The Visit

By Guy Tiphane

Father Vaillancourt sat on the left side of the train, alternating his attention between the ocean he was leaving and the official timetable he had obtained from the station attendant. The sun was already low on the right side and occasionally disappeared behind trees, giving his eyes a bit of rest. Soon the ocean would also disappear. A young man in a blue suit and tie came from the car ahead, looking left and right until he spotted the new person on board.

“Bonjour. Tickets please,” he said with a smile. The old man promptly gave him his ticket with the look of someone who had never traveled, that nervous look of someone wondering if he boarded the right train, even though there were no other trains passing by this station. “Vancouver, eh?”

“Uh, yes, but I want to stop for a few days in Montreal and Winnipeg,” the father said, making sure the conductor would not cancel his ticket for the entire journey.

“No problem, sir. This train does not go beyond Montreal. From there you will need to take another train to Toronto, after which it is the same train going all the way to Vancouver.” Raphaël the conductor knew that older people who had kept old train timetables had not heard about the reorganization of train routes that brought about the demise of the transcontinental service. He punched the ticket, folded it and gave it back to the man.

The father knew all that already, but it was reassuring to know that he was going the right way with the right ticket and all. He asked about rest rooms and whether he could eat his sandwiches at his seat. He was told about the folding tray table incorporated into the seat in front of him and thanked the conductor for his benevolence. He did not want to ask more questions at this time, although he wanted to know how it was that two trains on the timetable seemed to arrive at about the same time in Matapedia, but left with only five minutes apart. He would ask later when the conductor would be less busy.

Five of his parishioners had accompanied him to the station with sandwiches, slices of pie, and other “survival items.” Angelina, wife of his now defunct brother Charles, gave him a letter addressed to her son in Montreal who was going to meet him at the station, she had said. He had not announced his return date, saying that perhaps he would miss them so much that he would not even bother to disembark at the end of the line. After only two hours on this ride he started missing his quiet room, and its view of the ocean. Perhaps it was only because of the unknown ahead of him, and he tried to calm himself, thinking that for a good seventy years his life had been predictable and that this was his first adventure.

It was now too dark outside to see anything, and it would be like that until their arrival in the morning. He had figured out how the seats reclined by observing the other passengers, and he had managed to walk almost straight to the rest room. In Matapedia, he was told, this train was to wait for the other train from Halifax and they would join the cars to be pulled by only one of the two locomotives. Then it would be time to sleep.

Raphaël the conductor had brought him a pillow and a blanket for the night. The train was not crowded, he said, and it was unlikely that anyone would sit next to the father. Raphaël was from Rimouski and had joined the railway five years ago. For the past three years this had been his line, going back and forth between the ocean and the city. “As long as it lasts, then after that I don’t know what I will do,” he said, alluding to the fact that politicians had always favored the construction of highways and airports, leaving nothing for the railroad. Father Vaillancourt was glad that he had decided to retire now and travel on the train while it still ran, because he did not own a car and did not know how to drive one. Sure, he could learn, but wouldn’t it be lonely, all the way to Vancouver? “That’s right,” said Raphaël, “in a car, you can listen to the radio, but you can’t talk back and learn about other people. On buses there is a sign that says not to talk to the driver.” He had to go do his job and wished the man a good night.

At dawn they were traveling past uncultivated fields somewhere between Quebec City and Montreal. The father’s first night out had been rough but he had been able to sleep for a few hours. The conductor came by and said it would not be long before they would arrive, that maybe they should say good bye at this time, and that unless he would be on a holiday they would meet again on the way back. They passed a few isolated houses for a while, then many that looked like they had been cast from the same mold, and then the train was on a bridge over what was likely to be the St Lawrence River. Then it was dark and the train came to a complete stop.

Richard’s mother had called two days ago to tell him that Uncle Marcel was coming to Montreal, on his way to Winnipeg and Vancouver. She had no idea of how long he was going to be in Montreal, but she meant to say that he deserved more than just sleeping on the couch. She did not know that Richard did not have a couch or an extra bed for that matter. All she knew was that Richard lived with a good friend called Serge, and that neither of them had found a good woman to marry, despite her numerous suggestions. Richard had hinted quite a few times that they were not looking right now, in fact that they were not really interested, which was enough to end most of their conversations. She kept praying for God to send a good girl to his front door, and most likely she had mentioned it to his priest uncle, who was on his way to Montreal.

“It’s very unlikely that he’s going to have any advice to give you about women” joked Serge while sipping his morning coffee, “but I just don’t know how to deal with all this.”

“With what?” Richard answered, his mouth full of Cheerio’s, a sight Serge hated. Richard swallowed before continuing. “I’m sorry this is happening, but what can I do? I can’t afford to put him up in a hotel.” By now he had adopted his begging puppy stance and could not be resisted. Arrangements were made to have sleeping bags spread on the floor between the desks in the living room and to let the uncle use their bedroom.

At eight o’clock the next morning Richard was at the top of the escalator where the passengers of the Chaleur emerged from their journey.

The father had never seen an escalator and stepped aside to let the other passengers climb on it. Once he was alone at the bottom of the moving metallic stairs, he prudently put one foot, then the other rapidly, on the appearing step. He grasped the handrail, but it was moving backwards at times, and he had to carefully move his hand up to keep up with the change. At the top, the stairs entered under a nasty looking comb and he had to make a quick step to escape it. His nephew was there, waiting for him.

The rest of the day resembled the escalator ride, first because there were more escalators to climb to get to the street, but also because almost every encounter required new learning. His nephew’s assertiveness surprised him, as he remembered a reserved kid who had always kept his nose in his books. There were streets with people, sometimes strange ones, cars, trucks, bicycles, and buses, in between huge glass and metal buildings that hid the sky. There were no available seats on the bus, and they had to constantly move his large suitcase out of the way of the people who wanted to go around them. Once at the flat, Richard said he needed to go to work, gave him a key, a map with a red X showing where the house was, and an appointment for 5:30 back at the red X. Father Vaillancourt, already tired, lied down on the large bed and fell asleep.

At 5:30 Richard and Serge walked back to their home with grocery bags, discussing the menu. The priest was not in, but they started cooking anyway. He arrived, looking as happy as a kid in a toy store. Introductions were made, beer was served.

Richard’s uncle turned out to be one of those old people with interesting stories to tell. Serge had forgotten that the man was also a priest when he asked:

“So, what did you use to do back home?”

“I was the parish priest,” replied the priest, flattered that maybe he did not look like one. “But I just retired.”

“You retired? You quit?” said Richard, “So, is there a new parish priest?”

“No. You know, our bishop quit last year, causing quite a stir because he now wants to get married!”

“With a woman?” said the two in chorus, as if there would be an obvious alternative.

“Yes, yes. Oh, one thing you can be sure of, she’s not after his money, because he has none!” They laughed, but they also wondered how one could start a new life at an older age like that.

In the absence of a bishop, Uncle Marcel had sent his resignation letter to a secretary there, and no response had come. His old parishioners, including Richard’s mother, encouraged him to go, saying that they had accumulated enough masses and vespers to be exempted for a long while, and that if someone died they would call the next village for a priest to come. They said they would keep the church up and tidy.

Serge and Richard wanted to know if he had quit for good, that is, if he was still doing masses and stuff like that. But he did not respond and asked them questions instead. He wanted to know how difficult it had been for them to live in the big city.

“I like it here, and I don’t think I would go back to Ste Thérèse,” said Richard, frankly. “I mean, I like looking at the ocean, breathing the air. I like going on the fishing boat, but I found many things here that I need. Growth,” he risked.

“I understand,” responded the father. “I have looked out my window many times, staring out at the ocean and wondering what was out there. Just today I saw so many new things that my eyes are sore.”

They all stared at the walls for a while, then got up to wash the dishes. The ex-priest uncle soon retired to his temporary room.

He was going to stay for two days only, and he turned out to be good company. The two slept on the floor and felt like they were trying something new. Maybe they could go camping next summer?

On his way back from the bakery with fresh croissants, Richard saw the first page on the morning paper talking in big letters about two American priests caught with prostitutes and decided not to buy the rag. He hated the way newspapers helped to make people more prejudiced than they already were, and reflected on how his uncle’s life must have been, always having to be on the pure side.

On his last night in town, Uncle Marcel agreed to go with them to a dancing bar. They had warned him of all the unusual sights he would experience, but he said that he would look the other way if it was too difficult for him to bear. They would not stay very long because he had to catch the night train to Toronto. Like that first escalator ride, there was a lot going on for him, but he had in mind to be an observer of life as it is and not try to resist or change it. He felt it was too late for him to question other people’s behavior, when he had never questioned his own.

On the way to the station, dragging the suitcase and wishing someone had invented suitcases with wheels in the 1960’s, Richard entered a little African shop on Ste Catherine, telling them to go on and that he would catch up with them.

The line for the train was surprisingly long, as if people thought they were already in Toronto, but they had called ahead to reserve a seat. It gave them enough time to exchange polite greetings and wishes, and for Richard to put the African necklace around his uncle’s neck. They all thought it was funny, and they joked that next time they would take him to a tattoo parlour. But as tears came to the old man’s eyes, Richard hugged him, the way he wished his own father had done, back when they still had time.