An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [59]
“You didn’t forget,” Tatie says. “We’ll stay the night in Avignon, go to the market tomorrow morning then drive home in the afternoon.”
Papa interrupts. “Who decided that we’re going to the market tomorrow morning? If she’s not spending money in Avignon, she’s not happy.”
We choose the closest Bistro. A waitress leads us to a table. Papa and Tatie ask for cappuccino with croissants and Swiss cheese on the side. Twins with matching food. When our order arrives, Papa says to the waitress, “If I’d known it was going to take that long, I would have ordered lunch.” Tatie doesn’t flinch at the comment. The waitress apologizes. Papa cuts open Tatie’s croissant for her then folds the cheese inside. Her own hands are too crippled to do it.
“You must come visit,” I tell them.
Papa talks to the sandwich in front of his face. “I’ve done my reading about Newfoundland. No need to hear about or go there.”
“You can’t know a place by reading about it anymore than you can know a person by reading about them.”
“Depends on the quality of the reading material,” he says.
“What can you glean from an Internet site or an encyclopaedia?”
He stops eating to stare at me. “Who said anything about encyclopaedias?”
“OK. So, Fodor’s, Newfoundland. Really, Papa.”
“I’m talking about novels, not travel books: The Shipping News, Random Passage, The Colony of Unrequited Dreams.”
“Did you read those?”
“I read about them. They summed up the themes,” he says.
“That’s not the same as being there.”
“I’ve lived in Canada too, don’t forget,” he says.
“Newfoundland is not the same as Canada.”
Tatie swallows a bite, takes a drink of coffee then says, “In the village, they call your Papa Le Canadien to make fun of his tales about the wolves and Indians of Canada.”
“Not true. They call me Le Canadien because most of them have never been farther than Avignon.”
“What about me?” Tatie asks. “I’ve been off the continent. And you’re leaving out Monsieur Giroux. He had a military posting in Vietnam. Donnatina, the butcher’s wife, was born in Naples. And you’re forgetting about Maximillian. He lived in Germany before the war.”
“I’m talking about people who’ve been to Canada,” he says.
Papa spent six years there. If I didn’t know better I’d say it was more like sixty, and more like living in the woods trading furs with North American natives than on the tenth floor of an apartment building in Quebec City, trying unsuccessfully to write a doctoral dissertation. I don’t remember much about those days except that I had to stay in my room. He always made sure I had more than enough to read.
Tatie changes the subject. “What about Elsa? Is it completely over? You’re not too old to have children.”
“Elsa and I will be divorced once the paperwork is finished. There’s nothing more to say except I met someone in Newfoundland who–”
“No son of mine will marry an English woman.”
“Stop interrupting him,” Tatie says.
“Me interrupting? What are you doing? And I’m not going shopping in Avignon on Sunday.”
“Stop, please! I’m friends with a woman. Her name is Norah. She lives by the ocean. We’ve been hiking and horseback riding. I’ve been learning how to swim, row on the pond–”
“Be careful you don’t catch pneumonia, or worse, drown. You’re practically in the Arctic.”
“Come on, Tatie. You’re exaggerating.”
“Georgette doesn’t understand about latitude and longitudes,” says Papa.
“You’re a fine one to talk,” Tatie says. “What do you know about geography? You’re not an expert.”
“And you’re not an expert on experts,” Papa says.
I’d already made a mental list of anecdotes I planned to share with them. There was the time when I was in a restaurant with Edith and she introduced me to the premier of the province. Apparently, her brother used to play hockey with him. I want to tell them about when Mercedes and Cyril held a surprise birthday party for my fiftieth, complete with party hats, cake, gifts and a card that said Happy 60th. I’m sure Cyril was joking. I want to tell them about when Norah