Coincidence - Alan May [68]
Juan had been reluctant at first to let them go at all. Not a good idea, he had thought, for them to start thinking about these people as people—especially the kids—in light of what they were going to have to do to them soon. He had relented in the end, though, because he could see that the strain was getting to them. Severo especially was getting more and more fretful, and soon would be completely useless if he didn’t lighten up un poquito. And if being around the Inspiration’s crew made them too squeamish for what had to be done, well, he and Stefano could take care of it on their own.
Michael and Nancy, declaring themselves devoid of any talent, had volunteered to emcee. “The first act of the evening,” Michael announced, “would be none other than” —here Nancy dimmed the lights, Trudy beat a tattoo on a skillet-lid drum with a spoon, and Evan and Chris wielded flashlight “follow spots” across the stage— ”all the way from Québec City” —big drum roll—”that incredibly talented rock star, Pierre Rouleau!”
The crowd whistled and cheered and stomped as the spotlights picked out Pierre, in regulation Floatie garb, his hands in pockets, standing alone at center stage.
“I am afraid there’s been a little, um—misunderstanding?” Pierre said, a sheepish grin flickering over his face. “What I told them was, my only talent is rock climbing.”
The crowd erupted in a roar of laughter.
“But,” Pierre went on, “this is not something I can very well show you in the middle of the ocean.”
Another wave of laughter crested as the image of Pierre demonstrating his rock-climbing prowess on the high seas sank in.
“So instead, I am just going to sing for you a song I learned when I was a little boy at home in Québec. It is called ‘Un Canadien Errant’—‘A Wandering Canadian.’ When you hear how bad I am, you will know why I have to go first. I do not want to come after anyone who really knows how to sing.”
Pierre took a deep breath and then quietly began his song. In truth, his voice was not the best, yet he sang with such sweetness and simplicity, a capella, that the audience, hushed now, straining to hear, was nearly moved to tears—especially those who understood the French words.
“Et ma patrie, hélas, je ne la verrai plus,” he sang. (Alas, my country, I’ll ne’er see thee again.) “Non, mais en expirant, O mon cher Canada! Mon regard languissant vers toi se portera.” (When death comes, Oh, my dear Canada, My languid gaze will turn toward you.)
Pierre sang the final words and the crowd was utterly silent for a moment. They all knew it was all too possible that this handsome, vibrant young man, like the man in the song—and like every one of them onboard—would die, never to see home again.
Dave Cameron started the applause, and the rest soon joined in. The somber mood was dispelled as Pierre took exaggerated bows and the spotlights made wild arcs on the ceiling. Trudy banged away on the pot lid until Nancy walked over, removed it from her hands, and showed her to a seat at a front-row table. Michael, meanwhile, was ushering the next act onto the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Casey Kennedy and Sandy McNeill, from Cape Breton Island, Canada, who are about to bowl you over with their feats of virtue! No, that’s not right! I mean to say, with their virtuoso feet,” he said, pointing at his own outstretched foot, “in a lively performance of traditional Cape Breton step dancing. Accompanying them is Bobby Briley, from the state of North Carolina, a place where they know a thing or two about fiddling around!”
Bobby tipped his hat to the crowd. Then, with a nod to the dancers, he lit into a set of reels. Casey and Sandy’s shoes beat out the rhythm of the dance. They had not brought their hard-soled dance shoes with them, so were improvising with soda-bottle caps attached to their sneakers. The effect was very like the typical percussive sound of this centuries-old style of dancing.
The sound was further amplified