Well, there you go...I don't consider this blog to have gone completely dark, yet, though it certainly is as dim right now as the red star around which orbits Earth Two. Still, I'll try to give some news if anything exciting happens while I go about rewrites and such. Until then, feel free to...oh, wait, someone commented on my facebook photos! See ya!
Is there anyone out there?
[cricket sounds, tumbleweed rolls by]
Just in case any one still drops by to check updates, or ends up here after a Google search, I'd like to apologize for this blog having gone dark. To tell you the truth, I thought there'd be more to say about the process of writing a novel...but it seems most of the writing has in fact been done on the book, and very little on the blog. That, and facebook ate my blog.
Okay, facebook did not literally eat my blog, but let's just say finding old friends and reading about what they are doing has taken over much of my non-productive time (fortunately, it hasn't impacted the actual writing of the novel). If you're not on facebook yet, I'm hesitant to tell you to register, as it can become a inescapable inter-dimensional prison akin to the flying rectangle that trapped General Zod and his cohorts. Enter at your own risk.
If you already are on facebook, though, send me a friend request! I really want to know what you're up to, and see your photos!
Apologies aside, I'd feel bad about not giving any info about where the project's at, so here goes:
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Facebook Ate My Blog
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Quebec, Quebec
As previously mentioned, I'm back in my hometown of Quebec City, writing from the St-Jean-Baptiste Public Library, which is situated inside the old St. Matthew Anglican church (next to one of the oldest cemeteries in the city, as it happens). This is a beautiful place to write, in one of the most beautiful cities in North America. This is a good place to start chapter 85, which I needed to change after realizing that I'd already told all that was supposed to be in it back in chapter 83. Oh well, back to the drawing board! I suppose it's my fault for wanting to have precisely one hundred chapters (there's a reason for this, by the way, but I'll let the readers figure it out for themselves...)
Sometimes, when I tell people I'm from Quebec City, I get asked if I ever plan on coming back to live here. That question always makes me a little uncomfortable, because I'm always afraid the answer (which is, "probably never") will be misinterpreted. I grew up in Quebec, it's a city that I know very well, and it is indeed beautiful. The St-Jean-Baptiste neighborhood is culturally vibrant, and the Summer Festival is one of the best music festivals out there (better than the Jazz Festival or the Francofolies). Still, when I come back these days, I simply don't feel like I'm home anymore. As much as this may disappoint some of the family and friends still living here, I must conclude that I'm now a Montrealer through and through.
It's hard to say exactly when the switch occurred, or what caused it. I do miss a few things when I come here, such as the fact that there are so few people of other ethnic backgrounds on the streets, or that there's no subway (apparently, the rock on which Quebec was built is too hard to be dug out at an affordable price). Perhaps it's because I associate living on my own with Montreal, while Quebec City represents my younger years, forever lost as time rushes by. In any case, I still love the city, and the fact that I feel a bit more like a tourist whenever I visit isn't necessarily a bad thing, as I find that I appreciate its unique beauty (and changing cityscape) more than I perhaps would if I was still living here. For whatever that's worth, I'm happy to be here today, and to begin a new chapter of my book in such inspiring surroundings.
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Saturday, August 4, 2007
Free
As I write these words, I'm on day 4 of my long-awaited sabbatical leave. I would have written this entry on the first day - and in fact that was my intention - but the first three days of my vacation turned out to revolve solely around sleeping, eating and going to the movies (in this case, the Simpsons and the last Harry Potter). I didn't produce a single line, save perhaps few e-mails here and there. Only today did I, beset by all manners of remorse, finally sat down to continue writing, restructuring the events of some of the recent chapters as well as pushing the current one forward. The final result was not a great gain in overall completion (barely pushing past the 205,000 words mark), but fixing up quite a few things that had been bothering me lately.
I have to admit I'm still having a hard time realizing that I won't be coming back to work in the coming days. I've been working full-time for the past ten years, now. This is clearly going to take some adjusting to. On Wednesday, day one, I was so restless I actually did some cleaning around the house. Those who know me will likely be surprised by this, but I think I needed to clean stuff around to clean stuff inside...in fact, I'll be doing more tidying up as the weeks come, and I get to scratch out items from my long-standing "to do" list (such as getting a driver's license, for example).
Of course, all of that comes after the book. I must maintain the discipline acquired over the past two years, even if I no longer have the framework of a 9-to-5 job to prop me up. I feel like I'm at the top of a cliff, holding fast the bar of an airglider, ready to jump. It's kind of scary, but also exhilarating. I owe it to myself to make the most of the ride.
Off-topic: articles about my grandfather and his culinary invention popped up in Quebec City's Le Soleil last week, as well as Le Journal de Montréal today. I think a certain reader of this blog is somewhat responsible for the flow of this information, and for that I'm very grateful. Un grand merci à toi, mon grand! ;-)
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Tuesday, July 24, 2007
An update long overdue
Hey everyone, just a quick word to say that, yes, I'm still around, and yes, the blog is still alive (though obviously not very active, the last entry being three months old). What can I say...time flies when you're trying to write your first novel and finish the development of a video game at the same time.
As it is, work has been extremely busy since April, but I've managed to write a few chapters more. I'm currently at 204,915 words, and starting chapter 84, which means I've only got 16 more to go! I've also been pulling more hours at work, but the good news is that I'm leaving for my five-month sabbatical in just seven days! I'll definitely write more entries as I enter the fabled land of full-time writing (and revising).
I'll also be spend a couple of weeks travelling in August and September. Right now the plan is to go to Quebec City to spend some time with my family, then go sailing with my friends for a couple of days, then I'm probably off to Sardinia for a week or two, and then another yet-to-be-determined European destination (I'm partial to Istanbul myself). So for a few weeks this literary blog will become a travel blog of sorts, though always from the writer's point of view.
On a sad note, I learned yesterday that my grandfather, René Brousseau, passed away on Sunday night. He was a gentle, quiet man who had lived through many hardships, including the death of his first wife and daughter. He also had a claim to fame in being the inventor of the Mae West cake, an iconic part of Quebec's snack food heritage. He never spoke much, but his easygoing disposition and cheerful outlook on life made everyone like him. He will be fondly remembered.
Bye, grand-papa...dis bonjour à grand-maman pour moi.
Photo: René Brousseau in St-Siméon-de-Bonaventure, ca. 1940
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Sunday, April 29, 2007
Demons and such, chap. 7-10
7 “Gauthier,” the Chief’s voice said on the intercom, “my office. Now.” For five years the demon Arhiman kept a discreet yet vigilant eye on little Anaxana, watching her as she grew up, without ever arousing the suspicion of the priestesses that raised her. Patrick Gauthier stared at the acoustic ceiling tiles of his office, counting them over and over. He often did this when trying to wrap his mind a particularly challenging problem. The Jacques-Cartier bridge surveillance tape has turned an already-delicate case into a minefield. There was the definite possibility that the minister’s daughter had not been kidnapped, but rather was a willing participant in her own abduction. That would explain why there never were any ransom demands. For almost two days Archie had holed up in his sparsely furnished apartment, incapable of going out. He knew it was only a matter of time before the landlord showed up. He had prepared a suitcase with all the things that were dear to him, letters, photographs and such. For two days he waited, but no one came. As the fear and shocked subsided, Archie found himself increasingly hungry and restless. 
Following the first excerpt of the novel's first draft, here are the next four chapters, which introduce some more characters, including Ghislain Barbe's quirky William Reynolds (a younger version of him pictured at right).
I'm still playing with the idea of eventually putting up the book's entire first part (34 chapters) on this web site. I don't want to give away the entire book - which is not even done in the first place - but it's interesting to get feedback on how the story begins. Please feel free to post any comments you may have about these few chapters, even if you didn't like them!
Lieutenant-detective Patrick Gauthier sighed and got up from his office chair, picked up the Dumont case folder and walked towards the Chief’s office. The Major Crimes division was relatively quiet on this Tuesday afternoon, but by the sound of the Chief’s voice it might have been the calm before the storm.
As he passed next to the department’s secretary desk, she waved to him. She was a large woman in her early 50s, always smiling but with a razor-sharp tongue. He always made certain to remain in her good graces. An angry Chief he could handle – she was something else entirely.
“Hey Josephine, how are you this morning.”
“Why, very well, thank you sweetie. Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a Mr. Reynolds here to see you. He’s been waiting for 20 minutes.”
“Reynolds? Who is he?”
The secretary shrugged.
“He said he had a meeting with you at 10. He did look kind of familiar. I think I’ve seen him around here before. Maybe he’s from Ottawa. He speaks French with a cute English accent.”
“Is it the Mounties?” Patrick asked, referring to the federal police force.
“I don’t know, dear. He doesn’t look like a cop or politician, he seems more like a professor or something. He reminds me a bit of Woody Allen.”
“Well, I don’t know any Reynolds,” Patrick said with a smile, “so he’ll have to wait some more.”
He continued towards the Chief’s office. Coming up to the door, he suddenly felt a cold chill down his spine. He knew that feeling all too well. Something was going on. He knocked on the door.
“Come in!”
Patrick opened the door and walked in. The Chief wasn’t alone. Sitting right across from him was Pierre Dumont, Lysanne’s father and the current Minister of Indian Affairs and Northern Development of Canada. He got up and stretched his hand out.
“Patrick. How good to see you.”
“Minister,” Patrick replied, shaking the minister’s hand.
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Pierre.”
The Chief cleared his throat. He clearly disliked the privileged ties between his investigator and the embattled politician that could still make or break his career. The Chief had political ambitions of his own, and Dumont was the real deal, an experienced power broker in the halls of parliament.
“Well, everyone here is on a tight schedule, so let’s cut to the heart of the matter. Gauthier, the minister has some important news regarding the case.”
Patrick looked surprised.
“Really?”
“My daughter’s alive, Patrick.”
“That’s wonderful news, minister! Were you contacted by the kidnappers?”
“Well...no, not exactly.”
The Chief cut in.
“Why don’t we show lieutenant-detective Gauthier the tape, minister?”
“Of course, of course.”
The Chief picked up the remote and pointed it at the monitor next to this desk. After a little bit of static, an image came on. It was a surveillance camera filming the sidewalk on some kind of highway – or bridge, rather.
“These images were captured by the Jacques-Cartier bridge security cameras last night,” the minister explained. “This is from one of the central cameras, near the St-Helen’s Island access.”
Gauthier looked at the black and white video. Cars sped by but there was nothing else of interest. He then noticed a couple on the sidewalk, some hundred feet or so, walking towards the camera. A tall man wearing what looked like an expensive suit, and a blond girl in a black skirt, fishnet stocking and a jean jacket. The girl seemed a bit drunk, as she sometimes stumbled.
As the couple came close to the camera, the girl gave a quick look at it. The Chief rewound the tape and freeze-framed it at the precise moment when the girl looked into the camera.
There was no doubt about it. This face he had seen countless times over the past sixteen weeks. They were all looking at Lysanne Dumont, the minister’s daughter.
“Do you see, Patrick? Lysanne’s alive. She’s alive!” the minister said, his voice cracking a little bit.
Patrick nodded. He wanted to remain as professional as he could in front of the Chief.
The minister wiped a budding tear from his eye and shook his head.
“Did any other cameras catch them?”
“Unfortunately, no,” the minister continued. “The surveillance system was on maintenance that night. Only two cameras were working, and this is the only one that saw them. All we know is that they were walking north, into the city.”
“We’ll have to search the area for possible clues.”
“Already done,” the Chief said. “I had Vincent comb the place last night. They found nothing of note.”
“I see.”
Patrick opened up the Dumont file took some notes on the back of a case report summary. This was a major development, but it did raise some worrying questions. The tape clearly showed that Lysanne wasn’t trying to escape her companion, and in fact leaned on him once or twice.
“We’ll need to identify the man walking with her, see if he’s in our files.”
“Patrick...” the minister hesitated.
“Yes?”
“On that tape, Lysanne looks a bit...strange...”
“We believe that the minister’s daughter may have been drugged by her captors,” continued the Chief as the minister’s face sunk in his hands.
Patrick put his pen down.
“That seems likely. However...”
The minister looked up at Patrick.
“What is it?”
“Well, minister, you’ll have to start considering the possibility that this may not be a kidnapping at all. We must also consider that your daughter may be a willing participant in her current situation.”
Letting out a grunt, the Chief laid back in his chair. The minister straightened himself and took on a somber tone.
“Patrick, you know that such a prospect is unacceptable for a man in my position...”
“Well, we have to...”
“Do you know what would happen to me if word came out that my daughter has fallen in with the wrong crowd? I’m already in enough trouble as it is...”
The minister sighed, then carried on.
“Tell me, Pat, why do you think I was given Indian Affairs in the last cabinet shuffle?”
Patrick didn’t know. He had never taken much interest in politics. He knew a shuffle meant that ministers traded places, and that some won and others lost.
“Let me enlighten you about being the Minister of Indian Affairs and Northern Development, Patrick. It’s nothing but a bureaucratic nightmare and a political dead end. I was supposed to get Foreign Affairs or Justice. Hell, I would have settled for Intergovernmental Affairs, or even Transport.”
“What happened?”
“As you may know the Prime Minister has announced that he’ll be retiring in nine months, and I’ve made no secret of my plans to run for the party’s leadership. There are some within the caucus that say that my ambitions are hurting the party. Somehow they convinced the Prime Minister to punish me for this, by giving me the job no one else wants.”
“You’re still a minister,” Patrick said.
“Barely. I think my rivals wanted me to stay in the caucus so they could further enjoy my humiliation.”
He took a pause, glancing at the Chief, then back at Patrick.
“This is difficult for me to say,” he continued. “You must understand that, initially, the kidnapping of my daughter, my dear, precious Lysanne, gave me some sympathy. As weeks go by, however, many of my allies are starting to feel that it could become a liability...what if I was seemed as too emotionally distraught to be an effective, decisive leader? Now, can you imagine what a field day my adversaries would have if they learned that my 22 year-old daughter was hanging out with petty criminals?”
The Chief tried to reassure Dumont.
“You don’t have to worry about this, minister; no word of this will leave this room. Gauthier will carry on with the investigation using this new evidence, and I’ll handle communications. You have my word on that.”
“Thank you,” the minister replied, settling down. “Patrick, ever since you were a little boy you’ve had this amazing flair for solving problems. Please, please find my daughter.”
8
This wasn’t especially difficult: the very nature of demons – and of the Law that binds them – has always made them into natural spies. Most of the times, he would hide in the shadows, slipping in the night air, unseen by the mortal inhabitants of Akhet. At other times he mingled with them in human form. His favorite guise was that of a merchant from Thebes, who always brought the most exquisite perfumes and incenses to the remote area. His generous contributions to the temple had made him quite popular with the high priestess, who did not realize that behind the magical veil lay the enemy of her goddess.
Over the course of his “visible” trips to the temple, Arhiman had also befriended Anaxana’s nurse and often visited her. He never failed to inquire about the infant’s health, though he avoided being seen by her while in physical form. There would be a time and place for a proper introduction, and the demon was as patient as one would expect of his kind.
The girl’s development was nothing short of remarkable: at nine months she could already say a few words and stand on her own, without help. By the time of her first birthday, she could walk by herself and make simple sentences. At two, she could form complex sentences and express her inner feelings. She would impress her nurse by recalling her early days, almost to her birth.
“She tells me that when she was two weeks old she saw the Goddess in the desert,” the nurse had once confessed to an attentive Arhiman.
“Two weeks? How is this possible?”
“I have never seen anything like it. She also tells me the Goddess saved her and gave her some of her milk, and that’s why she learns things so quickly. I know it’s only a child’s imagination, but I cannot help but marvel at the beautiful things she says about the Goddess.”
“Well, perhaps the Goddess did bless her,” the demon had ventured, omitting to mention that had seen it with his own eyes.
Arhiman kept his watch. By the time of her third birthday, Anaxana had learned how to read hieroglyphics and could perform simple mathematical operations. Her memory of the past seemed even clearer. One night, over the communal dinner, she claimed that she was the illegitimate child of a former initiate of the temple and one of the Habiru laborers, who had fled the high priestess’ wrath.
This did not endear her to the priestess, who remembered only too well how she had driven off the unforgivable sinners into the desert. Disturbed by the child’s uncanny recollection of this event, the priestess had scolded her in front of everyone and had her stay inside her room for a week, with only a little bit of bread and water every day. Anaxana had spent the time writing the story of her birth in simple pictographs on her bedroom wall.
By the age of four the precocious child talked with the assurance of a teenager, though in her heart she remained a little girl still. To soothe the high priestess, she had expressed the desire to become an initiate of Isis, devoting herself to the temple, maintaining that she owed her life to the good intentions of the great goddess.
As much as the priestess still distrusted her, she could not deny the child’s wish to formally join the temple. She already knew a good deal about the cult of the goddess, and most of the priestesses were in fact quite fond of her. And so, despite her sometimes-unsettling talents, young Anaxana soon assisted them as they faithfully performed the temple’s daily rituals, holding incense sticks, blowing out candles and sweeping the altar of Isis clean.
As for Arhiman, he patiently waited for the time the gifted child would finally begin her true apprenticeship. This time finally came on the day marking the beginning of the Festival of Opet, the mother of Osiris. At dusk, the demon came to the five-year old girl as she sat in the temple with all the other novices, under the watchful eye of the high priestess, while the faithful came to pay homage to Isis. He lay in the shadows across the large room, watching her from afar, occasionally chuckling at the pointless rituals staged by the priestesses.
Ana.
Anaxana looked up. The demon’s voice had been but a whisper, but she had heard his call.
Ana. Come to me.
Making sure the priestess didn’t notice her, she left the other initiates and wandered off between the large stone columns, looking for the voice that beckoned her in the dimming light. She walked with a slow, assured gait, much more like an adult than a young girl of five.
Come, Anaxana.
Anaxana walked across the great hall to the alcove where Arhiman was sitting. He had chosen to appear as an elderly Habiru man with a long gray beard.
The young girl stopped in front of the old man and smiled, her wide, dark eyes curiously exploring the heavy wrinkles that scarred his face, then the dark ebony walking stick on which he leaned.
“Good girl,” he said. “You could hear me all the way across the room?”
“Yes I did, “she replied proudly. “The priestess said I can hear better than all the other girls. Sometimes I hear something, and no one else can.”
“I know, dear little Anaxana. I know all about you.”
“Why do you call me that? That’s not my name!”
“Of course it is. It is your true name. But you know this already, don’t you? You’re playing with me!”
The old man let out a soft, friendly chuckle. She seemed surprised to see such an old face laugh. Biting her lower lip, she glanced around to see if anyone had noticed them. There wasn’t - Arhiman had made sure of that. This meeting was too important to have it ruined by a chance happening.
She looked back at the demon then sat next to him in the alcove. She leaned over, smelling him. He smelled of almonds and camphor, which made Anaxana flinch for a second.
“Are you a spirit?” she asked eagerly.
Her question startled Arhiman for an instant. She was even more exceptional than he thought.
“Now, sweetheart, I’m just an old man that likes to tell stories to little children. Would you like to hear a story?”
She looked away, shrugging her shoulders. The answer had disappointed her. Arhiman lowered his voice further, so much that no sound appeared to escape from his mouth, and yet young Ana could hear him clearly.
“Would you like to hear a story about spirits?”
She turned back to him, a wide smile on her face.
“Yes, please!”
“Aren’t you scared of spirits?”
“Sometimes...Most spirits try to scare me, but some are nice, like the Goddess.”
“You have seen spirits?” the demon asked, intrigued.
“Not for real, only in my dreams. I never see them when I’m awake. I’m afraid to.”
“When I’m done telling you my story, you will never fear them again. Come and meet me at the small hill north of here, just a bit further than the Nehet tree Pharaoh gave to the Temple. Do you know which hill I’m talking about?”
“Yes, but I can’t go out at night! The priestess said so,” Anaxana complained, a worried frown on her brow.
“We won’t tell the priestess. Or maybe you don’t really want to hear the story...”
“But I do, I do! Can’t you tell me now?”
“No Ana. No one can hear this story but you. And you mustn’t tell anyone about it, ever. Do you understand?”
Anaxana nervously glimpsed back across the hall; the severe-looking high priestess had noticed that one of her novices was missing.
“Yes,” she said in haste.
“Will you come tonight, then?”
“Yes. I have to go back, or she will be mad at me.”
She hurried back. The priestess caught her by the arm and indeed started to scold her, asking her what she was doing and who she was speaking to. She could not see Arhiman, who had turned into a thin dark mist, hovering above them in the heavy incense-filled air. Young Ana kept silent. The priestess hit her in the back of the head and started to drag her out of the room, pulling her by the arm. Anaxana started to sob quietly.
A wisp of Arhiman’s discorporate body drifted down near the priestess’ head, just as she was raising her hand again. The smell distracted her for a second, then the now-invisible demon let out a mighty roar.
LET HER GO, YOU BITCH!
Stricken with sudden dread, she let go of Anaxana, who ran all the way back to her room. She stood motionless in the dim candlelight, shivering, blood slowly trickling from her nose and ears. Arhiman could not harm her directly, but the Law didn’t prevent him from scaring humans witless. From this day on, the high priestess never hit young Anaxana again.
9
His office phone rang. It was Josephine, the department’s secretary.
“Patrick, Mr. Reynolds is here again to see you...”
“He is?”
Reynolds had come to see him the previous day, but had left before Gauthier had gotten around meeting him.
He looked at his watch. Half past four. After poring over the surveillance tapes for almost two days, trying to make sense of it all, Patrick welcomed the opportunity to focus his mind on something else for a while.
“All right, I’ll see him. Is room B available?”
“Give me a second...yes, it’s free.”
“Okay, just show him in and tell him I’ll be right there.”
He hung up and collected his thoughts. On his desk was the printout of Lysanne Dumont glaring into the surveillance camera. Her gaze made him uneasy. She didn’t look at all like she was being led against her will. She didn’t look scared, or nervous, or troubled. In fact, her face showed a complete lack of emotion. Patrick had seen this kind of coldness before, on the face of hardened criminals and murderers as they received their sentences in court.
Making out the face of the man walking with Lysanne proved a bit trickier. The guy kept looking down to the ground or away from the camera. He probably knew it was there. He was tall, around six feet two, and of slight built. He seemed to float in his suit a little. Nice suit, too. Patrick wondered if organized crime wasn’t involved. Mafia? That seemed unlikely...the Italians wouldn’t kidnap a minister’s daughter, that’s just bad for business. They bikers wouldn’t either, for that matter, and from what he could tell the man wasn’t Asian. At least the Asian gangs were reliable on that point: they rarely hired outside their own people, while the other criminal organizations had started to be more inclusive.
There was something about it that just didn’t look right. There was more to this, Patrick could feel it, and when he felt something he was usually on to something. He didn’t seem to be keeping her against her will. That meant that she was either drugged, or brainwashed, or that she had fallen in with the wrong crowd of her own free will.
He closed the file and put it in his top drawer, locking it under key, got up and started walking towards interview room B. On the way he stopped at the monitoring station, where a lone officer sat in front of a dozen security monitors, feet resting on the console.
“Hey Steve, how’s it going.”
“Hey, Mr. Pat, sir, doing fine.”
“Listen, can you record interview B for me?”
“Sure thing boss. Who’s the guy? Looks a bit like that actor, you know?”
Patrick looked at the monitor for the small interview room. William Reynolds was sitting at the table, hands on his lap, staring into emptiness. He did look vaguely familiar. Receding hair, large rectangular rimmed glasses, a rather small nose. His sideburns, old-fashioned brown corduroy suit and double-width tie made him look as if he was stepping right out of the 70s. He reminded Gauthier of a writer he’d seen on the back of a science-fiction book. Isaac Asimov, to be precise. He had read that robot book at Sophie’s suggestion. He hadn’t really liked the movie – he didn’t really care much for science fiction – but the book turned a good read, with some clever logical puzzles.
“I don’t know, Steve. I have no idea. Looks familiar, though.”
“Michael Caine. That’s who.”
“Yeah, a little. Well, I better go find out what he wants. Thanks.”
“No problemo.”
Patrick entered interview room B.
“Mr. Reynolds. Lieutenant-Detective Patrick Gauthier, nice to meet you.”
Reynolds instantly came out of his daydreaming and rose up to shake Patrick’s hand with a sincere smile.
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Gauthier.”
Patrick sat across from him. His voice, and his slight British accent, seemed very familiar to him. It was a trustworthy voice, very pleasing to hear. He felt well-disposed towards this distinguished person.
“Tell me, Mr. Reynolds, have we met before?”
“I don’t believe we have, detective. I have only been in this city for a year or so, and in this time I’m afraid my interactions with the Montreal police force have been limited to asking for directions on the street. Oh, and chatting with your department’s charming secretary, of course.”
“Of course. So, then...what can I do for you?”
“Detective, am I right in stating that you were the individual most responsible for the arrest and subsequent successful prosecution of Wallace Bartholomew Valera.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t heard the Villeray Vampire referred to by his real name in months.
“Uh, yes, you could say I played a part in it...”
“You’re too modest, Mr. Gauthier. That was a brilliant investigation, one for the books, if I do say so myself.”
Patrick had a bit of a trouble with being complimented. Deep down he felt being put in a position of vulnerability.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Reynolds, but...are you a journalist, or a writer?”
Reynolds smiled.
“Ah! Forget my manners, Mr. Gauthier. I should have introduced myself in a more thorough fashion. William Reynolds, chair of the faculty of comparative mythology, Oxford. I’m on sabbatical, as it happens.”
“Comparative mythology?”
“Oh yes, the study of parallel symbolism, myths and deities in multiple religions, both ancient and contemporary. It’s not a very active field of research these days, I’m afraid.”
“I see.”
“I am also a specialist of sorts on religious relics. Originally I came to study the reliquary of Frère André, however I’ve found that there’s an impressive amount of artifacts to be found peppered across the province. Fascinating.”
“You don’t say?” Patrick said with feigned interest.
“Why, did you know that in a small Eastern Township church I visited, I found what I believe to be one of the three nine-inch nail used in the Crucifixion. The metal showed some telltale regional characteristics, and there were ancient bloodstains on it. The priest let me perform a carbon dating on a small sample, and the result turned out positive. Unfortunately he wouldn’t let me keep the sample for DNA analysis. Anyhoo, exciting stuff. Were it not for the fact that I’d lose tenure at Oxford, I’d be tempted to live here permanently!”
“Yes...All of this is related to the Villeray Vampire, right?”
Patrick was beginning to think Reynolds was perhaps not entirely there. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to deal with eccentrics who believed that Wally Valera was a real vampire.
“It may very well be...or rather, to the instrument Valera used to kill and drain his victims. A short, rusty metallic tube with a pointed, razor-sharp end, a little like a hollow metal pen...”
“Yes, I know what object you’re talking about. Valera tried to stab me with it when I arrested him.”
“Well, I have reasons to believe that this is actually the Quill of Elijah, a minor religious artifact dating from 12th-century Turkey, from the medieval city of Antioch, to be precise.”
“Ah. That’s quite old.”
“Indeed. I’ve studied court photos and descriptions and they seem to match the object. Of course, the only way to find out for sure would be to study the actual artifact itself.”
“So, you’d like to inspect the exhibit.”
“Precisely. I was told it was returned here after the trial, pending its eventual disposal. I hope it’s not too late...”
Patrick looked at his watch. Quarter to five. He still needed to look at today’s Jacques Cartier surveillance tapes, four days’ worth in fast forward.
“Well, it probably is for today, the officer in charge of the property room is already gone. He’s about to retire, you know, and he leaves at around four thirty. But rest assured, it’s still down there. You do realize this involves a lot of paperwork, however...”
“I have the signed authorization here. I wouldn’t want to waste your time, detective. I simply want to inspect the artifact.”
Reynolds took out a piece of paper and gave it to Gauthier, who took it without looking at it. For a second it seemed as if there had been a peculiar reflection in Reynolds’ glasses.
He was really a charming fellow.
“Well then, everything’s in order. Perhaps you’d care to come back tomorrow morning?”
“Splendid. If you need to contact me for anything, here’s my card.”
Reynolds gave his card to Patrick. It was a plain card with Reynolds’ name on it, as well as his address in London. On the back was scribbled his temporary Montreal address and phone number.
“Okay, so I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
He showed Reynolds out of the room and walked him to the front entrance.
“Thank you again for your help,” Reynolds said, shaking the detective’s hand.
“Someone is coming to see you,” he added as he walked down the steps to the front door.
Gauthier looked behind him, trying to see who Reynolds was talking about, but there was no one there. He turned back to Reynolds, only to see that he had gone.
“Well hello there, lieutenant-detective.”
He looked up at the stairs leading to the second floor to see Sophie walk towards him, carrying a box full of office stuff.
“Hey Sophie,” Patrick said, giving a last glance at the front door.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I was just...never mind. What are you doing around these parts?”
She picked up a paper from the cardboard box and handed it over to Patrick.
“Say hello to your new partner, sergeant-detective Sophie Bernard. I finally got the promotion, and it seems the Chief wants me to assist you on the Dumont case!”
“What? How come no one asked me about it?” responded Patrick, taken aback. He immediately regretted sounding so negative; he didn’t want to hurt Sophie’s feelings. Still, he liked to work alone, and having his lover as his partner didn’t seem like a good idea.
Sophie looked away uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry, Sophie, I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. I knew you wanted to come over to Major Crimes, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon...or that they’d put you on this case.”
“Hey, don’t worry.” She lowered her voice. “What’s ours is ours, and the rest is business, okay?”
Gauthier nodded.
“If you say so, officer – I mean, sergeant-detective!”
“I mean it, sir. Or maybe you don’t think I can help on the case?”
“Come on, Sophie, you know I don’t think that,” Gauthier replied, giving her a little nudge on the shoulder. “I think you’re a very good cop, and you’ll make a great detective. And you’ll start by getting us some coffee. You’ve got to get up to speed on the Dumont case, and there’s a lot of ground to cover.”
She smiled. “All right. Hey, what’s that in your hand?”
Patrick looked down. He was holding a blank sheet of paper, and he had no idea why. Once again he had the feeling, the same one he had at Sophie’s apartment, a couple of days earlier.
“I don’t know...I guess I wanted to write something down. Never mind, I can't remember. So, anything but anchovies, all right?”
"All right," Sophie replied with a amused nod.
10
Why doesn’t he come and kick me out already. Let’s get this over with.
He looked again in the fridge and cupboard, but he had already eaten the few scraps he had left. He paced around the three white rooms of the small apartment, looking at the walls, thinking how he never got around to painting them. Or put up posters, or pictures, anything. The bare walls were driving him crazy. This was like a mental ward cell. He had to get out, but he was afraid to. He was afraid the landlord would see him and remember that he hadn’t paid his rent despite his final warning. He was also afraid of running into the murderous pimp – and probable drug dealer – who had sent his own girl to a watery grave.
However, there was no denying that he was losing his mind in here, with no food, no money and nothing to do but wait for the other shoe to drop.
Maybe he made a mistake. Maybe he thinks I already paid him.
He walked to the front window and looked down at the street. It was almost ten P.M...the landlord wouldn’t come by at this hour. He was safe for another day. But why the delay?
Maybe he had an accident. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe...maybe you’re a fucking idiot!
He had to get out. He was so hungry.
Better to drink another tall glass of water, that’ll help.
He made his way back to the kitchen. His cat, Louise, looked up at him at meowed. She was hungry too. Fortunately, she still had some dry food left; he filled her bowl to the rim and petted her as she ate.
“Poor little Louise...I couldn’t even take proper care of you.”
Tears swelled in his eyes. He would have to take her to the animal shelter when he got out.
And then I’ll have to take myself to the homeless shelter...
Perhaps he could try to hitchhike back to New York, try to find some old friends who could lend him their couch until he got his life back on track.
One thing was certain: he no longer entertained the idea of killing himself. Seeing that poor girl plunge in the dark waters of the St. Lawrence River had scared him off the idea.
For sure she’s dead. The fall. And the water’s so cold!
He still couldn’t fully comprehend what happened, how quickly she had moved, how she had twisted the metal bars...she must have been so addicted to the drug the Goblin had thrown off the bridge that she lost all common sense.
She didn’t even say a word as she fell. No screams. Nothing.
That has to be it. There was no other reasonable explanation, and though he might be losing his mind he was not crazy yet. He knew what he saw.
Louise rubbed herself against her master’s leg, purring with satisfaction. Ah, to be a cat, loved and fed everyday without having to lift a finger. He picked her up and held her close to him, burying his face in her fur.
At least you still care about me, even if it’s only because I feed you.
The pure, unconditional love one got from a pet was always a great source of comfort for him. Even now, everything seemed a little less dark with this small, warm, fuzzy life-form huddled against him.
No way am I leaving you, kitty cat. Fuck the shelters. We’ll find a way. We’ll survive.
Louise licked his forehead with her raucous tongue, purring even louder. It was as if she was trying to heal the mental wounds of the nice man who fed her, then jumped out of his arms to the ground. She walked up to the sofa and started to scratch her claws on its side. That was one of Archie’s last pieces of furniture, along with a small table, a chair and a futon mattress. He had sold or pawned pretty much everything else.
Suddenly, Louise stopped scratching the sofa and twisted around, looking at space. She looked around for a moment, as if an invisible fly hovered along the walls, then started licking herself. Archie smiled.
Diane used to say she saw spirits.
Someone rang at the door.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
The bell rang again.
He hesitated. Perhaps if he didn’t move, whoever was at the door would go away.
The bell rang a third time. No point in delaying the inevitable. He walked to the door and opened it. His heart stopped.
“Mr. Steel! Finally, you grant us the pleasure of your company!”
Standing in the doorway was the ever-smiling Goblin, still in his burgundy suit. Next to him was Lysanne. Alive and well, and ravishing in a red low-cut dress. Her hair was done, her make-up non-garish, and she even let on a hint of a smile. She looked a lot better than the first time he’d seen her – never mind the fact that she’d jumped off the Jacques Cartier two days earlier.
Archie couldn’t find anything to say.
“At a loss for words again, are you? We’ll have to fix that! Come on, you must be starving. Let’s go get something to eat!”
***
(Illustration of William Reynolds by Ghislain Barbe)
Monday, April 23, 2007
Writing the book (part two)
It's been some time since my last blog entry - twelve days to be exact - and while I'd love to say that this was because I was busy writing the book, that would unfortunately be a slight exaggeration. As usual, progress is steady but slow, with only one new chapter completed over the past two weeks. To make up for it, here's the followup to the story about how I started working on the book, as well as an important related announcement.
In the first part of this epic tale, I recounted how the story that would become Demons and such started out as a comic book based on some role-playing characters I had created, as well as how I had finally decided to take a leave of absence from work in order to work on the book full-time.
I had made my decision in the fall of 2004, following the completion of the second Scooby-Doo game I had designed at Artificial Mind & Movement. I had approached Denis, my Game Executive, in order to discuss this. He was very receptive, and soon I had received his approval for the unpaid leave of absence. The details, mainly 'when' and 'for how long', would be worked out after the Christmas break.
Fate, however, had decided otherwise. At the Christmas party two friends and colleagues, Jean and Oz, had asked me how I would love to design a game or two for Nintendo's new portable console, the DS. I was intrigued by this little machine, with its dual display, touch screen interface and wireless capabilities. As it happened, the newly-formed DS team was in a bit of a bind, having no designers on board yet. Thinking about it over the holidays, I finally decided to postpone my sabbatical leave for a few months and help out the DS team.
In retrospect, there might have been something else to this decision. I had put the book project on the back burner for so long, I think I might have been a little scared to actually start it - not to mention the financial hit of going six months without a salary. Whatever the reasons, I ended up doing two DS games for A2M (almost simultaneously, too, which I do not recommend to anyone): a port of Scooby-Doo! Unmasked and the first-ever Kim Possible game in 3D.
Once these projects were done, I once again started to plan my break from work. I was becoming obsessed with the book, and felt that I really needed to get a start on it. However, as the poet said, 'the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.' Another A2M project (a PS2/Gamecube adaptation of the movie Monster House) was stuck in limbo after the lead designer had quit to go to UbiSoft. Denis asked me if I would mind postponing my leave of absence one more time to lead the project to completion. Again, I accepted.
As Monster House got underway, however, it soon became clear that I could no longer wait to start the book. The story and the characters wouldn't leave me alone, and even started creeping up on me at work. I though about quitting, but at the last moment I told myself I would at least try to start working on it during my free time. It might take longer than I had first planned, but at least it would keep going forward. I was reminded of a Dino Buzzati quote (though I have forgotten the actual words) in which he urges a young writer to write every day, even if it's only a line or two.
And so I began to do what I had thought impossible, to write an epic novel while working full-time as a game designer. At first I worked at home, mostly on week-ends and at night, but I soon realized that I needed these rest periods to unwind from work and spend some times with my friends. As it turned out, my house was also not a very good place to write for me. So I took some of the money I had put aside for my sabbatical leave and bought a laptop computer (my first in over twelve years). I then started to write during lunch hours, going to the wireless-enabled café across the street so I could access an online dictionary and wikipedia - my two most important writing aides.
I have been doing this ever since, writing for about 45 minutes every day of the week (except those times when I have lunch with Ghislain). The amazing thing about this is that, so far, it has been working very well. I found out I was at my mental peak during that time of the day, and that I could easily phase out the activity around me, reducing it to a strangely comforting background buzz. I've also adjusted to writing on a laptop keyboard, as opposed to the larger ones found on desktop, and now actually prefer it.
The greater part of the book (over 90%, I'd say) has thus been written in cafés, libraries and occasionally the Eaton Center food court, though the latter is a bit too noisy for me, even with headphones on. I know this isn't for everyone, but if you're trying to work on a personal project while working full-time, I suggest you give it a try. Sure, you might feel a bit antisocial for not going out to lunch with co-workers, but you might find that your project actually gets somewhere, instead of just taking up valuable real estate in your mind.
And now, for the aforementioned announcement: after putting it off for more than two years, I will finally take that sabbatical leave. The four-month break will happen after the current project, which should be done by July (well, my contribution to it, at least). I'll hopefully be able to finish the first draft of the book, and perhaps complete a first rewrite by year's end. I still need confirmation from my boss' boss, but so far it seems as if it's not going to be a problem. I'll post further developments on this blog as they come.
Until then, keep on writing, every day, even if it's a sentence or two!
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Thursday, April 12, 2007
Kurt Vonnegut leaves for Tralfamadore
The celebrated writer Kurt Vonnegut, author of such influential classics as Slaughterhouse-Five, Breakfast of Champion and Cat's Cradle, died yesterday at the age of 84, following head injuries he suffered during an accidental fall last week. So it goes.
It's not often that the death of someone I don't personally know affects me emotionally, but for some reason the news of Vonnegut's passing really saddens me. It was only recently that I discovered this unique writer, who often blended science-fiction and satire to paint a sometimes bleak but always profoundly human portrait of our world. I also saw him on The Daily Show last year, and found him very endearing. He seemed like the kind of man you would just like to meet and have coffee with (along with some of his trademark Pall Malls). I remember his criticism of George Bush to be both scathing and funny.
Perhaps the reason this affects me so is that I actually read both Slaughterhouse-Five and Hocus Pocus this year, in the course of writing my own book. While I was somewhat surprised by their occasional levity, I was deeply touched by both of them. In fact, I had put a few not-so-subtle references to the man and his work in my novel (I'll refrain from revealing them here so as not to spoil the surprise). I guess I somehow entertained the unlikely notion that he would at some point read the book and get a kick off of these. This will of course never happen now, but I will leave them in as my personal homage to his genius.
It's a cliche to state that an author goes on living after his death through his books, but like many cliches it has a ring of truth to it. I will pick up another one of his books tonight, maybe Cat's Cradle as it's been recommended to me by a couple of people. If you have not yet had the opportunity to read his books, I wholeheartedly encourage you to do so. You will not regret it.
Rest in Peace, Mr. Vonnegut. You have done well.
Kurt Vonnegut in 1991. No copyright information.
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