you might have been a poet. --What? You mean you think me a poet? You flatter me. --Well...perhaps you should write down what you told me just now. --I wonder, said Thérèse. Composition was my worst subject. I asked Mother Superior how to become a better writer once. She said, “If you want to become a good writer, said Aristotle, become a good person. Then write naturally. That’s why the word of the Lord is like poetry. Because God is good.” I remembered; Mother Superior had said the same thing to us many times in class. --You don’t think you’re good enough to write well? I said. Thérèse looked away again, towards the door of the metro car. --Nobody is good but God alone, said Thérèse. --Station Lionel-Groulx. We fell silent again. When the doors opened a larger number of people got in and out than normal; we must have been at a hub. I couldn’t help noticing a young woman with Middle Eastern features get on, clearly pregnant, pushing a stroller onto the car, and sitting in the single seat close to the door. --Or perhaps his mother Mary. --Prochaine station, Place-Saint-Henri. Thérèse must have noticed me looking. It was only then that I noticed the woman’s head-covering was bright blue, like Our Lady’s would have been. I looked back to Thérèse, a bit too quickly, realizing I’d been staring. Thérèse was looking over at the woman herself, seemingly more at peace, as if she was in fact contemplating Our Lady in the metro car. --Our Lady might have looked like her. She would have worn a head-covering like that. That’s why nuns wore veils, in imitation of Our Lady. And to think people get angry to see a woman dressed like that...! --She reminds you of Our Lady? I asked. --Oh...! Forgive me. A poet, you called me? A madwoman, more likely! --No, no...I see what you mean, I said. But would it really have been blue? --No. No, you’re right. That’s poetry. And you’re right, it’s not Mary. --What do you mean? --Rather one of her daughters, whom Mary watches over. I wouldn’t have called Thérèse a madwoman either. I would have called her otherworldly to a fault, her world reflected through her faith--no, seeing in this world another world, the one she had seen in the poetry of Scripture, able to see Our Lady effortlessly in a fellow passenger on the metro car, or to greet the Baptist whenever she saw him, when any other would have see public art and passed on, if they’d noticed it at all. The precise opposite of Sei Sato. I could easily see Sei calling Thérèse mad. Or was she? I knew Sei had always liked to read. The world of the imagination appealed to her. Perhaps it had been Thérèse Kubo’s otherworldliness that captured Sei’s heart, bypassing her affected cynicism by way of her imagination. --Station Place-Saint-Henri. --A daughter of the queen of heaven, and its king, her son. You heard in the museum about the filles du roi, didn’t you? said Thérèse, as if it had reminded her of that very question. --Yes...women brought to be wives for the settlers in Canada, I said. Ste. Marguerite trained them how to keep house...right? --Prochaine station, Vendôme. --There was more to it than that. They were women and girls from orphanages, institutions, the streets. They would have had no idea how to keep house. They never had anything like a normal life. Ste. Marguerite would have had to teach them everything. Who would have had a woman like that? No sane man in France. So the daughters of the king were rounded up and transported to Canada to be wives for the settlers, so France would be rid of them. France driving its sins into the wilderness... --Why? Had they led sinful lives? --Some had. But not all. Not even most. And even those who had...as many had been betrayed by those wanting to sin than sinned of their own accord. Thérèse sighed, looking sad, and went on. --Not everyone can tell the difference. --But then, I offered, Canada must have been their chance for redemption, either way. To start again... --Yes. That’s it exactly. Thérèse seemed to cheer at that thought. She looked back at me, going on: --They lived, at last, much better lives than they could have in France. To have a husband, children, a normal life. And they weren’t the last to come here for that. Or to be driven out of their own lands, to come here as a refuge. Many of my friends as school have parents who did just that. Perhaps even our friend over there, Thérèse added, ever so slightly indicating the woman in the blue headdress. Mary fleeing with the child Jesus into Egypt, Jesus serving as scapegoat for Herod’s sins. --Station Vendôme. --Is that why you want to be a teacher? I asked. To train young girls in the way they should go? How to survive here? --Oh? Thérèse seemed surprised at the question, but in the end nodded her head. --Yes. That’s it. --But...added Thérèse. --But what? --That’s a long way off. First I have to learn it myself. What could I teach them right now? The Canadian girls have taught me more than I’ve taught them, so far. I haven’t had one-fiftieth the difficulties Ste. Marguerite had, and I haven’t found it easy. --Prochaine station, Villa-Maria. --Why not? --Well, when I got here I had to learn French in record time. Because I wasn’t allowed go to an English school, even though I spoke English much better than French. I managed it, but I still speak English better than French. And... --And?... --When I told my classmates I wanted to be a nun, they thought I was mad. And this was at a Catholic school! --Did they reject you? --Not all...but many. Clearly I had brought back a bad memory. Thérèse sighed again. --It’s true. I was lonely here for a long time. Thérèse suddenly smiled, as if to reassure me, and added: --But I survived, as you can see. Has Sei told you about the winters here? --A little. --Well...in Nagasaki it’s always warm. I even found Tokyo rather cold, when I lived there. I arrived in Montreal just after Christmas. When I stepped outside the terminal and felt the wind chill and saw the snow on the ground...I thought I had landed in hell. And I had a warm bed waiting for me. How much harder it must have been for the king’s daughters, during their first Canadian winter, living in cabins! But they survived too. You’re right. Compared to France what seemed like hell must have seemed in the end like heaven. --Station, Villa-Maria. --A goat’s a hardy animal, said Thérèse. It can live a long time in the desert. -- II -- VILLA-MARIA As we pulled into the station the first thing I noticed were the multi-coloured, I should say candy-striped seats made out of some plastic of other, long stripes of red, orange and yellow going up to the ceiling. The Muslim woman with the baby stroller got out just ahead of us. I walked with Thérèse in silence just behind her until we got to the stairs. The woman stopped at the stairs, as if not sure for a moment how to negotiate them with the stroller. --Madame? Voulez-vous que je porte la poussette? The woman looked back at us, noticing us for the first time. She smiled in gratitude. --Ah! Vraiment? Merci! The Canadian accent was not as strong as Madeleine's, but it was still unmistakable. The woman took her child out of the stroller, Thérèse folded it up and we walked up the stairs, across the walkway over the tracks and towards the escalator. Before us I saw coloured circles-purple, red, orange, yellow--in the wall with notches in them, that seemed to be turning counter-clockwise, like a key in a lock. We eventually made it to the top of the escalator to street level, the entrance plain metal and glass, much of the glass marked with graffiti I couldn't decipher. Over the door to the street, straight ahead, was a sign reading BOULEVARD DECARIE. To the right was another door, leading to a bus stop. While Thérèse helped the woman with her stroller I looked around. A middle-aged Asian woman sat on a bench by the front door, a surly expression on her face, having a heated argument down her cell phone in a language I didn't understand. Two young black men were standing over to the right, joking around in French. They probably didn't even notice me, much less wish me harm--but still I found myself a bit apprehensive. I couldn't help thinking they could easily snap me in half. --Say a prayer. --What? I said, looking around. --If you're apprehensive, say a prayer, said Thérèse, who was right by my side. That's what I used to do, when I came here first. I was overwhelmed. I'd never seen people like that except in pictures. She smiled and added: --But really, there's nothing to fear here. The Muslim woman walked over to the schedules on the wall right by the door. Another woman in a black veil, a stout African woman, entered just then. She smiled as she saw the woman with the stroller. --Fatima! said the African woman, in perfect French. Ça va bien? --Oui! replied Fatima, smiling back. Toi?...Ah! Merci! she added, as she saw Thérèse and I head for the door. --De rien...bonjour, said Thérèse to Fatima as she pushed the door open. I followed her through. Before us on the street had been posted a city map, announcing where we were: ARRONDISEMENT COTE-DES-NEIGES NOTRE-DAME-DE-GRACE --Our Lady of Mercy, said Thérèse. That's the name of this place. We turned left and started walking up the street; literally next door to the metro station was an iron gate, with a sign announcing what lay behind it: VILLA-MARIA COLLEGE PRIVE PRIVATE SCHOOL I looked through the gate and thought for a moment that someone had played a trick on me and that I was somehow back in Japan, because it could have been Lillian Academy; a long path led up to the school, lined with trees--not ginkgos, of course, though perhaps it was too cold for them here--many still bearing their autumn leaves, just as many on the ground, an array of colour that even the drizzle could not prevent from being beautiful. What was at the end of the path? I wondered. I looked up, but all I saw was a building, presumably the school. Where was Our Lady? --Our Lady is off to the side, said Thérèse, as if she'd read my mind. I used to pray to her every morning. It is a lot like Lillian, isn't it. --So everyone had to pray to her as they passed? --No. I was the only one who did. --Really? --I said it was a lot like Lillian. A few things were different, though. --Did you like it there? It's beautiful, isn't it. Thérèse had had her teasing smile before, as if she had been making one of her jokes, but it faded just then as she added: --Lillian was beautiful too. She shook herself and went on: --Come on. We're going a bit farther up the street. So I followed her a bit farther up the street, crossing to the other side. The neighbourhood around Villa-Maria reminded me of that around Lillian, too, much less fashionable a place than one would expect a place like it to stand. The side of the house on the end of the row on the right had plenty of graffiti as well. On our side of the street was a building that still showed the faded lettering announcing what it had been long ago, the Institut des Beaux-Arts Villa-Maria. The unfashionability of it must be what made it hospitable for newcomers. Certainly they had made it their own. On the ground floor were two restaurants, one a Quartier Perse, the other a Lesvos Ouest. I must have looked at it too long, because Thérèse noticed me looking and glossed, a bit too quickly: --A Greek restaurant. --That's what I thought it was. --Well...not all of Montreal is the Village. That did strike me as an odd remark. --Well, of course, I said, not sure how else to respond. The buildings on the other side of the street had more modestly appointed stores. A laundrette, a print shop, a hairdresser. A convenience store, Dépanneur Reine Camel. Above the stores were apartments. Probably the owners of the stores lived above them. The humidity from the drizzle made it feel a bit warmer than it was, and a middle-aged woman in a t-shirt was standing on the balcony, smoking a cigarette and staring off into the horizon. I couldn't help noticing a sign announcing in English and French: BAR A SUSHI BAR YAKIMONO --Tell me, have you eaten there? --Yes, with my friend, once. Can you believe they have kosher sushi? --Kosher sushi?... --Many people in Notre-Dame-de-Grace are Jewish. They consider it a sin to eat shellfish. So all the sushi there is salmon, tuna, eel--all bony fish that Jewish people can eat. So there are always many Jewish people there. It's the only sushi restaurant like it I’ve ever seen. --Jewish sushi? That's marvellous! --This is Montreal! --Your friend, I asked then. She lives on this street? --No. She doesn't live far away...but she just works here. Don't worry, we're almost there. --Is she Jewish? --No. A Catholic. Her mother is from Poland. --Perhaps she works there then? I pointed just up the street to where I could see a storefront announcing CHARCUTERIE CHOPIN PATISSERIE EUROPEEN DELICATESSEN Chopin was Polish...it was a romantic idea, but I thought surely that was where Thérèse's friend worked? The daughter of hard-working immigrants, tending the family store to help keep the family fed? --Not quite, said Thérèse, her teasing look returned. Next door. I looked next door. SCIFI ANIME In the windows were advertised ANIME DVD MANGA LOCATION & VENTE --An animation store? I said. --What? Disappointed? teased Thérèse. --Just surprised...but I suppose I shouldn't be. She did give you the books, didn't she? I'll wait for you here. --In the rain? You don't want to meet her? Or are you afraid of manga? --No, but...is it all right? --Of course. She's very nice. She'll like you, said Thérèse, slipping between two cars parked on the street and starting to cross. Coming? I quickly followed her across, checking a bit nervously for traffic. -- te to te o tsunai dara mukau toko muteki desho --Hello? said Thérèse in English as we entered. Heloise, are you there? --Hey! Thérèse! was the response. A cheerful greeting, from a woman I didn’t see immediately. She pronounced it “Teriisu.” Thérèse entered, and I followed her in. The first thing I noticed were display cases by the door, full of models of giant robots. Just behind the desk were boxes of paints and cement, imported from Japan. A tomboyish young woman about our age and my height--whom I presumed was Heloise--was behind the counter, looking towards us--or Thérèse, at any rate- -and waving as we came in. As I came closer I saw her T–shirt bore a picture of a cute cartoon girl with green hair, holding a leek. Heloise was rail-thin, and I’d be lying if I called her stunningly beautiful; even from the door I noticed skin blemishes. I had to wonder too why she seemed to have dyed her page-boy bob an interesting shade of orange. Perhaps to look more like an animation character. Her obvious friendliness made up for it, though; her smile was amazingly childlike, and couldn’t help but cheer me too. I couldn’t help thinking of Sei. If I had only seen Sei in a photo, I wouldn’t have called her beautiful either. Her looks were honestly a bit mannish, even before she had cut her hair. But I knew the photo would have lied. I hung back a bit as Thérèse went to the desk, to return Heloise’s books. --How are you? Thérèse asked Heloise politely. --Great! You? --Fine...here are your books. --Dude, you could have kept them ‘til you were done. Didn’t you like them? --I finished them. I read them from cover to cover. --Really? Wow...you like? --They were interesting. I’m glad I read them. Thank you... --Yay! I made Thérèse read yuri! Woohoo! While Heloise celebrated her “victory,” I wandered around the store. One wall was covered entirely with rental DVDs of animation. I even recognized a few: Gundam, Evangelion, Bleach, Inuyasha. Far more I had never heard of: Gekiganger III, Schoolgirl Milky Crisis, Testcard Warriors. On the back wall and on the right were more models; in the centre of the room were shelves of manga that had been translated into English. Nothing in French. I found myself looking up and down for Rose of Versailles, but didn’t see it. I turned back to Heloise and Thérèse, who were talking about everything and nothing--or rather it was Heloise who talked excitedly and breathlessly about everything and nothing, while Thérèse smiled back, adding a comment when she could. --Excusez-moi...s’il vous plait...ano...est-ce que... --Oh, said Heloise, seeming to notice me for the first time. Can I help you? --Do you have Rose of Versailles? --Rose of Versailles?...No. I don’t think you can get it in English. --I...don’t see...is there manga? In French? --No, we don’t sell it here. It’s all English...say, Thérèse, said Heloise to Thérèse, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend? --Oh! I’m sorry!...Come here, Shimako. Heloise, this is Shimako Todo. I approached, and bowed politely. --Enchanté, I said. Heloise smiled, still friendly though not quite as energetically, and offered her hand to be shaken. --I’m Erika. But hadn’t Thérèse called her Heloise?...No matter. I gingerly took her hand. --It’s okay, I don’t bite, said Erika. Much. And you can speak to me in English too. Honest. --It’s okay? I said. --Well, that’s the language I think in, so...yeah. How do you know Thérèse? --We went to the same school, in Japan...I started. --We have a mutual friend who goes to McGill, said Thérèse, much more fluently than I could have. We met by chance in the Old City. --Whoa. Small world...said Erika. Shimako, right? How do you write that? She found a pen and a scrap of paper and passed them to me. I wrote down my name in Chinese characters and explained what they meant. --So, said Erika when I’d finished, what are you doing in Montreal? --Japanese...universities...are not very good. I want to go to university in Canada. --So, McGill, maybe? --Maybe...I was staying with my friend... --Cool. You like Montreal? --Yes. Very much. --Cool, said Erika, less enthusiastically. Her smile faded for a moment. Come on, though--it’s no Tokyo. --You have been to Tokyo? I asked. --No. I want to visit though. Oh, I wanna go to Japan! added Erika, bouncing up and down a bit, like a child impatient for some sort of treat. --Yes...please visit, I said, not sure how to respond. It’s nice... --Oh I know, Erika replied. My brother went when he was at McGill. --Did he like it? --Uh, yeah. He liked it all right. He didn’t want to come home. Had to take a semester off school when he came back and see a therapist. Reverse culture shock, they said. He still wants to go back now... --I...see...I replied, a little stunned to hear that. --So, are you from Nagasaki, like Thérèse? --No...our school is in Musashino, in Tokyo. I live near there... --Oh. Okay. What’s cool to see around there? I wanna visit. --What? Well... --Why don’t you tell her about your family’s temple? offered Thérèse. --WHAT? Erika looked at Thérèse, as if in disbelief, then back at me, overjoyed, her eyes almost seeming to sparkle with delight. I found myself noticing Erika had very nice eyes, a pretty shade of blue. --Your family owns a temple? Can I touch you? Saying that Erika reached out, making as if to do just that. I froze, looking up at Thérèse for help. Erika must have noticed my shock, because she dropped her hand, and laughed. --Just kidding! Thérèse laughed politely, but I couldn’t help noticing a cloud come over her expression for just a second. --So what’s it called? Erika asked. I wanna visit it now. --Shoguji, I said, writing the Chinese characters out for her, without waiting to be asked. My father is the priest there...would you like to visit? It’s a small temple. It’s not very famous... --Heck, I don’t care, Erika replied, shrugging. It’s your temple. It’s Thérèse’s friend’s temple. Yeah, I wanna visit. I’ll bring Thérèse with me, she said, smiling up at Thérèse. --I don’t think...started Thérèse, grinning a bit nervously. --Sure you do. I need someone to come with me and do the talking. She giggled, and Thérèse giggled too, still a bit nervously. I realized it must be a standing joke between them. --Do you...go to Marianopolis too? I asked Erika, taking pity on Thérèse. --Yeah...we have a lot of the same classes. Not today, though. --She goes in the morning, and I go in the afternoon, Thérèse added. --Then you met there...? --Nah, said Erika. We met at Villa-Maria, when she transferred in. A lot of girls from Villa-Maria go to Marianopolis. God, it’s like high school... --Do you want to go to McGill? --Nah. UQO. --What? --Université du Québec en Outaouais, said Thérèse. --Yeah, said Erika. It’s in Gatineau. My dad lives in Aylmer. He has an IT job in Ottawa. Systems support, or something. He doesn’t talk about it much. That’s where I get my nerdiness, I think...anyway, yeah--UQO lets you major in cartooning. What I really wanna do is be a manga artist. --A manga artist? I asked. Can you do that? --I know. Crazy, huh? Dad’s like, cool, okay, you can get a job maybe at an animation studio. I guess they have some in Ottawa. I can do that, maybe... But he’s cool. He says I can live with him while I’m in UQO. Whatever makes you happy, he says. I love my daddy... Erika giggled again, adding, as if to apologize: --I’m sorry. Always been a daddy’s girl... --No...it’s all right. I like my father very much too... --Oh yeah? She giggled, and I found myself giggling too. I could see why Thérèse liked her. It was hard not to--amazingly friendly and cheerful, even with strangers. A bit bubbly, to be sure, but that was all right--Yumi was no worse, really. --He got me the shirt, which is funny, Erika went on, indicating the shirt she was wearing. He found it on the Internet. He was the one who told me about the OS-tans. And he doesn’t even like anime that much. Cute shirt, huh? --So you can get a job doing animation, in Ottawa? --Maybe. Erika’s smile faded at the thought. --You don’t want that? --Uh, no. I love my dad, but seriously, Ottawa? Do you have any idea what a boring city that is? I don’t want to stay in Canada at all. I want to work for a studio in Japan. --You speak Japanese? I asked. --No. I’m learning though, said Erika, looking up at Thérèse endearingly. Thérèse is helping me. Right? --I wonder if I am...I’m not a very good teacher yet, said Thérèse. --But, I had to ask, you don’t like Ottawa. Do you not like Montreal? --No. Montreal’s okay. I just don’t wanna live with my mom anymore. God...I tell her what I want to do and she’s like... Erika went on in what I gathered was a thick foreign accent, a parody, presumably, of her mother’s: --“You can’t survive, drawing cartoons! You need to find a job doing something useful. And you need to find a husband.” God. Mom, this is the 21st century, and this is Canada, okay? She’s from Poland. More Catholic than the pope. My dad’s a Canadian, so he’s actually sort of normal. So...yeah. Match made in hell. But she didn’t want a divorce, so when he got a job in Ottawa me and Mom just stayed behind. More Catholic than the pope...seriously. True story. When the Pope died, she went to the memorial mass, and when they showed the funeral on TV from Rome she was doing the sign of the cross in the living room along with the priest, and genuflecting and... Thérèse’s smile faded; she broke in with: --Heloise, you said you’d done some new drawings? Erika must have gotten the message, because she answered: --Um...yeah. I did. Okay, ignore me. Me and my mom just don’t get along... Thérèse wants to be a nun, but she’s actually nice...not like the nuns at school. Even if she’s way too quiet. Thérèse, you need to talk more. --Do I? asked Thérèse. Thérèse had had no trouble talking to me; but around Erika it was true she had been much quieter. It was different with Erika, perhaps. --Yeah, you do, said Erika. --I was listening. --You need to talk, too. You’re too serious. Shimako! Are all Japanese people so serious? --Are they very serious? I replied, not sure how to answer. I wonder... --Canadians aren’t serious at all, said Thérèse. --No, we’re not. That’s why you like me. --Really? They were looking at each other now, giggling. Another standing joke. --May I see the drawings? I asked. --Sure, said Erika, reaching down behind the desk and pulling out a large binder. You can come behind the counter, if you wanna see better. I did not refuse. I stood to one side of Erika, and Thérèse to the other, as Erika leafed through her portfolio, telling us a little about each drawing and painting. Very willowy art, reminiscent of many girls’ manga I had read. She had probably learned to draw by copying them. Prominent in many of the drawings she showed us was a character, slender and beautiful with short orange hair, often in the arms of a handsome man. --The girl with orange hair...is that you? I asked. --Uh, that’s a boy, said Erika. --Oh...sorry, I said, giggling with embarrassment. --‘Sokay, I get that a lot. I don’t really have orange hair, ya know. But it’s his natural colour. He’s orange everywhere. Erika smirked, and had to cover my mouth not to let my embarrassment show to much. She really did remind of Sei just then. Behind her I saw Thérèse blush, try not to laugh, and furtively make the sign of the cross. --Did Thérèse make the sign of the cross just now? asked Erika. --Yes, I said. How did you know that? --She always does when I say something like that. She turned the page. A young woman with long flowing black hair, dressed as a shrine maiden, stood before a path leading towards a torii, holding a broom to sweep away the falling autumn leaves. --This one’s pretty new. I like how the colours turned out. Even if it is really the path up to the school. I just took out the school and added the torii...say, do you wear something like that? --No...I said. That dress is Shinto. My temple is Buddhist. When I work at festivals...I wear kimono. --Huh. Okay. Erika seemed to look me up and down just then, before adding: --I bet you look cute in a kimono. I wanna see that now... Thérèse kept quiet. She had clearly seen most of the drawings before; she was smiling and nodding a little indulgently, the way Noriko would do for her sister when she brought a drawing or a painting home from school, less pleased at the artwork itself as the fact that the one she loved was so proud of it, happy to see her happy. Thérèse was standing very close to Erika. Erika did not seem to mind that at all; but Thérèse’s shoulder came only to a hair’s breadth from Erika’s, her hand at most a hair’s breadth from Erika’s, never once touching...perhaps longing, but not daring to touch her. Another of Erika’s latest drawings, was of two magical girls, one in a yellow uniform, one in red, the one in yellow in the arms of the one in red, both looking deeply into each other’s eyes. They both wore headdresses that looked like nothing so much as TV antennae. --That’s Naoko and Reiko from Testcard Warriors, said Erika by way of commentary. They’re so delightfully yuri. I’ve been drawing a lot more girls lately. Go figure...must be the yuri manga I’ve been reading...you know what? I should sign up for artist’s alley at Otakuthon next year. --Otakuthon? I asked. --It’s an anime convention. At Concordia. See if I can’t get some fan art commissions...oh! Erika looked at Thérèse with a knowing smirk, and added: --Thérèse! You know you want to cosplay Esther! --What? said Thérèse, laughing. No! --Esther? I asked. Erika flipped forward to another of her recent drawings, a beautiful, pale man in a dark cloak and a beautiful young woman with huge, pleading eyes, dressed in a white, Italian-style habit. --From Trinity Blood. The guy is Father Abel and the girl is Sister Esther. It’d be perfect. --I couldn’t do that! laughed Thérèse. --You know you want to. You make your own clothes, right? You could make it no problem. --No! --What? Too sacrilegious? You’re a nun! You need to dress like one, right? --I’d look stupid! --So? I’ll go as Abel if you like. --NO! They both were laughing now. Another standing joke. Thérèse was blushing, clearly enjoying the teasing. I found myself laughing too. --I love making her squirm, said Erika as if divulging a confidence to me. It’s so much fun. --Really? I said. --And she’s so cute when she blushes. --Stop it! said Thérèse, trying to contain herself now, but not quite succeeding. --Seriously though, said Erika (finally having mercy on Thérèse), it’s fun. If you go to McGill you should come, Shimako. To Otakuthon. --Is it? Do Canadians like manga that much? --Sure they do. And you’re Japanese. You and Thérèse’ll be, like, the only Japanese people there. Folks’ll love you...it’ll be an experience...you should bring your friend too...what’s your friend’s name? --Sei, I said. Sei Sato. At the sound of Sei’s name, Thérèse suddenly sobered up, and said: --That’s right. Weren’t you supposed to meet Sei for lunch? --Yes, I said. Yes, I was. --I’m sorry, Heloise, said Thérèse, I have to go. I have to get to class. --Already? said Erika. --Anyway...Shimako doesn’t know this part of town well. I took her well out of her way. I was going to take her back to the metro, so she doesn’t get lost. --But it’s like, right there... --I know...but she doesn’t know the metro that well, so... --Huh. Okay, said Erika, looking rather dejected. --Heloise? --Yes? --I just had a thought. You will have to wear the dress, but I can make it for you. --...Seriously? You mean it? --When I make a promise, I keep it. Give me pictures and I’ll find fabric. --I love you! Erika grinned and giggled, and Thérèse laughed too, then they were both quiet a moment, looking in each other’s eyes. When I made my way out from behind the counter, they seemed barely to notice. I pretended to take great interest in a magazine with a picture of a pretty high school girl wearing yellow ribbons on the front cover. --You would make a prettier Esther anyway, I heard Thérèse say. --Oh, you think so? said Erika, sounding flattered. Do tell...! --Esther...she’s English. Not Japanese. I really would look silly. You look much more like her. --Hmm...yeah, okay. I’ll give you my measurements. Remind me. --I have to go. --Not yet. Come here. --But...is it all right? --No buts. Come here. --All right... --Mmm... I looked at them out of the corner of my eye. They were embracing very tightly, Thérèse’s back to me, Erika’s face buried in Thérèse’s shoulder, her hands moving ever so slowly up and down Thérèse’s back. It was at that moment I realized who the shrine maiden was. Thérèse with longer hair. I looked back in the magazine, pretending I had seen nothing. --Shimako? I looked up. They had let go. Erika was looking at me now. --You want French manga, right? --Oh. Yes, please, I said (though to be honest I’d forgotten about it). --Go to Marché du Livre. That’s where I get mine. Hold on, I’ll make you a map. Thérèse came out from behind the counter, and we waited while Erika drew the map. As she handed it to me she said: --Go to Berri-UQAM and head for the bus station--Station Centrale. It’s right next door on our left, on Maisonneuve. You can’t miss it. --Thank you, I said. --No problem...if you go to McGill I’ll see you again, maybe? --I’d like that, I replied. --Shall we go? said Thérèse to me, in Japanese. --All right...nice meeting you, Erika, I said, bowing before heading behind Thérèse towards the door. --Bye...later, Thérèse. Erika waved as we went, smiling again, now a little sadly. -- As we stepped outside of the store and started walking back towards the station, the smile Thérèse kept for Erika faded; replacing it was apprehension, a shade of guilt. She must have noticed me looking at her, because she turned to me and asked, as if trying to distract me: --Do you want something to drink? --I'm fine, I said. I'll wait until lunch. --Not even water? It's all right. I'm thirsty too. --There's no need. --I insist. So Thérèse stepped into Dépanneur Reine Camel, coming out with two bottles of cheap bottled water. We didn't go directly to the station, but rather walked onto the bridge over the freeway a little way, and we stood there a few minutes, Thérèse looking out onto the freeway, watching the cars roll by through the drizzle. --So why do you call her Heloise? I asked. --That's her name. --But isn't it Erika? --No. It's a Japanese name as well as an English one. She wanted a Japanese name, so she gave herself one. She hates the name Heloise. Even her brother calls her Erika now. --She doesn't mind? --Not really. I told her I liked it, and I meant it. I even told her about Abelard and Heloise. --The priest and nun who fell in love? --Yes. She didn't even know that. She said her mother just liked the sound of it. There's only three people she lets call her Heloise. One's her mother. The second’s her father. The third is me. Thérèse turned to me, smiling again, but a little sheepishly, adding: --She teases me about that too. --She’s right. You are very quiet around her, I replied. --Am I? Thérèse asked. I suppose I am. You saw though--it’s hard to keep up with her. For a long time I didn’t have much choice but to let her do the talking. I learned to speak English from her, did I mention that? --No, you didn’t. --Yes. That’s why I’m trying to teach her Japanese. I owe her a lot, you know. Thérèse turned back to the traffic, sipped her water, and went on: --Even if I’d been a Canadian, the other girls would have thought me odd. None of them thought for a minute about being a nun. And I didn’t speak English, not really. It’s no wonder they had no patience with me. Then there was Heloise, who wanted to be friends and wouldn’t take no for an answer! She laughed at the memory, and continued: --She’s always enthusiastic like that. It’s exhausting sometimes. So much so that I’ll spend an hour with her, and after I’ll be sure that I’ve had enough of her for at least a month! But it passes. I can’t stay angry with her for long. We get on well. She’s a fun person. Her smile faded just then, though, as she added: --That’s the odd part about it. I always enjoyed being with her. But she didn’t make friends easily with anybody else. She wasn’t that close to any of the other girls. And boys she barely seemed to see the use for. I sometimes wondered if I was her only friend... Her voice trailed off. She took another sip of water. --You think about her quite a lot, don’t you? I asked. --Do I?...Yes, I suppose I do. --Does she know about Sei and Shiori? Thérèse looked back at me, surprised, not to say shocked at the question. --Why should she know about that? --Thérèse...It’s obvious to anyone. Heloise adores you. I thought perhaps that’s why she gave you the books. To tell you it was all right... --It’s not all right! I found myself jumping back at the sound of Thérèse shouting at the top of her lungs. Thérèse herself must have been shocked, because she caught herself, hung her head, and said: --I’m sorry... --Don’t be. --Long ago I was promised to the Lord, all of me. When I forget that I’ve regretted it. Of course I know. She wants something from me I can’t give her. --Why not? Don’t you like her? --Of course I do. --Then... --Her innocence. That’s what I came to love about her. Thérèse looked back up at me, an imploring look in her eyes. --Shimako--if I led her astray...it wouldn’t be the first time. Please... don’t ask me to do that again. I don’t care to make any more promises I can’t keep. Our Lady of Mercy...she gave me a second chance, in Canada, as if I’d deserved anything of the kind. Heloise--I give her what I can. Companionship. A friendly ear. Now and again I’ll make her a dress--a costume. She appreciates that. Beyond that--I pray for her. --Pray? --Yes. Every day. That she’ll find someone who can give himself--all of himself--to her. And forget me once and for all. Thérèse finished her water, and as if to declared the subject closed, said: --Do the sisters know? I asked. --What? About Sei and Shiori? --Yes. --They might know. Mother Superior wrote my recommendation. They might have found it odd that someone would come all this way to their school for no reason. I’d be surprised if they didn’t ask. --I mean...are they sure you belong in the Congrégation? Thérèse looked back at me and raised her right hand, pointing to her fingers with her left index. --Shimako. Do you know how many women took vows--what, this year? I could count them on the fingers of one hand. Literally. And that's not just the Congrégation de Notre Dame, that's all the orders in Quebec. I’m needed, more than ever. That’s not all. After hearing Yes for so long--how can it be that Our Lady would want to hear No? --You don’t have to say no to her. You want to teach children? To spread the word of God? You don’t have to be a sister to do that! --Why don’t you understand? I can’t just say no to my family, or to Mother Superior, after all they’ve done for me! My family would turn out on the street, probably, and I'd deserve every bit of it. No home, no job, not even a way back to Japan. Then what? What good would that do anyone? I found myself answering: --Thérèse...what sort of horrible people are they that they would do that? Sacrificing a little girl to Our Lady for services rendered? Sending her halfway across the world to punish her for falling in love? And they call themselves Christians? They had no right! And no need! When Christ died for us did he send us a bill? Thérèse...listen. You have a real family waiting for you. People who love you, really love you, miss you. Waiting for you to come to them. The second chance Our Lady gave you...did you never think it might be Heloise? --So...what? Shall I squat at Heloise’s father’s place in Ottawa, perhaps? Don't make me laugh! --Not just her, I said. Sei's here too. --What? I grabbed her wrist, and tried to pull her with me towards Villa-Maria station, but after the shock wore off she pulled her arm back. --Come with me, I said. I'll take you to her. --What? NO! Are you mad? Thérèse was clearly now truly angry. She shook her arm up and down trying force me to let her go free, but I resisted as best I could, trying to get her to submit, not quite knowing what I was saying: --I'm not mad. She'll help you, of course she will. She lives on rue Panet. In the Village. She has friends there. They'll help you. They look after her too. I'll be coming here, I'll help you if I can. She'll help you too. --You don't know what you're talking about! Let me go! --Sei doesn't hate you. I know she doesn't. I've never known her to hate anyone. She never said one bad thing about you, not one. She forgave you long ago. Come with me and let her see you again. She'll be so happy... --Get behind me, Satan! The words seemed to work like the spell they were. Thérèse forced her arm free so suddenly she was falling backwards, off the sidewalk onto the pavement. The next sound I heard was screeching tires and a blaring horn. TSUZUKU
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