this amorous voyage into the unknown.
Sure, thought Charles, find a girl. But who would this girl be? He hadn’t the slightest idea.
An image of Céline flashed through his mind, but it was gone almost before he noticed it.
5
U nbelievable that two schools so close to one another and filled with pretty much the same students could nonetheless be so different. That, at least, was what Charles was thinking as he walked home from Pierre-Dupuy High School on a rainy afternoon in September 1981.
The difference had hit him the minute he’d stepped inside the school. First there were the hordes of students swarming everywhere, moving in waves, filling the stairwells with a dull roar. He’d never seen anything like it! “There must be fifteen hundred of us,” he told himself. Jean-Baptiste-Meilleur hadn’t had half that many. And he’d been one of the older kids in his former school, whereas here he felt about as small as a germ. And all those girls, laughing, chattering, swinging their hips, allowing themselves to be hugged or pushing someone away with an elbow or a knee, their eyes flashing angrily and their mouths twisting.… It was all heady stuff for a guy who had gone to a boys-only school for the past eight years! And the whiff of cigarette smoke floating through the air. Just inside the main entrance was a kind of café covered by a green canopy and separated from the corridor by a white picket fence. Students smoked freely, sitting at the tables, perched on chairs, even in the stairwells and the corridors. Teachers even had the right to smoke in class! At Jean-Baptiste-Meilleur, if anyone had lit a cigarette within the school walls there would have been an earthquake; the guilty student would have got five hours of detention.
But all that was nothing compared to what took place in class.
That morning, he’d heard Pierre Blanchard say to Réal Dionne, their math teacher: “Jesus H. Christ, you filthy son of a bitch!”
Exasperated by Blanchard’s behaviour, Dionne had then made a remark that sent a ripple of laughter through the class. The teacher didn’t take the insult too seriously, because he could see that Blanchard was not in great shape. The word in the school was that his father was a hard case who had his own way of getting his children out of bed in the mornings. At any rate, Blanchard went up to Dionne after class and the two of them talked in low voices for a long time before parting on friendly terms.
Charles would never have admitted the fact publicly, but he had a lot of respect for his teachers. They had to have nerves of steel to teach at Pierre-Dupuy! Half of each class was taken up trying to impose some kind of order. Rarely was there quiet for more than twenty seconds at a time. The students talked freely among themselves, dropped things on the floor, shuffled their feet, rearranged their chairs and desks, got up and walked around and even left the classroom without permission, asked the same questions over and over (because they rarely listened to the answers), threw wads of paper at each other, read books, or napped with their heads on their desks. They didn’t behave that way out of spite; they simply couldn’t help themselves. They were like young animals incapable of harnessing their energy.
The previous day Jocelyne Ouellette had, as usual, paraded in front of everyone just before class, showing off her breasts that filled her black cotton sweater, until the teacher had told her to sit down at her desk. As she’d passed Charles she’d brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. He got the message. It was an invitation (the second in three days) to “get it on,” like the others. He’d been too standoffish. The girls had figured out that he was still a virgin. They seemed to have a nose for that sort of thing, despite his best efforts to make them think otherwise. Their sometimes ironic attitude and certain innuendos indicated that they saw through his pretence. If he
Sure, thought Charles, find a girl. But who would this girl be? He hadn’t the slightest idea.
An image of Céline flashed through his mind, but it was gone almost before he noticed it.
5
U nbelievable that two schools so close to one another and filled with pretty much the same students could nonetheless be so different. That, at least, was what Charles was thinking as he walked home from Pierre-Dupuy High School on a rainy afternoon in September 1981.
The difference had hit him the minute he’d stepped inside the school. First there were the hordes of students swarming everywhere, moving in waves, filling the stairwells with a dull roar. He’d never seen anything like it! “There must be fifteen hundred of us,” he told himself. Jean-Baptiste-Meilleur hadn’t had half that many. And he’d been one of the older kids in his former school, whereas here he felt about as small as a germ. And all those girls, laughing, chattering, swinging their hips, allowing themselves to be hugged or pushing someone away with an elbow or a knee, their eyes flashing angrily and their mouths twisting.… It was all heady stuff for a guy who had gone to a boys-only school for the past eight years! And the whiff of cigarette smoke floating through the air. Just inside the main entrance was a kind of café covered by a green canopy and separated from the corridor by a white picket fence. Students smoked freely, sitting at the tables, perched on chairs, even in the stairwells and the corridors. Teachers even had the right to smoke in class! At Jean-Baptiste-Meilleur, if anyone had lit a cigarette within the school walls there would have been an earthquake; the guilty student would have got five hours of detention.
But all that was nothing compared to what took place in class.
That morning, he’d heard Pierre Blanchard say to Réal Dionne, their math teacher: “Jesus H. Christ, you filthy son of a bitch!”
Exasperated by Blanchard’s behaviour, Dionne had then made a remark that sent a ripple of laughter through the class. The teacher didn’t take the insult too seriously, because he could see that Blanchard was not in great shape. The word in the school was that his father was a hard case who had his own way of getting his children out of bed in the mornings. At any rate, Blanchard went up to Dionne after class and the two of them talked in low voices for a long time before parting on friendly terms.
Charles would never have admitted the fact publicly, but he had a lot of respect for his teachers. They had to have nerves of steel to teach at Pierre-Dupuy! Half of each class was taken up trying to impose some kind of order. Rarely was there quiet for more than twenty seconds at a time. The students talked freely among themselves, dropped things on the floor, shuffled their feet, rearranged their chairs and desks, got up and walked around and even left the classroom without permission, asked the same questions over and over (because they rarely listened to the answers), threw wads of paper at each other, read books, or napped with their heads on their desks. They didn’t behave that way out of spite; they simply couldn’t help themselves. They were like young animals incapable of harnessing their energy.
The previous day Jocelyne Ouellette had, as usual, paraded in front of everyone just before class, showing off her breasts that filled her black cotton sweater, until the teacher had told her to sit down at her desk. As she’d passed Charles she’d brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. He got the message. It was an invitation (the second in three days) to “get it on,” like the others. He’d been too standoffish. The girls had figured out that he was still a virgin. They seemed to have a nose for that sort of thing, despite his best efforts to make them think otherwise. Their sometimes ironic attitude and certain innuendos indicated that they saw through his pretence. If he
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