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Authors: Yves Beauchemin
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that they got together and built a monument to him, which became famous throughout Japan; many people in Tokyo (who are called Tokyoites) still use the statue as a rendezvous point. And Hachiko has become the very symbol of fidelity. Lovers stand beside it pledging eternal faithfulness – imprudently, in my opinion, but we insist on believing that human nature is composed of such sentiments.”
“Not yours, it seems,” sniffed Amélie, looking daggers at her husband.
“I thought,” continued the notary, ignoring her remark, “that this little statue would please you, since you’ve always been so fond of dogs.”
“Oh yes, Monsieur Michaud, I think it’s very beautiful. Thank you so much!”
He shook the notary’s hand vigorously and then, finding the gesture somewhat inadequate to the occasion, threw himself into Michaud’s arms.
Lucie burst out laughing.
“Goodness gracious,” she said. “It’s safe to say you guessed right, Monsieur Michaud. You’ve made him happy as a lark!”
“Parfait, Lucie, call me Parfait! I’ve begged you a thousand times!”
“Parfait! You’re perfect, all right!” said Fernand with a mouthful of canapé. And he clapped Michaud so forcefully on the back that the notary’s glasses jumped.
Blonblon was still running his hands over the bronze dog. “My dad would love to see this,” he said quietly. “He’s very interested in Japan.”
The Michauds had placed a long table against one wall, and on it was a buffet such as Charles had never seen. Going over for his third helping of veal galantine, he noticed the tip of Boff’s tail sticking out from under the white tablecloth. He bent over, thinking that the dog had found some food somewhere and was hiding under the table to eat it. But he was wrong. Boff was asleep, his muzzle between his paws, worn out by the sound of their conversations – two bottles of wine had been drunk, and many bottles of beer. Charles pulled the dog towards him, held his head between his hands, and stared into his eyes.
“Did you hear that, Boff? Loyalty is important. It’s one of the most important things in the world. Don’t forget that!”
Céline, curled up in a soft chair with a plate of sandwiches on her knee, watched Charles with a strange gravity and without moving a muscle.
At about nine-thirty, Lucie said she was tired and began talking about going home. The little group began to break up, to the great relief of Amélie, who was feeling a headache coming on, and was aware that her husband had had a lot to drink. Instead of going home, however, Charles went with Blonblon to Frontenac Towers, to show Hachiko to Blonblon’s father.
Half an hour later, Charles was walking slowly along rue Ontario, the box weighing heavily in his arms. A dozen paces from the corner of rue Dufresne he suddenly stopped dead, overwhelmed by a sense of danger.
Ahead of him, under the yellowish glare of the street lights that hung their resigned heads above the deserted street, everything had suddenly taken on a curiously sinister aspect. Yet it was the same street as usual, with its oil stains, its cracked and wrinkled asphalt like a snake’s sloughed skin, its dirty sidewalks, its barred shop windows filled with glaring light that showed how badly in need of a good dusting some of them were. He continued on his way towards rue Dufresne, trying to figure out what had happened, when he recalled the glimpse of a figure half seen out of the corner of his eye when he’d yawned, a shadow slipping behind the corner of a house. He stopped, intending to retrace his steps, but he was too late: Wilfrid Thibodeau stepped out in front of him, looking at him with feverish intensity as he rubbed nervously at the three-day beard on his chin.
“Hey there, kid. How’s it goin’? Son of a gun, you’re even bigger than the last time I saw you! You’ll be taller’n me pretty soon, eh?”
Charles stared at him with his mouth half open, parched as a desert, in
“Not yours, it seems,” sniffed Amélie, looking daggers at her husband.
“I thought,” continued the notary, ignoring her remark, “that this little statue would please you, since you’ve always been so fond of dogs.”
“Oh yes, Monsieur Michaud, I think it’s very beautiful. Thank you so much!”
He shook the notary’s hand vigorously and then, finding the gesture somewhat inadequate to the occasion, threw himself into Michaud’s arms.
Lucie burst out laughing.
“Goodness gracious,” she said. “It’s safe to say you guessed right, Monsieur Michaud. You’ve made him happy as a lark!”
“Parfait, Lucie, call me Parfait! I’ve begged you a thousand times!”
“Parfait! You’re perfect, all right!” said Fernand with a mouthful of canapé. And he clapped Michaud so forcefully on the back that the notary’s glasses jumped.
Blonblon was still running his hands over the bronze dog. “My dad would love to see this,” he said quietly. “He’s very interested in Japan.”
The Michauds had placed a long table against one wall, and on it was a buffet such as Charles had never seen. Going over for his third helping of veal galantine, he noticed the tip of Boff’s tail sticking out from under the white tablecloth. He bent over, thinking that the dog had found some food somewhere and was hiding under the table to eat it. But he was wrong. Boff was asleep, his muzzle between his paws, worn out by the sound of their conversations – two bottles of wine had been drunk, and many bottles of beer. Charles pulled the dog towards him, held his head between his hands, and stared into his eyes.
“Did you hear that, Boff? Loyalty is important. It’s one of the most important things in the world. Don’t forget that!”
Céline, curled up in a soft chair with a plate of sandwiches on her knee, watched Charles with a strange gravity and without moving a muscle.
At about nine-thirty, Lucie said she was tired and began talking about going home. The little group began to break up, to the great relief of Amélie, who was feeling a headache coming on, and was aware that her husband had had a lot to drink. Instead of going home, however, Charles went with Blonblon to Frontenac Towers, to show Hachiko to Blonblon’s father.
Half an hour later, Charles was walking slowly along rue Ontario, the box weighing heavily in his arms. A dozen paces from the corner of rue Dufresne he suddenly stopped dead, overwhelmed by a sense of danger.
Ahead of him, under the yellowish glare of the street lights that hung their resigned heads above the deserted street, everything had suddenly taken on a curiously sinister aspect. Yet it was the same street as usual, with its oil stains, its cracked and wrinkled asphalt like a snake’s sloughed skin, its dirty sidewalks, its barred shop windows filled with glaring light that showed how badly in need of a good dusting some of them were. He continued on his way towards rue Dufresne, trying to figure out what had happened, when he recalled the glimpse of a figure half seen out of the corner of his eye when he’d yawned, a shadow slipping behind the corner of a house. He stopped, intending to retrace his steps, but he was too late: Wilfrid Thibodeau stepped out in front of him, looking at him with feverish intensity as he rubbed nervously at the three-day beard on his chin.
“Hey there, kid. How’s it goin’? Son of a gun, you’re even bigger than the last time I saw you! You’ll be taller’n me pretty soon, eh?”
Charles stared at him with his mouth half open, parched as a desert, in
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