A Fine Passage by France Daigle Page A

wrapper back over the remains of his chocolate bar.
    â€œAll right, I’m going to read now. I won’t bother you any more.”
    He opens the book on his lap and begins to read. But not a minute passes before he turns again to his neighbour.
    â€œWisdom — this means something to you?”
    Fearing what may follow, Claudia offers a hesitant yes in reply.
    â€œWell! Well, believe it or not, I am a wise man. Have you ever seen one before?”
    Claudia is on the verge of concluding that the man is slightly deranged. But how to bring an end to this conversation?
    â€œNo, I don’t think so.”
    â€œGood! So now you have.”
    The man named Shimon casts a global eye around the cabin.
    â€œPeople are beginning to sigh. This is a good sign.”
    And he adds, in the same confiding tone: “They are beginning to show fatigue. Sometimes, fatigue can be very beautiful, you know.”
    Two women are having lunch together in a crowded restaurant.
    â€œEvery Thursday, he’d throw out his used Kleenex.”
    She says this without looking up from her plate; she is working hard with her fork to retrieve a piece of sodden lettuce stubbornly entrenched in the dregs of vinaigrette. The other woman does not look up either; having harpooned a chunk of meat, she is busy enveloping it in sauce.
    â€œOnly on Thursdays? Who threw them out the other days? You?”
    The leafy green yields at last and is taken. Clearly, her friend will never change.
    â€œI mean, on Thursdays, he’s more sure of himself. More confident. Optimistic.”
    â€œAh! You mean he bounces back.”
    Silence permeates the restaurant.
    â€œHe wouldn’t be a bit depressed, by any chance?”
    â€œDepressed? No. At least, I don’t think so.”
    Claudia is astonished to find that she’s been sleeping, and she notices with equal surprise that the pope-rabbi has also dozed off. She remembers straining to stay awake while he chattered away about one thing and another. For what seemed like the longest time, she had struggled to keep up with the speaking face, but to no avail: the pope-rabbi’s face faded, slipped into slow motion, or broke into jump-cuts, like in those old Hollywood movies that her parents occasionally suspend their social conscience to indulge in. In the end, the man suggested she yield to slumber.
    â€œGo ahead. Don’t worry about me. Sleep is a gift from God.”
    Claudia glances at her sleeping neighbour’s delicate white hands. One of his fingers is clenched within the pages of a book with a nondescript black cover.
    A stewardess comes down the aisle, pausing here and there to ask if everything is all right. Watching her walk away, Claudia notices, diagonally across the aisle, a man, approximately fifty years old, shift in his seat and uncross his legs. He shows no sign of reading.
    In the restaurant, the two women have finished eating. A few scraps litter their plates, which they have pushed delicately aside.
    â€œYou really have no idea where he is?”
    â€œHe called twice. To see how I was doing.”
    â€œWhere was he calling from?”
    â€œI asked, but he wouldn’t say. He said it made no difference.”
    â€œMy God! Is he mixed up in something shady, or what?”
    The woman who’d struggled with her lettuce laughs.
    â€œDon’t be silly. Of course not! That’s just how he is.”
    Her friend sighs.
    â€œAnd when is he supposed to come back?”
    â€œI have no idea.” She hesitates for a moment before speaking her mind. “Assuming he comes back at all.”
    And tossing her napkin on the table, the friend concludes: “I don’t know how you manage.”
    Having uncrossed his legs, thereby slightly modifying his view, the man who shows no sign of reading continues to reflect on the fact that the names of the major planetary winds do not require capitals. Why not Trade Winds? Foehn? Sirocco? It seems to