15

Finally, we arrived in Boucherville. The stars above were bright, but at ground level the place seemed sleepy. The only lights illuminating the town were from a restaurant, whose windows glowed like a lighthouse, drawing us weary travelers.

Our stomachs grumbled. My ankle ached. We had planned a bike trip, but there we were, walking. All told, you may be surprised to know, I was happy. Ecstatic, even. One day down. We were closer than ever. And though I was bruised, I was not yet beaten.

'Yo,' Matty said tiredly, pointing at the restaurant. 'Let's go there.'

We continued toward it. Blotting the windows' golden panes were outlines of people talking and eating. No wonder the rest of the town had turned off their lights. Everyone was out to dinner. As we got closer, our noses caught the smell of warm garlic, onion and red meat. As we got even closer, a gas station emerged behind the restaurant. Its lights were on too, though much dimmer.

'How much cash do you have?' asked Matty, who was practically slobbering.

'Two hundred bucks,' Chris said. 'You?'

'One fifty,' Matty said.

'I got fourty,' I said. 'Take it—get us a table. I'll meet you there in a minute.'

'What? Why?' asked Matty, as Chris stuffed my money in his pocket.

'Maybe I can get my bike fixed at that gas station.'

'I dunno,' Chris said. 'It looks closed. You sure you don't wanna just come for food? We'll figure it out after.'

'I'm fine.' I said, though my stomach disagreed. 'I'm the one who got us into this mess. You guys get food. I'll be right over.'

'Sounds good, dude,' Chris said, running to catch up with Matty, who was so far ahead he may have already started dessert. 'See you there.'

I headed to the gas station. To be alone felt good. The best times are spent with friends, I admit. But after a full day with Chris and Matty, it was nice to part ways. Like taking off your favourite shirt at the end of the day.

When I arrived at the gas station, the sign on the door read 'closed'. Yet someone inside sat behind the cash. I pushed the door. It opened. As I entered, chimes rattled above.

'Hi, there,' I smiled and approached the counter. The man behind it frowned. He had thin hair, wore Clark Kent glasses and read a comic book about the very superhero.

'Yes?' he said, in an I'm-being-disturbed kind of way.

'How are you?' I asked. Whenever I want to be nice to someone behind a desk, I ask, 'How are you?' I think they appreciate it.

'We're closed.'

'Sorry to bug you,' I persisted. 'But do you have plyers I could borrow? I have a small problem. I biked here from Kinnard, but I can't leave. My bike is sort of broken. I think I can fix it with plyers. If you don't have, that's fine too.'

His face softened. 'Sure, why not.'

'Thanks so much!' Just like that, things were working in my favour. I'm always surprised at how quickly life can turn, if you're only patient; and how easy it is to get help, if you only ask.

'Don't worry about it. The plyers are in the garage next door. Sit tight. I'll be back.'

The man left and I was glad he did. I was tired of company, tired of making faces; I just wanted to escape. So I did what I usually do when in that state: I pulled out my book, The Grand Adventure of Dmitri Waltz, and started reading. At this point Dmitri was older, maybe ten or eleven, and had found work at his town's library:

. . . Three afternoons a week I sat at the desk of our one-room library and lorded over the children who visited. The work fit me like socks in winter. Once I had the whirring thrill of locating David Copperfield for Ms. Berger, our rose-cheeked schoolteacher, after whom I hankered. More often than not, no one visited, or else they came only briefly to deposit the old and collect the new, so that I had the place to myself. Ours was not much of a collection—perhaps five hundred titles—the bulk of which came by donation. It soon became my duty to sort through our latest gifts: the books I wanted, we kept; the rest, we sent to prisons, on the assumption that delinquents would read anything.

I encountered some peculiar works in the performance of my duty. There was an anthropological text, with a chilling etching of a fire dance, and another of a medicine woman, her neck stretched longer than my young leg. Many years later, I would meet a native in the flesh, and learn of the tragedy that the white man had bestowed on this poor fellow's tribesmen; thence I became a lifelong enemy of imperialism and the villains who dealt in it. Yet another book I found donated—donated!—was the Life of Saints by Runstable Damsey. From its pages I learned of St. Jerome, who tamed a lion by healing its paw, and St. Francis, who saw Jesus on a pilgrimage and built a church on the ground the king stood. At the time, I had a confused notion of religion, tale, and history. All seemed a splendid extension of life, a world of wonder which amounted to speculation in our village, but was commonplace truth in the borders beyond.

The greatest prize I found was The Art of Conjuring by Professor Zinn. The first part told of Seigneur Maléfice, the Parisian magician, and his legendary illusions. As Professor Zinn described it, Seigneur Maléfice began his show by appearing in the middle of the stage, dressed in a black smoker with a velvet collar. He would then pluck from thin air a silk cloak, and wrap it around his body. Suddenly, his body would become transparent. To prove the matter, Seigneur Maléfice had his assistant—an elegant girl who wore as near to nothing as Parisian modesty would permit—walk through him. Then another flourish of the cloak, and his body would reappear.

Next, the Seigneur would invite members of the audience onstage to join him for a snort of snuff. From a snuff box no wider than your or my little finger, he would produce powdered tobacco, chewing tobacco, a cigarette, a cigar, a pipe and, finally, a hookah. On the show proceeded, until Seigneur Maléfice had drowned himself blue, chopped himself up, burned himself ashen, and left the crowd utterly bewildered and bemused. He was a master conjurer.

The second part of the book detailed how to perform Seigneur Maléfice's illusions and many others. As I read, I admitted that fate had meant this book for me. It became a secret friend and a profound teacher. By studying it, I would become a conjurer, and, more than that, a man.

Most illusions, I discovered, called for technical devices, always described by the Professor as "easily obtainable from any machinist". Unfortunately Mr. Tuck, our handyman, had never heard of any of them. Even if he had, I knew not a penny with which to buy them. I was steadfast, however. If I could not learn most illusions, I would instead master the form of conjuring that the Professor deemed oldest and truest: sleight-of-hand.

I still look upon those hours I spent in my bedroom passing a coin from palm to sleeve to palm as an era of Edenic pleasure. It did not matter that no one I knew had heard of conjuring; I accepted Professor Zin's world as the real one, and assumed that when I returned to Café Mendel's—that great and scary patisserie to which my mother had taken me years ago—the patrons would be mad for conjuring, and thrilled beyond restraint to meet a slightly sinister, but wholly charming, master of the art. Conjurers were obviously distinguished fellows and kept company of high importance. I would be one of them . . .

'Come on back.' I hadn't noticed, but my new friend had returned, and was standing over me. 'Here are some plyers, and a can of lube, which may be useful. I have to close the store, so it would be better if you followed me out.'

He led me and my bike out back and into the garage.

'I'm going to lock up. Be back in five. You shouldn't need more than that, should you?'

'No, I'll be quick.' I said.

'Good. Help yourself to what you need.'

'Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.'

'No problem, be careful.'

As soon as he left, I began fixing my bike. I'd become handy with it over the years. This book I got from the library, Parts of a Bike, taught me how. It's funny, I never thought about libraries when I was younger. I certainly never went. But when I first read about Dmitri, and all the cool stuff he found at the library, I thought maybe I could find cool stuff there too. Then maybe I could be more like him. Now, the library is one of my favourite places. I've been finding cool stuff there ever since. It's miraculous how reading a book, even a fictional one like The Grand Adventure of Dmitri Waltz, can change a person. Almost divine.

Anyway, when I tried to pull the chain off my bike, I couldn't. I realized that it had jammed in the frame. So I opened the axel-knot with my pliers to make room. Then I realized the derailer had slid down and taken the chain with it. So I tightened the brake cable and turned the wheel until the chain found its way back onto the gear. I kept turning the wheel and, to my surprise, the bent link straightened itself out, enough to keep the wheel turning, at least. My bike was working again. I can be handy in a pinch. My benefactor hadn't even finished locking up.

As I waited for the man to return, I walked around the garage. It was a thin, metallic kind of place, with bars and poles crossing all over. Spider webs hung on the walls, and dust and dirt settled in the ledges. Looking at it made my nose itch. There was no shortage of work, though: cars of varying states of disrepair occupied every space.

I got thinking. This kind of life may not be half-bad. I'm handy. I could stay in a town just like this one. Who needs adventure, anyway? I'd open a garage of my own. I'd run a tight garage too. Cleaner than this place, at any rate. By day I'd fix cars, and, by night, I'd sit out front with books for company. Sounds nice, in a way.

Of course, it couldn't be this exact town. It'd have to be farther. Far enough that no one there would know me, and that those who did wouldn't visit. I'd live simply. A life no more complicated than the chores of everyday.

I wouldn't have a wife, probably, or many friends. I probably wouldn't get along with the people in town either. But I could adopt a kid or two. And take real good care of them. I'd read all the good bedtime stories to them. And not put any pressure on them to be anything other than who they want to be. Doesn't sound too bad at all.

The door opened and the man walked in again. 'How'd it go?'

'Fixed! Thanks again for your help.' I placed the lube and pliers on a shelf nearby.

'My pleasure,' he said. 'Now better get out of here.'

'Right.'

Silence prevailed as I walked my bike out of the garage.

'Just out of curiosity,' I said, as he locked the garage door. 'How long've you been working here?'

'About twelve years.'

Silence again.

'Do you like it?'

'Depends on the day.'

I smiled. 'How'd you come to work in a garage, if you don't mind me asking?'

'That's a longer story.'

'I have time.'

He sighed, preparing himself. 'When I was about your age, I wanted to be a cameraman. I was studying for it in college, but when I got offered a job filming up north, I took it and dropped out. The company went bust. I had no money. The girl I was dating, her dad hired me. I married the girl and I've been working here ever since.'

'So you didn't always want to fix cars?'

'Not really.'

'Are you looking to hire?' I asked, almost by accident.

He looked at me quizzically.

'I'm handy,' I continued. 'See this bike? It was my grandfather's. When I found it, it was rusting to pieces. I fixed it myself, with help from a library book . . . I'd make a good employee. I work hard, I don't take breaks. I'm ambitious, you know. If we tidied this place up a bit, if we modernized it, and got rid of the cobwebs . . .'

'Sorry, I can't.'

'Sure you could, if you wanted to. I'll even work for free for the first little while. You'll see, I'm worth it.'

'Don't you have somewhere to go?'

'Please?' I asked. I wasn't quite sure why. Sometimes I get ahead of myself, and I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

'Look, it's nice of you to offer,' he said.

'Okay, okay,' I turned around and started walking to the restaurant. 'Thanks anyway.'

As I walked, I felt dramatic, like one big sigh all over. The stars were brighter and more numerous than in Kinnard. The air was greener. The bugs were louder. And the rocky path leading to the restaurant made this kind of beautiful scene. Everything was arranged just right, from the drooping trees to the singing breeze. But underneath was a mystery. I didn't know the first thing about how our world got this way. No one does. How was I supposed to figure out what I should do, in a world so mysterious that no one knows the first thing about it? I scrunched my face and screwed my eyes and tried my best to cry. I didn't though. I couldn't. It was probably better, anyway, because I was steps from the restaurant. I locked my bike. Took a deep breath. And walked in.