路

Stationery to sate my creative drive, staff to fetch me coffee, hot meals to fill my stomach. As I feasted on paper, caffeine, and food, I gave my thanks to the Quebecois taxpayer; for a degenerate like me, this was all as good as free. By dinnertime, I drank at least a pot of coffee by myself, complemented by more than a few butter and salt packets; the discipline that came from using pen on paper more than made up for my caffeine jitters. And not having the opportunity to smoke was probably good for me, all things considered; when I would sometimes aimlessly raise my pen to my lips, I would realize that this was the best chance to finally quit for good.

Dr. Gagnon — Charlotte — came by my room in the evening. A salient point: it was officially Boxing Day in the rest of Canada. Sometime after dinner, she came in with a large cardboard box, which she dropped unceremoniously right on my lap. “Oops,” she said with a straight face with no reaction to my yelping and cussing. Her offering, which probably came straight off her own bookshelf, included a dictionary and thesaurus (“Always know the tools of your trade”), a few curricular classics (“To Kill a Mockingbird is still my favorite”), several trade paperbacks (“So you learn what sells these days”), and the two hardcovers she always brought to the café: a popular psychology manual for fixing relationships (“Since you could use the help”) and a guide on ornithology (“Hope you like birds”). When I remarked on those last two, her responses were equally laconic (“An impulse buy, I guess” and “Oh, that one’s not mine”). But no matter — what really got me excited was a blank notebook with a brown faux-leather cover. “I never got around to starting a diary,” Charlotte sighed. “I hope you put it to good use. Don’t write any stupid things in it.”

“Noted.” I knew exactly what I would do in the years to come. “Thanks, Charlotte.”

“Dr. Gagnon. Oh, in case you had plans for tonight”— the sparkle in her eye told me she enjoyed her own joke more than I did —“you’ve got a sleep study scheduled tomorrow over in the sleep disorders unit. I got you slotted in as early as I could.”

“A sleep study?”

“In short, my friends and I will be eating popcorn while listening to you snore.” She smirked. “Hope you put on a good show.”

“Do save some for me, dear Charlotte,” I retorted. “Extra butter, please.”

“Again: Dr. Gagnon, Mr. Jones. Only margarine for you.” Charlotte went to close the door, then came back and sat at the foot of the bed — breaking professional protocol, but doing it with a healthy amount of distance. “How’s the writing?”

“Good, I guess.” I showed her what I was working on: a sonnet about watching falling snow from inside a locked room. “I’m happy with how this is turning out.”

“Hm,” she vocalized while skimming through the eight completed lines, “maybe you’re really as good as the giant claimed. Can you read it out loud for me?”

I, like any other poet, could never turn down such a request:

With concrete cruelty, blocking out the light,

Three walls contain a lonely, languid man. A fourth, who understands the convict’s plight, Felt pity since his jailorship began. One privilege he grants the prisoner: His window shows the falling snow outside. The inmate, damned to die there as it were, Saw through the winter landscape’s bitter pride.

When I finished the last completed verse, Charlotte looked impressed.

“It flows nicely. Do you think in iambic pentameter or something?”

“Or something. You deduce it on your own.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“Never mind,” I said, secretly gloating. “Thanks for listening.”

“How’ll you end it?” She glanced over the poem again. “Six more lines to go, ouais? What does the man see, and what’s his fate?”

“I think,” I said as I tried to think of a good ending, “he sees that winter is as cold and lonely as he is.”

“Sounds angsty.” Charlotte scrunched up her nose and pushed up her glasses. “I thought it would take another turn.”

“Oh? Do tell.” In all honesty, I was happy to talk about poetry with someone else; the only other person I did this with was Louise.

“Like, what if he sees that winter will always give way to spring? And what if spring also marks the end of his sentence?”

I crossed my arms and thought. “But look at line seven. ‘The inmate, damned to die there as it were’. Doesn’t sound like he’s ever getting out.”

“Huh, so there’s no room for him to have a happy ending? He was doomed from the start.” She sighed. “I take back what I said. This poem is no good.”

“Ouch. This is my child you’re talking about.”

“The rhythm and rhyme is flawless, but that’s not all poetry is about, right?” The young doctor tilted her head. “A poet’s not a mere technician. He’s a storyteller, an artist. What kind of story stays in one place throughout? Is a block of solid color even art?”

It hurt to have my work criticized — and it was even worse that she had a point — but I defended my vision. “I try to write realistically about life. And in life, people are sometimes doomed to stay in one place. People sometimes can’t help but see everything in one color.”

“Aren’t you just talking about yourself?” My interlocutor chuckled, but not unkindly. “Are you doomed to stay in one place? Do you see everything in one color?”

“Why would you think—” I halted when I saw that I really described myself to a T.

“Don’t you feel like writing realistically is an excuse to self-insert at the expense of the reader?” Charlotte chided. “And since when was writing about life the same as restricting your writing to life? The Stranger and Crime and Punishment wouldn’t exist if literary themes had to align with boring everyday life. Art can be about life, but art isn’t life. And conversely, life can inspire art, but life isn’t art. There are artistic problems, and there are life problems. Treat them separately.”

I sighed, a bit bummed out. “You’re right, I suppose.”

“I’m right, period.” She winked. “So what color is life for you? What’s the only color you see?”

I knew my answer as soon as she asked, but I thought over it to make sure. “Light blue. The same color as the scarf that the woman was wearing yesterday.”

Her eyes widened. After a few seconds of stunned silence, she laughed. “I can’t believe you’re opening up this much to an older lady like me. I feel like a big sister! Or a cool aunt.”

“Again, you’re not that old. What are you, thirty-something?”

“Rude!” She whacked my leg through the bedsheets, prompting me to let out a cry.

“What kind of doctor hits their patient?”

She sulked, and not because of her ethics violation. “Do I really look thirty-something?”

“Is that even such a bad thing?” But, of course, there was no point arguing. “Since you’re a specialist who knows what she’s doing, I figured you had to be in your thirties at least.”

“At least?!” Another whack. “If you must know, I’m twenty-nine. I finished my residency this year.”

“You became a specialist at twenty-nine?!” I stared at the doctor who was even younger and even more impressive than I thought. “That’s insane! Are you a genius or something?”

“Now you’re just flattering me.” She rolled her eyes. “Do the math. I started school when I was six. Then, six years of l’école primaire, five years of l’école secondaire, two years of CÉGEP, four years of medical school, and six years of residency. Did you get that?”

. . . It added up. “So that means you went directly to medical school at nineteen?”

“Is that not how it works in Ontario?”

“Don’t rub it in.” Remembering how hard Tara and I studied to finish all our required OAC credits by the end of the twelfth grade, I made a mental note to raise my future kids in Quebec instead. Vive le Québec libre.

Charlotte grinned. “It looks like Onee-chan has a lot to teach you about our superior province. By the way, you’ve definitely watched Neon Genesis Evangelion, right?”

“Oh-NAY-chahn? Ee-van-what?”

“You don’t watch anime? I was gonna make a reference.” She sighed in disappointment. “Seeing your personality, I totally pegged you as a fellow otaku.”

“Are you talking about Pokémon? I think I saw it on TV once.”

“Ah, forget it.” She waved her hand. “If only you could appreciate my Misato cosplay. I was turning heads at Animethon this year.”

“Animethon? Is that a footrace for hardcore fans of Chinese cartoons?”

“No, it’s a yearly gathering for respectable connoisseurs of Japanese animation. We watch anime together in reserved screening rooms at Concordia University. Maybe we could even expand it into an entire anime convention someday.” She aggressively adjusted her glasses. “The name needs to change, though. I suggested ‘Otakuthon’ to the organizers.”

I guffawed. “Sounds super dweeby to me either way.”

“Well, I hope your writing is doomed to only appear in low-budget indie visual novels,” she snipped back incomprehensibly. “Alas, you’re not a true man of culture. But maybe I can use an example you’ll understand; do you go to the movies much?”

“Only for dates.” I sometimes went with Tara on Tuesdays when tickets were half off; and when I first started dating Louise, I followed the same boring mold. “I prefer renting older movies from Blockbuster.”

“Well, have you watched Pulp Fiction?”

“Nah, not a fan of neo-noir cinema. Didn’t it come out the same year as Schindler's List? That’s all I know about it, besides the gratuitous violence.”

“Tu me niaises? An instant classic, as the critics said in the papers. One of the movies you have to see in theater; maybe they’ll show it at the Forum.” She crossed her legs. “Anyway, the director — Quentin Tarantino — what a weird genius, that guy. It feels like he was trying to piece together a novel on the big screen. Without spoiling anything, much of the story centered around people in washrooms. And somehow, it tied everything together. By the end, it felt like everything ended exactly where it started. Though things are often downright dire for the characters — again, no spoilers — I thought the film was weirdly Zen in its philosophy. Even with all the blood and gore, I felt so serene when the credits rolled. More likely than not, the world will turn upside down when you least expect it. A comet might end human civilization while you’re shitting yourself on the toilet after Mexican night, and there’s nothing you can really do about it. To me, there’s something comforting about that. Things will happen whether or not you seek them out.”

Things will happen whether or not you seek them out. Running away to Montreal was in a way a failed attempt to stop time. While I spent my days hanging around in the Old Port and working in Old Montreal, important developments were bubbling under the surface. Around me, people were quietly struggling with smiles on their faces; back in my hometown, life was beginning to take a tragic turn; inside my heart, feelings for a mere stranger from my past were growing out of control. Time marched on, entropy increased, I inched forward on my artistic and personal journey. In the past few months, things have happened even as I lived each day as virtually the same person from the previous day. Even without a concrete destination in mind, I arrived somewhere all the same.

I gave a half-shrug. “I guess I’d have to watch it to get it.”

“Ben là . . . that’s not humility, you know. It’s the worst kind of arrogance.” She stood up and smoothed out her pants. “Also, Schindler’s List came out in ‘93. Pulp Fiction premiered in ‘94, same year as The Lion King. In case you really didn’t understand what I was getting at, let me simplify: hakuna matata. It’s Swahili for ‘no worries’, as translated by a meerkat and a warthog.”

After the impromptu film analysis by Dr. Charlotte Gagnon, she told me to lay off on the coffee the next day and left me be. I did some reading in the three or so hours before bedtime, entertaining myself by imagining the kinds of psychosexual complexes that the young doctor’s book choices might have revealed. On a cloudy Sunday evening peppered with intermittent snow, Freud was an interesting friend to keep around. While enjoying the last hours of a good day, I realized I likely could have happily lived rent-free in that room forever, were it not for the false name that rang true in my heart. Dawn. Dawn. Dawn. Surely she was out there, waiting for me at Alexandra Basin.

In my dreams that night, I was a Zen monk, meditating in a small mountain temple school while shadowy figures strangled me with their wispy hands. When at last my spirit left my body, I saw that it was a giant lying lifelessly on the ground. Ah, Mr. Tremblay. My new identity. Crossing back over into the waking world, I sat up in my bed, crossed my arms, and laughed heartily. By the time someone came to check on the commotion, I was under my covers, pretending to be asleep. After my heart rate dropped back down, I slipped into my next dream of the night. It was probably something boring like showing up to school naked.

Remember: enough of the usual, and on with the unusual.

The following night, I had a dream of an important memory of the past. Not of the summer cruise in 1992, but of an incident in the autumn six years after that — about half a year before I ran off to Montreal. It was a dark and stormy night in archetypal fashion, and the rain fell in torrents to match. Hiding under a large but flimsy umbrella, Louise and I were huddled close at a crosswalk, waiting for the red hand to turn into a green man. Seeing an opening, my darling Parisienne rose to the balls of her feet and brought her mouth to the side of my neck, where she sucked rather vampirically for a second or two. Then, she fell away to admire her handiwork. A red bruise — a love bite, or un suçon as my adorable assailant would call it — was surely there as a mark of territory. These sorts of displays were definitely part of her irresistible charm; though I would never stray and she likely could care less if I did, she still tantalized me with the idea that she, a woman through and through, craved someone like me. The French réserve I first came to know her by was but foreplay come and gone; aloof pretenses gave way to a youthful passion that burned strong and steady even after four years. As a thank you for the hickey, I pecked her alluring forehead and smelled her dark hair. She smiled and hummed, then grabbed my collar and locked her lips to mine. Ah, young love. Seeing that my umbrella was tipping forward, Louise pulled back and righted the parapluie before resuming her place at my side. She clinged to me a bit tighter than before.

“Regarde, c’est le petit bonhomme.” Louise motioned to the other side of the street. Indeed, a little fellow was displaying on the pedestrian traffic light. After looking both ways, we began our slow shuffle across the wide street. We were unrushed, even when the flashing red hand came on along; in the days before timers on traffic lights, a regular user of a particular intersection developed a “feel” for how much time he had to cross. Back then, I figured out through counting that it took exactly twenty seconds to go from green back to red — a fact that is preserved today at the same place where it happened.

Twenty.

Nineteen.

Eighteen.

Seventeen —

A headlight cut through the pouring rain. Thinking about the way it came, it must have turned left from oncoming traffic; low visibility must have caused the driver to miss the two people crossing the street. An honest mistake, but a fatal one. The car honked its horn, warning us much too late.

Sixteen —

Two small arms pushed me away with all their might. The umbrella dropped from my hands. I stumbled two steps, then tripped over the curb of the median. I landed in grass, my fall broken by the damp dirt.

Fifteen —

A loud crash. I scrambled to get up, but slipped around.

Fourteen —

I got my footing and looked at the scene. My mouth was open, but no sound came out.

Thirteen —

The umbrella lay overturned on the road. Louise was still standing there, as if enjoying the rain. Past her, the front of a car was crumpled against the pole overlooking the start of the crosswalk. It could not have missed by more than the length of a small ruler from a geometry set.

Twelve —

“You almost hit us!” I yelled in the direction of the car when my shock wore off.

Eleven —

“Watch where you’re going, dumbass!”

Ten —

“Get out of there! Step out right this instant!” I marched over to the car in righteous anger.

Nine —

I visualized dragging the driver out of the car and beating their head into the wet pavement. This guy was gonna pay.

Eight —

I wiped the driver’s window with my hand and froze. When I found my voice, I called out to Louise.

Seven —

“We need to get an ambulance.”

Six —

“Come on, get off the road.” I walked toward her.

Five —

“On y va, ma belle.” I grabbed her hand to lead her off the road.

Four —

She did not move. I moved in front of her. “Louise—”

Three.

Vacant eyes and a peaceful smile. Her lips, the soft little things that encouraged me and made love to me, parted slowly.

Two.

“I see you’re alright.”

One —

I wanted to scream and run away, but my legs were fixed in place. Only after the lights changed and cars started honking us would I regain my bearings and get Louise and the umbrella off the road. I would run into a convenience store to call 911, and a few minutes later police would come on scene to provide first aid. We would provide a simple statement to the first responders before being given a ride to Louise’s place by a sympathetic cop. The next day, I would see the local paper on the kitchen table of my parents’ house and would find a motor accident report on the front cover which I would immediately turn over. Though it was obvious from what I saw that rainy day, I would never try confirming what became of that driver who I thought of so wrathfully in what was probably their last moments. All I would do is begin carrying a mobile phone wherever I went, in case there was ever another time where every second mattered.

But right then and there, seeing the rain soak the hair of a smiling Louise convinced me of two things. The first was that I did not know this woman after all. That the pretty shell in the shape of a dark-haired French girl was being piloted by an alien who for her own reasons loved me and supported me as much as a mother would support her child. That as time went on, that love and support would become something that burns my skin and condemns my soul. The second — a much more terrifying thought than even damnation — was that Louise’s days were numbered. That she only temporarily traded places with the driver who almost surely died on an autumn evening. That being by her side would mean having to watch her die young, having her torn away from me too soon.

For the rest of our time together, I would still smile and laugh at her jokes — but my voice would come out a little gentler. I would still enjoy primal, animalistic sex with her — but it would be with tenderness that I envelope her body with mine as I orgasm inside her. I would still hold her in my arms in the early mornings — but I would whisper in her ear a simple “Je t’aime” in place of sweet nothings. I am sure now that Louise sensed these changes; from time to time she flashed me her otherworldly smile, as if signalling to me her awareness. Though I loved her no less, never again could I bear to tarnish her wonderful spirit with the bare touch of mine. Until the day I ran away, I could only handle her with those silk gloves. Because just as Louise’s greatest manifestation of love was her noble self-sacrifice, mine was my cowardly escape from her.

In the same way Catherine earnestly loved her all-powerful God, my love for Louise was always entwined with fear. And it was on that rainy day that I came to fear her. It was because I needed to run away from her that I knew — that I will always know — that I truly loved her.

Zero.

I woke up screaming in a room with a ceiling I did not recognize. Even within the same hospital, there was an unbreakable divide between the familiar and the unfamiliar. And though the unfamiliar could fascinate, it could not comfort. Drowsy with a terrible migraine, I sat up and sobbed with my body curled up into a ball, much to the chagrin of the person who opened the door.

“Cut that out, dude. You’ll mess up the sensors.”

“No, you cut that out. Leave him be.” It was Charlotte’s voice. The door shut firmly.

“He’ll break something if he keeps moving around like that. Let me in.”

“I don’t care. I’ll take care of it.”

“Why’s a doc from respiratory science getting all up in my hair?”

“Why’s a technician talking back to a doctor?” Even through the opaque door, I could practically see her pushing up her glasses.

“I’ll report you to Dr. Ohashi.”

“Oh, Yota? He owes me a few favors from last time. His cherished limited edition Asuka figurine wasn’t something only money could buy.” A menacing pause. “I hope you understand your place. Scram, kiddo.”

After the retreating footsteps were no longer audible, Charlotte entered the room. “Close your eyes. I’m turning on the lights.”

I did as she said, and also quickly covered my face before she flipped the switch. She closed the door behind her and sat on the bed, a bit closer than before. “The first part of the study is done. The results are clear: you have obstructive sleep apnea. A moderate case that can be alleviated by regular use of a positive airway pressure machine. As soon as you calm down, we can start the second part. By adjusting the air pressure, we can best alleviate your symptoms in the long term.”

“Cool,” I replied while suppressing my sobs. I dried my cheeks with my sleeve. With a sigh, Charlotte pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed my face, a gesture which I accepted. Catching a glimpse before she put it away, I saw that the handkerchief had a frilly, feminine design; in one corner were the embroidered initials C.G. I wanted to tease her for it, but could not find it in me. “Thank you.”

“That must have been quite the nightmare. Are you alright, Mr. Jones?” Seeing my embarrassed smile, she squeezed my arm for a second before continuing:

“I’m sure you already noticed, but sleep apnea can give you some pretty vivid dreams. Your body reacts like it’s being suffocated, and the distress can enter into whatever you see during REM sleep. I bet you never forget your bad dreams.”

“I don’t.” I thought for a bit. “But I don’t forget my good dreams, either. Sometimes, in those dreams, it feels like everything will be alright. Like I could accept never waking up again.”

“That’s what I was alluding to on Christmas.” She turned her body, pulling one leg onto the mattress. “I’ll warn you, this next bit is mostly speculation. My own personal hunch with no research to back it up. Ready to hear it anyway?”

“Sure.” I was lying, but I had no other choice. I knew, even without having heard it, that Dr. Charlotte Gagnon would not be wrong.

“Hypoxia-induced euphoria,” she said simply. “When your brain becomes so starved for oxygen that you don’t even care if you die. One of several possible symptoms experienced by military pilots at altitudes of forty-thousand feet, or victims of suicide via inert gas asphyxiation. I learned about it in an article from the National Review. In your case, it’s not impossible that oxygen deprivation is giving you some of the most incredible dreams.”

It made sense to me, except one thing. “An American conservative magazine?” I raised an eyebrow. “Are you into U.S. politics?”

“No, I borrowed a single issue for research— oh—” She cut herself off and bit her lip, as if she did something wrong. “Anyway, I wasn’t finished. The next part is the critical bit: some sleep apnea patients have reported having hallucinations. And although most of them seem to occur at night before falling asleep, it’s possible that you might be having them during the day. Or, at least, I don’t think it’s entirely impossible.”

Something important — an important, vulnerable part of me — was being threatened. “Hallucinations? What do you mean by hallucinations?”

“Sensations that appear to be real but are created within the mind. So, hearing voices in your head, getting a crawling feeling on your skin, or”— she started to lean in for emphasis, but decided against it and stayed where she was —“seeing people who aren’t there.” She looked away. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

I was shaking. “Seeing people who aren’t there? Who could possibly— Dawn?”

“I could be wrong—”

“But do you really believe that?” I gritted my teeth. “Can you honestly say that you’re wrong?”

Silence. One steamboat, two steamboat, three—

“Non.” Charlotte answered firmly. “Though I could never write it down on your medical chart, that’s my best diagnosis.”

All at once, my body relaxed. Rather than feeling anger or sadness, a weight lifted off my shoulders. In truth, I knew all along: Dawn was not real. She never came into the café to chat or play Snake on my Nokia. She never stole food off my plate at Schwartz’s. She never knocked on my door, searching for me when I spent those lonely weeks cooped up in my un et demi. She was never there at the Old Port, happily greeting me as a stranger after seven years apart. Could she really have been a symptom of sleep issues? If there were any way of refuting it, I would have tried. But everything fit with this theory. I needed a distraction, and a distraction I got, in the form of an amnesiac girl with the same appearance as a fondly remembered girl. Seven years ago, I had interpreted the fleeting sight of a beautiful stranger standing before the barricade as a lonely, yearning figure — and that was exactly what she became in my daytime hallucinations. What were the odds of us meeting alone at Alexandra Basin the very morning I decided to go? Why would she be there wearing the same dress and standing in the same place, without anything more to her than whatever I projected onto her? She could effortlessly make references and comments that resonated and rattled my subconscious, because she was my own convenient puppet and mouthpiece all along. All this time, when I thought I found my soulmate in a place far from home, I was really all alone. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself. Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

If I thought about it carefully, it should have been obvious that my sleep has something to do with it. No one around me ever addressed her directly — except Walking Eagle, who thought I was just playing around with an imaginary friend. And I was, but unknowingly — not that it made things any better. She suddenly disappeared after I started falling asleep with a CPAP machine. While I was searching for her, the reactions of everyone around me should have clued me into the fact that I was going a bit crazy. Whether at Génoise et Thé or at the Old Port, I was always seen alone, occupied with my own thoughts. Imagine Mr. Tremblay’s shock when Gale Jones — that brooding loner with nothing to offer the world but pretty, empty, fragile words — came around asking about a girl! And bless his heart, seeing his former employee smash the rest of his own dignity against the wall with his Christmas Day antics. To think that he wished to introduce his own daughter to that shattered work of art. But I could take solace in everyone’s disappointment; at least now there were no expectations of me being anything but a broken vase.

“I’m such an idiot,” I finally said with a chuckle. “Such a complete idiot.”

“Don’t say that, Mr. Jones.” Charlotte grabbed my hand. “You really love her, don’t you?”

“Only an idiot like me would love someone who doesn’t exist.” I laughed with biting humor. “I’m so stupid. All the time I wasted, and for what?”

“Even if she doesn’t exist, your love wasn’t for nothing.” She squeezed until it hurt. “Your love was honest, and it changed you.”

I tried to shake her hand off, but to no avail. “Did you know I had a fiancée back home? She died this month in a car accident, and I only found out until after the funeral. And our child, too—” I began choking up. “I didn’t even know she was pregnant when I left. What a fool I was, leaving on my own on April Fool’s Day like I was clever or something. But isn’t it funny how I only realize how much of a monster I am when I think about the baby I never got to see? It wasn’t like I wasn’t already ruining everything by running away. I screwed everything up from the very start. Yet only now do I even bother thinking about it.”

“. . . I’m so sorry.”

“I bet if Dawn were actually real, I wouldn’t even give a damn about Louise and our kid. I bet I’d still be the callous bastard who left so many good things behind.” My voice cracked. “What am I saying? I’m still that bastard. I’m talking about my dead fiancée, and yet all that’s on my mind is how much I wish Dawn were right here. How much I wish I could tell her that I love the sunrise — that I love her.”

“Mr. Jones!” Charlotte raised her voice. “You weren’t wrong to fall in love with her. You weren’t wrong to fall in love with Dawn.”

“She doesn’t even exist!” I yelled. “She’s just a figment of my imagination! And all because I thought only about her, I hurt so many people! Mr. Tremblay and his daughter, Hortus, Walking Eagle, Selene, Tara, Catherine, my parents — and most of all, Louise. . . . Oh, ma chère Louise . . .” My voice teetered off as the tears flowed.

“Gale, listen to me!” The young doctor grabbed me by the shoulders. “It’s never wrong to love. You weren’t wrong to love Dawn. It doesn’t matter whatever else you did or didn’t do. No matter what, it’s never wrong to love. Because love is never wrong.”

“How could you say that? Just look at how everything turned out for me . . .”

“Love is never wrong.”

“My parents worked so hard for me, and look how I repaid them. . . . Dropping out of school, mooching off of them, then moving away without a word.”

“Love is never wrong.”

“Even though Catherine didn’t approve of me dating her best friend, she tried her best to get along with me. . . . We even became friends, against all odds. . . . But of course I had to ruin it.”

“Love is never wrong.”

“Tara truly believed in me and even offered her support, but I snapped at her for not having time to listen to my woes. . . .”

“Love is never wrong.”

“And who did I think I was, leading Selene on like that?. . . If an abandoned fiancée and an imaginary friend weren’t enough, I had to go ahead and get another innocent person involved.”

“Love is never wrong.”

“And everyone else — Walking Eagle, Hortus, Mr. Tremblay and his daughter . . .”

“Love is never wrong.” To my surprise, Dr. Charlotte Gagnon pulled me into her arms and stroked my hair, like a young mother would — no, like an older sister would. She held me tight, with any professional pretense gone.

“Love can’t be wrong. Love just is. And if something forced to be born into this world can be called wrong, then everything — the sun, the clouds, the earth, the stars, the moon, the sea, the wind — ought to be named as its accomplices. Yes, because as the sun burns, the clouds occlude, the earth quakes, the stars collude, the moon escapes, the sea drowns, the wind shifts, love too has its ups and downs; its little twists of fate and turns of fortune. But that is in its nature; love, ever the chimeric chameleon, can be of any essence or form, of any shape or size. Is that not in love’s nature? Is that not love’s true beauty? And how can we do anything but forgive natural beauty — sympathize with its ephemeral triumph over the grotesque, its pyrrhic victory over the mundane? Because if love could ever be wrong, then life itself is a mistake. So, love can’t be wrong, Gale. Love can’t be wrong.”

“You did seem like the type to wax poetic about love, always sitting alone in that coffee shop.” I controlled my sobs enough to take a jab. “Were you such a philosopher this entire time?”

“Hush, child. Don’t talk back to your elders.” She stopped stroking my hair and gently lowered me down to my pillow. “But between you and me, I met a writer recently. He was a pain in the ass, but seeing him struggle in his craft and yearning to reunite with his love . . . I think seeing that might have left an impression on me, after all. For whatever reason, I’ve become a bit more sentimental. Maybe meeting him saved me, in some weird way.”

I did not say any more. While I lay there, tired from my bout of crying, Charlotte put a mask over my nose and mouth. She patted my head twice. “The CPAP titration will begin as soon as you’ve settled down. Sweet dreams, Gale.”

At some point, the young doctor left the room and the second part of the study began. Based on what she told me the next morning, they woke me up several times during the night to sleep in different positions and try different masks. I remember none of that; as far as I was concerned, as soon as I slipped away into sleep, I warped ahead to the next morning. I had no dreams at all, let alone sweet ones. In the years to come, this would be how my nights went — exactly as they should. My sleep apnea all but went away, thanks to the machine pumping away next to my bed. Only twenty years later, after a malfunction with my CPAP, did I meet the beautiful stranger on the summer cruise once again. For the first time in two decades, I woke up with my heart pounding. As I calmed myself down in the soft light of the dawn before sunrise, those six months before the new millennium came back to me. Quietly, I got out of bed, as to not rouse my sleeping wife. On her forehead, I placed a kiss; I would also plant one on my older son’s forehead right before breakfast, even as he weakly insisted he was too old for that kind of affection. But that would not be for another couple of hours; until then, I went downstairs, made myself a coffee with butter and salt — the “bulletproof coffee” would always remain the “Tremblay special” for me — then sat at the kitchen table and began writing about the most magical time of my life.

The four days between my sleep study and my discharge were spent writing and reading. I would put pen to paper in the mornings, then spend my afternoons and evenings either editing my work or looking through the books I had available. Once I was bored of the stuff Charlotte gave to me, I finally read the Murakami novel from Selene. It was about a man who reunited a girl from his past and almost threw away everything — his wife, his children, even his own life — to be with her. The what-ifs he held in his heart since childhood, the thoughts of what could have been. led him down a path of delirious obsession. For some reason — no, the reason was clear — I was convinced that the girl he was chasing did not actually exist. She must have been but a hallucination, no different than Dawn. Even in fiction, what were the odds that a woman would come back to you after many years, show herself to be everything you ever wanted, then disappear as fast as she appeared? It was plainly nonsensical, and by now I am sure that Murakami-sensei was depicting a philosophical affair rather than a physical one. After I finished reading the novel, I learned from the front matter that the original Japanese text was published in 1992, while the English translation came out in the first half of 1999. Synchronicity once again. The reader may, as they wish, use the many hints I have provided thus far to find the title of the book and perhaps experience for themself the story of a man and his dangerous lover.

I thought quite a lot about the contradiction in my memory of the dance on the cruise ship. How could I square the fact that the 1992 Montreal Fireworks Festival ended a day before Celine Dion’s “Nothing Broken But My Heart” was released in Canada? Despite the mismatched dates, I decided that maybe it was not such a big deal. The easiest explanation was that I remembered the wrong song, or my memory got corrupted over the years. Even if it was definitely “Nothing Broken But My Heart”, maybe there was a leak of the song, or the recording used on the boat was from a live performance of the song that came before the official studio version. And if all else failed, then maybe it did not really matter if the chronology checked out or if every single detail was exactly in place. The point was, I dreamed of a dance with a beautiful stranger, and that dream was one of my most precious memories. Everything else was a distraction from that truth. But now, that truth was out of the grasp of my two small hands. My nights were now empty wastelands, merely portals from night to morning. Thanks to my new well-tuned CPAP machine, I was enjoying the deepest sleep of my life.

Charlotte visited me every day from December 28 to December 31, ostensibly to check for any complications from my Christmas Day dip in Alexandra Basin or from my newly calibrated CPAP. But all she ever did was close the door and talk with me about books, movies, and her beloved anime. How strange was it, that we exchanged more words over three days than we had in the months since I first made her coffee. For so long, I had only known of her, rather than really known her. But only a few conversations later, and the two of us had made up more than enough for lost time. Before dinner on the fourth and last day, New Year’s Eve, I asked her a question as she barged in and plopped down next to me on the bed.

“Say, Charlotte. Won’t you get in trouble for being all over me?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She leaned an arm on my shoulder. “I’m a normal doctor checking in on a problem patient.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve stopped correcting me when I say your name. Or that I’m no longer Mr. Jones.” I slung my arm around her waist. “We’re totally best friends now, ma petite Charlotte.”

“Leave that for after you get out,” Charlotte said while pinching my sides until I took my arm away. “Then Onee-chan can show you all her favorite anime. I’ll start you off with Cowboy Bebop.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Seriously, though, aren’t you worried about what the other staff think? Like, during the sleep study—”

“Don’t worry, Yota’s got a guy dealing with the footage.” She grinned. “Better for you, too; you really cried a river in there.”

“I feel bad for Yota, having to do your bidding.”

“Maybe I’ll invite him along for our next watch party. He’s pretty hilarious after two cans of Sapporo.” Charlotte became more serious. “I won’t be staying long today; I’m here to tell you that you’re being discharged tomorrow. You’ll likely be able to leave by noon.”

“I’m guessing you won’t be seeing me off tomorrow?”

“I’m not even supposed to see you off today.” Only then did I notice that she was not wearing her usual white doctor’s coat. “I’m off for the rest of today and tomorrow. I wanted to stop by and tell you the good news before the nurse does.”

“Good news, huh.”

“It might not have been my place, but”— the young doctor stood up —“I gave that gentle giant Mr. Tremblay a call. He said he’ll be here to pick you up tomorrow.”

My jaw dropped slightly. “Do you mean—”

“He said he’ll take you in for a while. Until you get back on your feet.” She pushed up her glasses. “You’ve got people looking out for you, Gale. Everyone has their own shit going on, so it’s a precious thing when one can have the other’s back.”

I grimaced. “Looks like I’ll need to learn how to repay the favor.”

“I think you’ve more than got the hang of it.” She tousled my hair. “You might not realize it, but people save each other simply by being there. That’s how you saved me, after all. First by making my coffee, then by being my patient.”

“Yeah, yeah.” A smirk appeared on my face. “Best of luck with your man tonight.”

Charlotte groaned and took her hand away. “I guess it was pretty easy to figure out.”

“You bet it was.” I snickered. “You were working all throughout the holidays, including Christmas, and now you suddenly decide to take tonight and tomorrow off? Quite suspicious. I’m guessing that means things are turning up between you and whoever gave you that handkerchief?”

“Shush, mon grand. That’s for grownups.” She blushed as she retrieved the ornithology manual back from the cardboard box. “He’ll probably be missing this.”

“Maybe take this with you, too.” I handed her the pop psychology book on relationships. “Stop working so much and he’ll lay off with the birds. Reread chapters four and seven to remind yourself. You might not need to, though, seeing all that yellow highlighter.”

“Tu n'es pas hors de propos . . .” She chuckled as she pushed it away. “But I won’t be needing it anymore. Maybe study it yourself and seduce Mr. Tremblay’s daughter. She’s quite the lookalike to Dawn, isn’t she?”

“A dead ringer, to be honest.” I sighed as I took it back. I opened to the front cover and pulled out a half-sheet of lined paper, which I sheepishly gave to her. “I was hoping to surprise you with this. I’ll just read it for you now.”

With concrete cruelty, blocking out the light,

Three walls contain a lonely, languid man. A fourth, who understands the convict’s plight, Felt pity since his jailorship began. One privilege he grants the prisoner: His window shows the falling snow outside. The inmate, damned to die there as it were, Saw through the winter landscape’s bitter pride.

Though ice and hail may yet be long in store,

A day must come where everything will melt.

The spring itself lasts not forevermore,

But he shall linger on, his presence felt.

The smile worn proudly by his still remains Declares him free, relieved of heavy chains.

When I finished, Charlotte smiled wide with a shimmer in her eye. “Spring came after all. I love it; thank you, Gale.” She folded up the poem and tucked it in the ornithology book, then bent down for a hug. This time, I reciprocated and put my own arms around her. For an only child like me, this may have been the first time I felt sisterly love. Onee-chan held me for a while, then started laughing. “I’ll be late.”

“You should get going. Let’s talk more next time.”

She nodded and pulled away. “I’ll be sure to introduce you after I patch things up. Be a good boy while staying over at Tremblay’s. I’ll be in touch in a few days.”

“Yes, big sister. Happy New Year, Charlotte.”

“Bonne annee, mon grand.” She beamed, then leaned in for la bise. Left, right, then a quick one on my forehead. Even while I wrote before and after dinner, when she was long gone, I was riding off the joy of my first taste of a sibling relationship. Maybe life was alright as long as I could make sure at least one twenty-nine-year-old woman never uses her knowledge of hypoxia-induced asphyxiation. If nothing else, I could focus my energies on making one Dr. Charlotte Gagnon just a little happier. Make her coffee until she prefers it to tea, learn about her geeky hobby, enjoy her company. I would learn later on, thanks to a drunk Dr. Yota Ohashi during a karaoke session at our second private otakuthon, that the Japanese term for people like me was shisukon — or “sis-con”. Oh well, nothing to be ashamed of. A big sister is all I need, I would reply while picking up the microphone and singing “A Cruel Angel's Thesis” completely out of tune. I could not be bothered with the plebeian opinions of an Asuka fan, anyway. Misato is best girl, end of story.

It was sometime right before eight o’clock that evening that I got a visitor. This time, when I saw her light brown hair, hazel eyes, and blue scarf, I kept my cool. It isn’t her, Gale. It isn’t her.

“Hi, Gale.” Tremblay’s daughter came into my hospital room and shut the door behind her. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, not at all.” I hastily put away my notebook and loose papers. “Are Mr. Tremblay and Hortus here, too?”

“Nope, just me. I hope that’s okay.” She strode toward the bed and moved my backpack from the only chair in the room to the floor. “I’ll be seating myself.”

“Ah, sorry.” I apologized reflexively, feeling a bit ashamed that I did not properly welcome her in. Seeing her bold mannerisms and confident way of speaking reminded me that she was only a look-alike. She was not Dawn, and Dawn was not her. I had to keep that in mind, no matter how the mere sight of the color of her scarf wringed my heart.

“Can you believe visiting hours end at eight on weekdays? You’d think they’d be a bit more flexible, seeing that it’s a holiday.” She crossed her arms. “But no, it’s Friday as usual for them. I had to promise the lady at the front desk that I had something important to tell you in person.”

“Something important?”

“In short, I paid your rent for you. For December and January. Papa would have done it himself, but he’s been short on cash. So I—”

“Did he ask you to do this for me?” I jumped in. “You really didn’t—”

“I chose to do it myself. Papa would never ask such a thing of me, even if I’m his daughter.” She sighed, a hint of embarrassment sneaking into her voice. “He still doesn’t know that I went to see your landlord. Not that he knows that I’m here, either. As far as he knows, I’ve been ducking out to visit friends. Don’t get the wrong idea, though! I’m just une bonne samaritaine checking on someone in need, got it?”

I was as confused as I was moved. Only long after would I learn the Japanese word that perfectly described people like her.

“Did you sneak out by yourself on New Year’s Eve to tell me all this? Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow?”

“That wasn’t why I came.” She leaned in. “That was my convenient excuse. Really, I’m here to ask you some questions in private.”

“Questions?”

“Since we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the next while, I wanted to get some stuff out of the way and have you clear up some things. Namely, the way you acted during our first meeting.”

“I see.” I grimaced, thinking back to my outburst. “I’m really sorry about my behavior. I mistook you for someone else, and I wasn’t thinking straight when I saw you and Mr. Tremblay together. Since you already paid my rent anyway, I’ll go back to my place instead of troubling you more.”

“Apology accepted, offer rejected.” She looked me right in the eye. “You know what Papa told me? You never call that un et demi of yours home. It’s always ‘my place’, nothing more. Does that sound about right?”

It did, but I could not understand why she cared. “How does any of this concern you? Why let a crazy stranger like me disrupt your holidays?”

“Papa considers you his friend, and I trust his judgment. He has a good eye for character, you know.” She looked away, seeming quite embarrassed. “Everything I said to you on Christmas? Please forget all of it. I was mad, that’s all. Everyone deserves to be saved.”

I chuckled, though my cheeks were also turning red from my beautiful savior’s apology. To think that I would receive an apology from the woman who saved me from drowning. “As if I’d ever let myself forget that Hortus says nice things about me behind my back.”

“He’s a cute kid at heart. I think he sees you as an older brother figure.” She smiled. “He says he wants to keep an eye on you while you’re staying over, but really I think he wants the chance to talk to you more. You’ll stay with him in the room he uses now and then, so don’t worry about troubling anyone.”

I recalled all those times Mr. Tremblay teased Hortus about his daughter. That means— oh. He and I are more alike than I thought, seeing our taste in women. Maybe she has not noticed his affections, yet? With a shiver down my spine, I realized that he might have really wanted to observe my every move. He could not allow a strange man to live under the same roof as his crush, after all. And he would be right if he guessed that this girl was totally my type.

“I have a feeling that Hortus might strangle me in my sleep.”

“Nonsense. He’d fight you fair and square.” She laughed in a way that reminded me of a certain former café owner. But then, her face turned serious. “We don’t have much time. I promised to get out of here at eight.”

I nodded. “Ask anything you want.”

She gulped before saying her question. “Who’s Dawn?”

I told her everything — about the beautiful stranger I danced with on the summer cruise seven years ago, about losing sight of her during the fireworks, about catching a glimpse of her at Alexandra Basin. Then, I recounted the events of the past six months: I reunited with the beautiful stranger at the place where I last saw her, and promised to help her find her name. I met with her before dawn every morning at the Old Port, and worked at Génoise et Thé during the day as my excuse for being in Old Montreal. I waited for her at La Ronde, but spent the day with my ex-girlfriend instead. Sometime later, I went on a date with an Australian tourist, and fell asleep with her in my studio apartment. I locked myself away for weeks with my computer and CPAP, then shared a dance with the beautiful stranger at the Old Port. She disappeared, and winter came before I knew it. I tried calling my fiancée at a time of need, and found out she died with our newborn child in a car crash. I had too much to drink on Christmas and fell into Alexandra Basin. And finally, Charlotte helped me realize that I was never reunited with that beautiful stranger after all.

After I finished telling the story, my attentive listener opened and shut her mouth over and over. No words came out, but what words were there to say? Even I have no idea what to think, now that I laid out the entire series of events in front of me. If I had to assign a genre to a novel with this exact story, what would I choose? Romance? Mystery? Psychological? Tragedy? Comedy, if one emphasized the absurdities abound. Maybe if left to age, it would even fit the bill as a work of historical fiction. In any case, the way I relayed the story to Tremblay’s daughter, with all the times I retraced my steps and appended new material when convenient, certainly held little literary value. And yet, she was deep in thought, trying to find something — anything — to say.

“This might sound crazy,” she began slowly, “but I knew I met you somewhere before. I felt it as soon as I met you on Christmas morning.”

My heart all but leapt out of my chest. I dared not assume what she was saying. “What do you mean?”

“When you described that past memory of yours — that dance on the summer cruise — it sounded so familiar. And when I think about it, everything seems to fit. My memory might be failing me, but”— she gulped again —“I think I was the one you danced with on that boat. No, I’m sure of it. We definitely shared a dance in the summer after I finished CÉGEP. It was the last song before the fireworks started.”

Once she said it, I knew she was right. After six months of delusion, I finally met the girl from my dreams. What were the odds? Less than one in fifteen thousand people are struck by lightning in their lifetime, and I was convinced that this once-in-a-lifetime reunion was even less likely than that. To think that my life would be saved by the same girl who haunted my dreams — and in the same place where I last saw her seven years prior, all thanks to the actions I took after meeting Dawn. But unlike the figment of my imagination who was always at the Old Port looking out at the water, the woman sitting before me was a living, breathing human being. She had a past, a present, and a future. Surely, in the seven years since that dance on the boat, she had her own share of trials and tribulations. At some point she left Montreal and I took her place, strangers passing through a rotating door. She came back to Montreal for the winter holidays, returning home for the first time in months. And somehow, as fate would have it, her dear Papa asked her to look for a former employee named Gale who frequented the Old Port before sunrise. She arrived to find a man hanging off the barricade, and was shocked to recognize a familiar face from the past.

“If it was the summer after CÉGEP for you, then that means you’re two years older than me.”

“Yeah, I do remember thinking you might have been younger than me. I was worried my classmates would tease me about it.”

“To be fair, you and I probably looked around the same age back then.”

“I did look young for my age, yeah. But I totally embrace it.” She smirked. “Maman was a total pitoune even in her forties, and everyone says I inherited her beauty.”

“Do they also say you take after your father in mannerisms?”

She raised her fists. “You wanna fight, my guy?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Before she could object to my conclusion, I changed the subject. “I have three questions for you. Can you answer them for me as best as you can?”

She grunted. “Fine.”

“First: are you sure you’re not a ghost?”

“What kind of a question is that? Ghosts don’t exist.”

“Just kidding.” I smiled as if I was joking, though I was secretly relieved. “Second: what were you thinking about while looking out at the water?”

“Quoi? Ask that in a way that actually makes sense.”

“The night we shared a dance, I saw you looking out at the waters of Alexandra Basin all by yourself while your friends were walking ahead of you. What were you thinking about?”

“How the hell would I know? That was literally seven years ago.” She rolled her eyes, then looked away. “But maybe I was thinking about the future. Back then I was feeling lost about what to do. I was the same as now, in other words.”

I nodded, satisfied with her answer. The loneliness I saw was real, after all.

“Or maybe I was thinking of jumping in,” she added hastily. “Seeing the Saint Lawrence River might have made me want to take a dip. It’d been a while since I swam, or did anything particularly exciting.”

“I guess you got your wish, then?”

“Ugh, the water was so cold. Never again. And you should have seen the way the officers were looking at me after. They were totally ogling me, those damned pigs. Anyway,” she pivoted. “What’s your third question?”

“My third question . . .” I paused. “Do you know which song we were dancing to on that night?”

She huffed. “Do you expect me to remember things like that? Sacrament.”

“So, you don’t know?”

Her cheeks turned pink. “ ‘Nothing Broken But My Heart’ by Celine Dion.”

I grinned, overjoyed that I was not going crazy after all. “That’s what I thought, too. But get this: that song was released the day after the dance on the boat. The last day of the Montreal Fireworks Festival was on August 2, and the song was released on August 3.”

“I don’t know if I’m seriously impressed or seriously creeped out,” she said flatly. “Does trivia like that even matter? Don’t get so hung up on it.”

“Coming from someone who also remembered the song after all these years— ouch!”

As I soothed the spot on my shoulder where she whacked me, she distracted me from the topic at hand. “Speaking of songs. I heard that you knew the name of the composer of the violin piece from that broken record we keep in the store.”

I nodded, recalling the time Mr. Tremblay put Salut d’amour on the old turntable. “Yes. Edward Elgar.”

“You might be able to help me with something, since you seem more knowledgeable about classical music.” She looked at me expectantly. “Do you know of an art song by Elgar titled The Wind at Dawn?”

Why was that name so familiar? I scratched my head. In fact, how did I even know that the violin piece from the record was by Elgar? Almost everything I knew about classical music came from Louise, and I did not recall her telling me anything about Salut d’amour. Maybe she played me another piece by Elgar? Wait—

“Take the Walkman out of my backpack and rewind it.”

Though confused, she reached down and pulled out the portable audio player. She rewound the cassette, then unplugged the earphones and hit “Play”. Out of the speakers of the Walkman came Louise’s piano playing. Though to me it was a familiar tune I used to lull me to sleep, Tremblay’s daughter looked at me with awe.

“This is it! This is The Wind at Dawn. But there’s no one singing the vocal line . . .” Her voice trailed off, but started anew. “Is this an accompaniment track? Why would you have this with you?”

“This is my fiancée playing. Maybe she recorded an accompaniment for one of her vocal students? She’s quite the pianist. Or was, I should say.” I smiled sadly, and she nodded without prying. “I used to listen to her play all sorts of music I’ve never heard of, but now this is all I have left. It’s the only cassette I own at all, actually.”

“Tu me niaises. . . . This is nothing short of a miracle,” she said under her breath, more to herself than to me. “If only Maman were around to see this day.”

“Is there something special about this piece?” I inquired, not grasping the significance.

“The record was a collection of many different pieces by Edward Elgar. One of them was The Wind at Dawn.” She closed her eyes. “The jacket and inserts are long gone, but Maman once told me that The Wind at Dawn and Salut d’amour are sister pieces. When Edward got engaged to his eventual wife Alice, he received a present from her: an old poem she wrote which she had re-titled ‘Love’s Grace’ for the occasion. He liked it so much that he not only set it to music under its original title, but also wrote a piece for violin and piano as a present in return — ‘Love’s Greeting’. According to the booklet, the two pieces even have some important musical similarities.”

“That would explain my lucky guess,” I chuckled. “I honestly had no idea that the two pieces were linked.”

“After the record broke, Maman searched every vinyl store in town for another copy. When she couldn’t find one, she tried to at least find another recording of The Wind at Dawn. But it turns out that while Salut d’amour is now a famous work performed by many famous musicians, its sister work is virtually unknown. She looked everywhere, but could never find another performance of it.” She played with her hair as she continued. “She told me, isn’t it sad that only one half of the love story is being told these days? All we have now is Edward’s reply to Alice, while her original poem and the tune it was set to are virtually forgotten. And so, Maman chose to hum the forgotten tune, right up until the day she died.”

I nodded. “That’s a wonderful story. It’s sad that Alice has not been remembered like her husband has.”

“From my own research, I learned that she married Edward while he was still unknown. She was from an aristocratic family, while he was the son of a shopkeeper. They fell in love while she was studying the piano under his tutelage.” She wrinkled her nose. “Glossing over the naughty details, it seemed that Alice completely believed in her teacher’s talent as a composer. She even allowed herself to be disowned from her family to be with him. So I doubt she would especially mind history remembering only her husband; she wrote in her diary that the care of a genius is enough of a life work for any woman. Not very féministe, but it is what it is.”

“It is what it is,” I agreed with a laugh, imagining how Selene would react to that.

Tremblay’s daughter hit the “Pause” button. “Mother left me that broken record after she passed away. And so, it happens to be that the only piece on the only record I own is a reply to the only piece on the only cassette you own. Something like this can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

“It can.” As much as I wanted to revel in the wonderful synchronicity, I did not allow myself that indulgence. “Things like this happen without any real meaning behind it.”

“But can’t we all decide for ourselves what’s meaningful and what’s not?” She crossed her arms. “Aren’t you an up-and-coming writer? It’s your job to draw out the hidden meaning behind this kind of thing.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m nowhere close to as good at writing as Mr. Tremblay makes me out to be. I don’t think he’s even read anything I wrote.”

“If Papa believes in you, I’ll believe in you, too. I can’t let my old man look like an idiot alone, yeah?” She laughed like a Tremblay, but quickly glanced at the clock on the wall. “Tabarnouche, I’ve got to get going before the staff kick me out. Can I take this Walkman back with me tonight? I want to listen to it again at home, while reading Alice’s lyrics.”

I smirked. “Only if you promise to sing it for me tomorrow.”

“Tu rêves, là!” She raised her fists again, but laughed. “I’ll consider it if you write a book about everything you told me. I can see it already: Gale and Dawn meet at the Old Port to fulfill the agreement that binds them. I have a title for it, too: The Wind at Dawn. Doesn’t it fit perfectly?”

Montreal, 1999. A struggling writer goes to the Old Port and meets a amnesiac stranger who he ostensibly danced with seven years ago. Under the pretext of a promise, they begin meeting every morning at Alexandra Basin, to help him fall in love with the sunrise and help her find her name. And he, as if carried there by the wind at dawn, always finds himself at the same place come sunrise.

“No one would read that,” I said while shaking my head. “It’d be way too boring.”

“Well, that all depends on how you write it. Our grand artiste will find a way, I bet.” She stood up and slipped the cassette Walkman into her coat pocket. “How about making that our own little promise? I’ll sing that song for you the day you get around to writing that novel about Dawn. I can’t be her replacement, but I can be myself right to the end. Does that sound alright to you?”

“I’ll credit you for the title when the time comes.” I grinned. “But don’t expect it anytime soon.”

“It won’t be by the end of this century, that’s for sure. But I’m ready to wait as long as it takes.” She smiled and waved, signalling the end of my first real conversation with the girl from my dreams. “We’ll talk more in the next millennium, Gale Jones.”

But seconds later, as she put her hand on the doorknob — right as it sank in that I would not see her until the New Year — a stream of questions pouring out of my mouth.

“How have you been doing all these years? What have you been thinking and reading? Who has made you smile and cry? Where did you travel and fall asleep? Why are you back in Montreal? When will you be leaving again? Will you really keep your promise?”

She turned around and smiled dangerously. “You really have some nerve, don’t you? Asking me so many questions before the question that should have come first.”

I, caught off guard, drew a blank. “Huh?”

“My name, doofus. You have no idea what my name is, do you?

I hesitated. “I guess I don’t. Besides that you’re a Tremblay, I know nothing.”

“You know nothing, period.” She scowled. “My parents were never legally married, you know. I go by Maman’s surname.”

I sighed. “I really know nothing after all. What’s your name, then?”

“Too bad. Three questions is all you get for today.” She smirked and opened the door. “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow. When, in front of Papa and Hortus, I’ll formally introduce myself to you.”

“Oh, come on!” I griped. “What’s the big deal?”

“You’ve waited almost seven and a half years. What’s one more day?”

“Without your name, what part of you belongs to me?” I echoed Dawn’s fears from six months ago. “Without your name, what part of me belongs to you?”

“I suppose I’ll offer you a piece of advice for dealing with the fairer sex.” She turned back and winked. “Liste, don’t ask. For a woman’s got secrets, you see!”