Sometimes your dreams absorb aspects of real life: children playing, a voice on the radio, a dog barking, or a phone ringing. I was in bed, asleep, and the ringing phone had become part of my dream. I slowly came round and looked about in the gloom.
“Hello,” I said into the phone, with that start-of-the-day raspy voice: I coughed.
“Hi, is that Miss Vollet?”
“Yes, who’s that? I rattled out.
“Martin Dickwit. Sorry to disturb you”.
I mumbled something about it being all right, while looking at the clock by the side of the bed: it was five thirty.
“What do you want?”
“Are you running that novel writing competition? For the 101 magazine website?”
“Yes,” I said, vaguely, slowly bringing that part of my life back into focus. “Yes,” I said again, more assured. Suddenly the absurdity of the situation struck me. Why was someone ringing me about an online competition in the early hours of Sunday morning? “Everything you need to know is on the website,” I chided.
“Yes, I know, but I really need to talk to you”.
“Really? What do you want to talk about?” I was intrigued. He seemed so earnest and there was almost a panic in his voice. How could an online writing competition mean so much to someone?
“I can’t tell you on the phone.” He paused. There was a noise in the background, maybe a child screaming. There was a muffled response, as if he had covered the phone and shouted something to someone. He came back on the line again. “Can we meet?” he asked.
“I suppose so,” How bizarre, I thought? How melodramatic? Nothing like this had ever happened to me and I was mildly excited. “Where shall we meet?” I said.
“You live in Quebec, right?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“We are friends on Facebook.”
I was dumbfounded. I had never thought twice about my Facebook profile being used as a means to track me down. “How did you get my number?”, I said rather concerned.
“You are in the book,” he said with some frustration. I could sense in his voice that there was some concern that I didn’t recognize him and perhaps doubted his motives.
“I am sorry to approach you like this, but I really need to talk to you. You’ll understand when we meet. Can I suggest a place where there are lots of people?”
“Sure”, I said.
“How about 9:00? I’ll buy you breakfast at the Hotel Le Concorde. I’ll see you in the revolving restaurant. I am sorry, but I have to go.” Suddenly the line went dead. I collapsed back into bed and lay there, thinking about my strange friend from Facebook.
He said his name was Martin ‘Dickwit’ Surely no one can have such an unfortunate surname. I must have misheard him. I should look him up on Facebook before I go and meet him for breakfast. The hotel was quite close by, so perhaps he even knew where I lived. Who was he? Was he married? Did he have children? Where did he live? Was he another writer? Oh my!
The search through Facebook was futile. I had obviously misheard his name. No one could possibly be called by such an outrageous name and not lead a dreadful life suffering constant pain and ridicule. Did this character even exist? My friends were excellent practical jokers and had often caught me out with their childish pranks. Was this one of their ruses? Was the noise I heard in the background someone laughing? Should I even go and meet this guy? I resolved to at least go and have a hearty breakfast.
Quebec is a city of contrasts: from the cultural and linguistic, to concrete, grass and water. The St. Lawrence River runs by a city absorbed in the moment. Named by the Mohawk long before the French and English fought bloody battles on its banks the river provides me with my constant point of reference. My apartment looks out across its waters and I often sit and stare in a trance mulling over my successes and failures. From Minnesota to the Great Lakes the St. Lawrence touches the soul of North America as it collects its payload. The last point of call before it reaches the sea seems to be the Port of Quebec and my apartment.
With the St. Lawrence River as my backdrop I considered my sartorial options for a Sunday morning excursion across town: most people jog or walk their dog at this time of the day. What do I wear when meeting a complete stranger for breakfast? A tracksuit wouldn’t be adequate: a summer dress in early spring would be too cold. So, I decided to wear a dark suit, a plain blouse and court shoes – business-like at all times. After showering, applying makeup and feeding the cat, I ran for the door, sure I was going to be late.
The gentleman who had arranged this meeting seemed to know me quite well. He even knew enough about where I live to choose a hotel within walking distance of my apartment. However, the journey to the hotel is across Parc de Champe Bataille. Established as a memorial to the fallen soldiers of the French and English armies that fought over the lands now called Canada, the park always freaks me out whenever I have to walk through it. I can visualize the battlefield in my minds eye, soldiers lying dead, wounded, their lives wasted fighting over a piece of land that wasn’t theirs in the first place. I can even see and smell the sulfur in the gun smoke, pungent and acrid, bearing down on me from all sides, hiding the river and hills round about. Explaining why someone, who considers themselves’ sane, is scared to walk trough a perfectly beautiful park on bright spring morning is hard to fathom. I tried to look through my imaginings to see that place for what it really is, not what it once was. Manicured lawns, tended trees, and considered walkways fall down to the river, creating a haven of peace on the edge of a hectic city, a place to celebrate renewal, rather than commemorate the past.
When I arrived at the hotel I quickly found myself on the floor of the revolving restaurant. Looking across the room I could only see couples, families, friends all sharing breakfast. No one sat alone, seemingly waiting for a strange woman to arrive. The smell of eggs, bacon and the renowned chef’s specialties made me certain I would eat a hearty breakfast, even if my new friend didn’t turn up.
“Miss. Vollet?”
I started. A man had stood up and was looking directly at me. I hadn’t noticed him before. Despite having no idea who he was I nodded and walked towards him. He beckoned me to sit down at the table.
“I am glad you came”. Looking round, he then added “Sorry for the cloak and dagger”.
I smiled without saying anything. What could I say?
“I am so sorry to be rude, but I didn’t quite catch your name. Have met before?” I asked.
“No, no, no. No problem. I know of you through 101 and your Facebook account, Miss Vollet. My name is Martin de Witt. Would you like some coffee?” He looked about for a waiter who suddenly appeared as if waiting for the sign.
Martin was a short, dumpy man, probably in his forties. Balding with a fringe of strawberry blond, his face looked tired, as if his woes had etched out a record of his sleepless nights and fretting days. A few beads of sweat just showed on his forehead, testament to his continued preoccupation with some dark deeds. Despite air conditioning, Martin was clearly quite warm, for he was only wearing a faun-coloured short sleeve shirt and light tanned trousers. He wore expensive glasses, the kind with no rims that are the stock-in-trade of the fashionista who want to look intellectual.
“What would Madame like for breakfast?” said the waiter. The menu contained every breakfast delight one could wish for. I timidly ordered my favourite: smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. After the waiter has disappeared with my order I started to interrogate my companion.
“What made you choose this hotel to meet?”
“I am staying here.”
“Did you know I live close by?”
He looked me straight in the eye. “No, but I knew you lived in Quebec from Facebook. Come to think of it I should have known because I looked you up in the phone book. I am so glad you didn’t have to travel far. I am pleased you came. I know you are one of the judges of the competition and that is why I wanted to see you.”
“You can’t influence the judges, you know!” I said.
He laughed. “Of course not, no, no. That’s not it at all.” He looked around again, making sure we were not overheard. “Let me explain”.
