Read Online The Years of Fire by Yves Beauchemin - Free Book Online
Authors: Yves Beauchemin
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without thinking it necessary to introduce himself. “What can I do for you?”
Charles was already regretting his boldness, but he went on. He said he’d worked as a delivery boy for the previous owners for nearly four years, knew the job very well, and could be quite useful.
“Well, well, well. A delivery boy, a delivery boy, eh?” muttered Valiquette, still tapping his lips. He began questioning Charles closely on the workings of the restaurant, how it had prospered, what the customers were like,what kind of food they preferred, whether the previous owners had had to change the menu over the years, what improvements they had had to make to the building, why Roberto had decided to sell the business, how he got along with the police and the health inspectors, and so on. Every now and then he excused himself to serve a customer. The interview went on for half an hour. Charles, torn between fear and hope, had no idea where the conversation was going but answered as best he could, casting an occasional glance through the window out onto the street.
Valiquette was busy for several minutes with a customer who thought he’d detected an error in his bill. Then he turned back to Charles.
“Sorry, my lad, but I don’t need a delivery boy just now. But thanks for the information. Maybe another time, eh?”
And he shook Charles’s hand with a huge smile.
“Happy birthday, Charles,” said the notary, coming forward with a beribboned box in his hands. “Careful not to drop it. It’s a bit heavy.”
“Fourteen already!” murmured Amélie Michaud, with an expression that could have registered either joy or sorrow.
“Yes, fourteen!” cried Fernand. “Almost a man!”
Charles looked embarrassed.
“Fernand,” he said, “stop talking as if I were a baby.”
Turning red with emotion, he began unwrapping the gift. The party was taking place in the notary’s living room, with members of the Fafard family as well as Blonblon, Steve Lachapelle, and – wonder of wonders! – Roberto and Rosalie, who had come down from the Laurentians especially for the occasion. Parfait Michaud had asked if he could throw the party because, as he said, “although I know you’re not my son, you’re the closest thing to it I have.” Amélie had slaved most of the day to make a “really healthy menu,” but had given it up in the end and called a caterer.
“Oh, isn’t that
cute!”
cried Rosalie, with slightly forced enthusiasm, when she saw what was in the box: a bronze statue of a sitting dog, about thirtycentimetres high, looking alert, ears erect, chest puffed out, with huge hind feet and its tail curled up on its back. It was, in fact, nothing special.
“Well, at least it’s an original,” said Roberto, tugging at his tie. He took a long drink from his glass of beer.
Steve, completely baffled by the notary and his strange wife, stretched out his thin hand and felt the statue. Boff, too, gave it a good, long sniff.
“It is, I’ll have you all know,” declared the notary, who could sometimes sound a trifle pompous, “a replica in miniature of Hachiko, a statue erected in the Shibuya Train Station in Tokyo in 1934. It was put there to invoke a very moving story of a dog and his master. Would you like to hear it? I’m going to tell it to you anyway, whether I have your permission or not. Hachiko belonged to a professor at Tokyo University. Every day the professor took the train to work from Shibuya. It was the dog’s custom to accompany his master to the station in the morning, and then to come back in the evening to meet the professor on his return. Well, it so happened that one day, in May of 1925, the poor man died of a heart attack in his office. However, that day – and every day for
the next nine years
, that is, until his own death – the dog went to the station at the usual time in the evening, in the hope that his master would return. His loyalty so struck the station personnel and the other commuters
Charles was already regretting his boldness, but he went on. He said he’d worked as a delivery boy for the previous owners for nearly four years, knew the job very well, and could be quite useful.
“Well, well, well. A delivery boy, a delivery boy, eh?” muttered Valiquette, still tapping his lips. He began questioning Charles closely on the workings of the restaurant, how it had prospered, what the customers were like,what kind of food they preferred, whether the previous owners had had to change the menu over the years, what improvements they had had to make to the building, why Roberto had decided to sell the business, how he got along with the police and the health inspectors, and so on. Every now and then he excused himself to serve a customer. The interview went on for half an hour. Charles, torn between fear and hope, had no idea where the conversation was going but answered as best he could, casting an occasional glance through the window out onto the street.
Valiquette was busy for several minutes with a customer who thought he’d detected an error in his bill. Then he turned back to Charles.
“Sorry, my lad, but I don’t need a delivery boy just now. But thanks for the information. Maybe another time, eh?”
And he shook Charles’s hand with a huge smile.
“Happy birthday, Charles,” said the notary, coming forward with a beribboned box in his hands. “Careful not to drop it. It’s a bit heavy.”
“Fourteen already!” murmured Amélie Michaud, with an expression that could have registered either joy or sorrow.
“Yes, fourteen!” cried Fernand. “Almost a man!”
Charles looked embarrassed.
“Fernand,” he said, “stop talking as if I were a baby.”
Turning red with emotion, he began unwrapping the gift. The party was taking place in the notary’s living room, with members of the Fafard family as well as Blonblon, Steve Lachapelle, and – wonder of wonders! – Roberto and Rosalie, who had come down from the Laurentians especially for the occasion. Parfait Michaud had asked if he could throw the party because, as he said, “although I know you’re not my son, you’re the closest thing to it I have.” Amélie had slaved most of the day to make a “really healthy menu,” but had given it up in the end and called a caterer.
“Oh, isn’t that
cute!”
cried Rosalie, with slightly forced enthusiasm, when she saw what was in the box: a bronze statue of a sitting dog, about thirtycentimetres high, looking alert, ears erect, chest puffed out, with huge hind feet and its tail curled up on its back. It was, in fact, nothing special.
“Well, at least it’s an original,” said Roberto, tugging at his tie. He took a long drink from his glass of beer.
Steve, completely baffled by the notary and his strange wife, stretched out his thin hand and felt the statue. Boff, too, gave it a good, long sniff.
“It is, I’ll have you all know,” declared the notary, who could sometimes sound a trifle pompous, “a replica in miniature of Hachiko, a statue erected in the Shibuya Train Station in Tokyo in 1934. It was put there to invoke a very moving story of a dog and his master. Would you like to hear it? I’m going to tell it to you anyway, whether I have your permission or not. Hachiko belonged to a professor at Tokyo University. Every day the professor took the train to work from Shibuya. It was the dog’s custom to accompany his master to the station in the morning, and then to come back in the evening to meet the professor on his return. Well, it so happened that one day, in May of 1925, the poor man died of a heart attack in his office. However, that day – and every day for
the next nine years
, that is, until his own death – the dog went to the station at the usual time in the evening, in the hope that his master would return. His loyalty so struck the station personnel and the other commuters
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