Le charme discret de Madame Bourgeois (alternate edit)
August 21, 2010
I spent five years on the corner of Moffat and Verdun, waiting for my luck to kick in, or the building to give out. When I fell through the balcony, my roommate made the call.
“We’re gonna look at this place,” Joy smudged through Le Messager. “Jesus Christ! It’s perfection.”
A seven-and-a-half for $750? Washer and dryer? All the bills included?
I could not disagree.
But when the appointment rolled around, my momentum had curdled. No more splinters in my side—and I hadn’t actually hit the pavement.
“Dave, you can see our bathtub through the laundromat ceiling.”
I shook the ants from my shoes.
A quick jaunt down the Avenue and we had found our new place. The owner’s son—Richard—did the honours that day:
“We’ve been here forty years,” he explained. “Original fixtures… chandeliers… three closed bedrooms…”
“Balconies?” Joy whispered.
“One in the front. One in the back. Both in very good repair. There’s a deck out there too.”
In Balconville this was currency.
“We just had the plumbing redone,” he continued, “but now mom wants a condo. You know how that is. We’re also ditching the canicherie .”
“Aw—no more doggies downstairs? Dave’s a big fan.”
“Don’t you worry then, David. We’ve got a buyer in mind. An excellent groomer. It’s the least we could do. Pour notre clientèle,” he smiled, “et, je suppose, pour vous.”
When we got home, she was manic.
“Where’re my tap dancing shoes?!”
I enjoyed the performance—but I couldn’t help wondering, who would take that third room?
We had a week to decide it, while the references went through. We came up with Carla: a West Island transplant, like me (although not a functionally bilingual one). A decent person on the whole—but kinda volatile too. That didn’t seem very pertinent, when I thought of our refuge.
If I had any doubts at all, they were quashed at the signing. Those Bourgeois were so accommodating.
“Will it be alright if I park my car in back of the store?” Carla wanted to know.
“Mais certainement, ma chère!” the radiantly fat lady exploded, as her son poured the bubbly. “This is your new home. We want you to be as comfortable here as we have been, all these years.”
For a moment, I thought I spotted something lewd in the corner of Richard’s eye. But this was quickly forgotten—especially after Carla and our host struck common ground in the vicinity of Atlantis.
“Mais c’est incroyable!” She went up a decibel as she danced toward a bookshelf. “Est-ce que vous connaissez Edgar Cayce?”
“Ah yes,” Carla winked. “Some pretty heady questions in those tomes.”
“The world is so beautifully mysterious,” Madame Bourgeois sighed.
Yes, I thought to myself, and mysteries are so much more beautiful when the plumbing works.
We took decadently long showers. We washed our sheets twice a week. We plugged in three-pronged things, just because we could. We forgot how to use a plunger.
We had a dinner party.
And people actually came.
Then we met the new owner.
That “excellent dog groomer”—Rikka Martin.
Reader, I hated her.
The bitch tried to groom us out.
Soon enough, this raised hackles in the back, and on the deck.
It started in the parking lot—i.e. Rikka’s new backyard (she took up residence somewhere inside the store). One day, Carla drove off to some rendezvous and returned to find a complete patio set and some frolicking poodles in the Holy of Holies. Naturally, she complained. And the message got across. The next time Carla took a ride, Rikka threw up a fence.
I’m afraid locks were picked.
The groomer responded with some shit of her own, forever tarnishing her reputation as a person who can be trusted with large amounts of dog excrement.
If you think matters ended there—or led to anything sensible, like a murder—you’ve probably lived your entire life in a semi-detached bungalow. This fucker’s goin’ to court. La Régie du logement. Along the way, Carla will purchase a supersonic dog whistle, Rikka will cut the heat to our magnificent apartment, and all sanity will be lost in the crossfire. Also, almost as an afterthought, they will begin to play up the linguistic dimensions of the fight.
When we could stand to be home at all, Joy and I pooled our blankets beneath the cold chandelier. It wasn’t so different from the Moffat days, in terms of pure discomfort, but the revolution of rising expectations had stolen the piss from our sails. Carla abandoned herself to the case and the whistle, rocking quite weirdly to the unheard strains of delusional revenge.
We now had a firm date with the judge—and the last vestiges of courtesy were crumbling. The landlady called our number incessantly, reveling in her power over our bodies: “Je prédis une fin de semaine frigide, les amis!” Carla took note of these incidents with glee. “You seethis?” she stroked a burst duotang. “This is the end of Rikka.”
Mother of mercy!
Then she reached for that whistle like a suce.
But now you’re asking yourself—what of Bourgeois? She’s well out of it, no? In her Atlantean condo? I’m sure that’s what she thought. But even the Lost Continent can be subpoenaed.
The thing is: we needed her. Or, anyway, Carla did. To validate her claim re: the parking. It all hinged on that. Establish a verbal agreement and we had a pat hand. But would Bourgeois remember—or choose to forget?
Carla asked me to call her, since I spoke the best French. I patched into the hotline to theTroisième Age of Aquarius.
Her “Bonjour” was the apex of fuzzed out benevolence.
But the voice declined sharply when she said:
“Je m’excuse David, mais je préfère ne pas m’exprimer sur ce sujet.”
“Bitch does not have a choice!” Carla whispered in my ear.
These contracts have zombified lives of their own.
Bourgeois was summoned in due course.
At the Régie, two months later, the ex-proprietor wore the mask of her stillborn Inner Child. Constant agitation—from both sides of the divide—had severed the Gordian Knot of her bliss.
“Je ne sais pas quoi faire, ” she yelped. “Je suis prise entre les deux!”
The last champagne bubble popped in the vise. The judge yawned his way through the testimony and ruled: “This is just normal landlord/tenant friction. Go home.” But Madame Bourgeois had sold her home.