Salvation
by Guy Tiphane

Montreal, 1949.

The afternoon snowstorm was going to cause problems to get home. The men who worked on my floor came to have a look through my window to see the furious white flakes obstruct the view to the Stock Exchange building. On a nicer day, they would come to watch the girls who worked there, but this time they worried about the streetcars. Trying to keep my eyes down on my papers as they slipped behind my chair, I kept the conversation to approving mumblings in response to their concerns. Some even thought they might need to camp in the office.

At 3 o’clock, every office worker in the area seemed to have had the same idea of going to the bank to withdraw a little extra cash. The bank was unusually crowded with men in snow-covered clothes.

“$100 is a lot of money,” said Lenny the bank teller, always keeping an eye on my finances. No need to reply to Lenny’s comments. He carefully took his key out of his pocket, locked his drawer, and walked to Mackenzie’s office with the withdrawal slip. Although Mackenzie approved the transaction as he had for the past ten years, Lenny kept his serious frown. I suspect that Lenny associated my name with another Irishman who died drunk before paying for his last bottle. Lenny probably thought all those $10 bills he meticulously counted out of his drawer would be wasted at the tavern later that night. The bills scented of fresh new money, and I wondered if Lenny had developed an addiction to it. I supposed it broke his heart to push the money towards me.

It was partly my fault that Lenny wouldn’t trust me as a good family man saving money for the future: I never tried to justify my withdrawals with subtle remarks such as “need to help with mother’s rent,” or “special Church collection on Sunday,” because none of them would be true. I would get no redemption in admitting that I spent large sums collecting books and hosting parties for the literary-minded on Saturday nights.

My gray wool scarf over my nose, I exited the bank like a bandit. It was now four o’clock and I still had a pile of articles to proofread before I could attempt the journey home. At the end of the day, I proofread the obituaries and the society articles. Your name in the latter category seemed to guarantee a longer obituary with a photo of your younger self, in the way buying indulgences at church would get you a place in heaven. People like Lenny never appeared in those pages. Mackenzie appeared not only when he was promoted to his nice office with a view on the street, but also when he married the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Edward Forrest, of the Forrest and Sons advertising agency. On the photo, Mackenzie wore his spiffy uniform with the medal he had received at the end of the war. Congratulations on your survival, and please proceed to the next level with your lovely bride. I think Mackenzie will not only have a quarter page obituary when his time comes, he will also have a funeral at that cathedral on Ste Catherine Street, and if he does really well the prime minister will attend. Mink coats and discreet tears, a sober cocktail party to conclude gracefully.

I finished the last article and sent it to the typesetting shop by the usual deadline. I could see more snow falling between the window and the street lamp. Waiting with my colleagues for the clock to tick 5 o’clock, we discussed our different strategies for getting home in the storm, as if there was a contest for the manliest plan. Thibault and I decided to wait for the end of the storm at the tavern on the Main, not even considering that the streetcars could still be running. The tavern is like a club with no membership fee and no guilt for lining up bottles, but you have to get rid of the riffraff yourself.

We shook the snow off our coats and hats, like dogs coming out of the water, and hung them in the mass of smelly wet wool already there. A thick cloud of smoke awaited us inside, drying our throats. We sat on the round chairs at a tiny round table surrounded by circles of insurance workers and clerks from the courthouse. The waiter put two Molson’s on the table and we each paid our own dues. There’s comfort in knowing that your Molson is waiting for you, and all you have to do is show up at her altar and make your offering to receive its favors.

Thibault looked upset and I knew he was not going to laugh at the joke I had saved for the tavern.

“You look like your cat just died,” I said, trying to beat the roar of laughter from the insurance guys.

“Oh no, the cat is just fine,” Thibault responded, not understanding. He had already scraped half of the tall ship from the bottle, leaving it without its masts. He sighed. “My wife and I can’t seem to be able to conceive,” he announced to me, a confirmed bachelor.

I kept my eyes on my brown bottle, as if it was an object I had never seen before. I admired the artistic qualities of the label. Did you know there were five rows of sails on these boats? Why was it called “Export” when in fact the ale was all consumed here, not even a mile from where it was brewed? I took a deep breath of the smoke-laden air and said “sorry about that,” but how was I to prevent him from providing additional details of Mr. and Mrs. Thibault’s life in bed? It could not be avoided, and I waved at the waiter, faithfully available, for two more.

I confirmed with him that I was not married and had no intention to be in the near future. I also tried to confirm that as a consequence, I did not know anything about marital issues. But then I understood that had he done the standard thing, he would have consulted his Parish Priest, another bachelor who had definitely not read the same books as I had. The truth is that I may have accumulated enough knowledge to write a book entitled “O’Neil’s Guide to a Happy Spouse,” but I doubt the book could survive the multiple layers of censorship people impose on themselves and the rest of the world. The book would be the result of long hours spent at the University’s Medical Library browsing through the sections that demystified the unnamable parts of the body and their function. There was also a small but fascinating section containing books by Freud and his followers which would help to explain the strange ideas we have at times. Then there were the occasional trips to the back of some bookstores where one could find exotic material from faraway countries.

I waved again at the waiter who had just freed himself from dealing with one of the courthouse clerks who had spilled his last beer and needed to go home.

“Have you read books about it?” I suggested.

“Books?” he replied blankly.

“Books that may explain not only the mechanics of baby-making but also address issues that may show up with couples, you know, like who does what in bed.” I suddenly realized my book had not been written yet.

I had every expectation of being struck by lightning at that moment, even though the natural phenomenon has never occurred on a snowy evening. Here I was in a tavern, legally populated by men exclusively, suggesting that the key to human reproduction could be found in books. Did the room suddenly fall silent and fifty pairs of eyes turn towards me? Did I just doubt the manliness of a fellow club member? Perhaps it was time for me to check the weather outside and consider catching the streetcar, or in its absence, walking home. But the miracle happened.

“Wait,” said Thibault, “where can I find such books?”

I gave him the address of a bookstore in a sector of town he had never been to. Moved by his hesitation, I volunteered to take him there one day: we would be like two teenager boys on a secret expedition. He looked happier and relieved, and we ordered another Molson and some food. He went to the phone booth to call his wife to tell her the streetcars were blocked in the snow and that he would eat here.

Back at our table, we talked about hockey, the people at the bank, and some politics. He tried to explain to me how Fernandel was funny. I was able to tell the joke I had prepared. We were back in the happy circle.

We had agreed to go “shopping” on what must have been the coldest Saturday morning of the year. Our first stop would be Jacobson’s Books on St. James, a little shop across the street from an enormous church of no particular architectural interest. Mr. Jacobson, a communist, offered Italian coffee in small cups to his customers in order to encourage discussion. The area reserved for discussion, however, had shrunk due to the arrival of large boxes containing books Jacobson had acquired from the estate of the late Senator Hutton.

“Mostly the classics,” said Jacobson as I peeked in the top box, “but in excellent condition, and most of them bound in leather.” I pictured Senator Hutton’s probably vast library where he could sit on a leather armchair to read leather-bound Dickens under a silver candelabra. Perhaps I would have liked to be his butler, spending countless hours carefully dusting each page of each book while the gentleman was away. But the books had finally arrived at the people’s bookstore where I could have a free look. I pulled a book I had not expected to find at the bottom of the box.

“Lady Chatterley’s Lover,” I said. “What a surprise!”

“Isn’t it?” said Jacobson. “The other booksellers stayed away from that one as if it would burn in their hands. Who knows how it had ended on Hutton’s shelves?”

“Every man has a little secret, that’s what keeps him alive,” I said. “Thibault, you may like that book.” He took the book and leafed through the pages, as if looking for pictures of the naked Lady Chatterley. I took the book from his hands and put it into the box. It was time to take him to the back of the store, which was difficult in winter because our heavy coats transformed us into pipe cleaners as we walked between the shelves, and then we were unable to bend down to see what was new in the forbidden fruit section.

“The censors never visit Jacobson’s store,” I said, “first because they’re afraid of him, they think he’s some sort of wicked wizard, and second because it is too much trouble for them to get here. They’d rather go for the publicity of raiding stores that would never have anything interesting anyway.” The place was too cramped for me to see Thibault’s reaction. He was not saying anything. “Here,” I said, taking The Kamasutra off the shelf and handing it over my shoulder, “this is from India and has several illustrations. It is the equivalent of the Bible over there.” I got back up to see that he was looking at it with interest. We laughed together at the impossible positions the lovers took in the illustrations. I knew some of the text would be of concern to good Catholics, with its suggestions of adultery and its distancing from the purely reproductive goal of love. But something happened that I did not expect: he wanted to buy the book, bring it home and show it to his wife! I became more embarrassed than he now was. I was concerned that it could be seen by his in-laws, who lived downstairs and knew all the details of everything that went up the stairs.

“Every man has a little secret,” he said, paraphrasing me. “But also, I don’t want to hide anything from my wife.” I had not expected that.

Jacobson wrapped the book with an innocuous newspaper, and we were on our way back into the cold.

“I will let you have that D.H. Lawrence for a good price,” he said as he led us to the door.

“You are tempting me,” I responded, knowing that I only had to come back for coffee once to fall for it.

Thibault said I should come to his house for lunch. There was no issue with his wife, he said, she would like to meet me. How could she know about me, and what did she know? I only hoped I was not the devil who kept her husband away from her and corrupted him.

We climbed the wooden stairs that had been rendered slippery by the frost. There was no movement in the in-laws’ windows and we were probably safe from scrutiny. The house smelled of vegetable soup and freshly baked bread.

And then I met Mrs. Thibault, or Ginette as she introduced herself. I had it all in front of me that Saturday in her kitchen, the Virgin on the calendar blushing with envy at the perspective that Mr. and Mrs. Thibault could engender the most beautiful cherubs inheriting this and that element of beauty from each of the parents. We had lunch of that hot soup and bread with the butter that had been missed for a few years, and then the future father unwrapped the book. There on the kitchen table the book had acquired a luminosity I had not been able to appreciate at the back of the bookstore. It was time for me to leave them to their newly discovered garden in the middle of winter.

That afternoon as I walked home in the extreme brightness of the sun reflected in the white snow, the wind froze my tears and made me blind. I walked backwards to shelter myself from the wind while I warmed my eyes with my bare hands to melt the tears. Then I saw that I was alone.