This collection, with voices of both French and English writers, visits many neighborhoods and combines them into something that is, if not totally coherent, at least as coherent as the beautiful mess that is Montreal. Patrick Senécal and Tess Fragoulis take us downtown, where three major universities mix business with shopping. Michel Basilières and Howard Shrier show us how much The Main has changed from the 1950s to today. And how little.
Along the Lachine Canal, Catherine McKenzie takes us through Saint-Henri, Robert Pobi continues to Little Burgundy, and Samuel Archibald reaches the old port and Centre-Sud. On the other side of downtown, Ian Truman’s gritty, grimy Hochelaga seems far from the gay village of Geneviève Lefebvre’s Ville-Marie, even if it is right next door. Arjun Baju explores the dreamlike Mile End that may not even be real.
The residential neighborhoods surrounding Mount Royal, the Plateau, and Côte-des-Neiges are brought into focus by Johanne Seymour, Martin Michaud, and Melissa Yi.
Montreal is an island, and Peter Kirby walks us to the very edges; Brad Smith escorts us to the Montérégie, off the island but still in the shadows.
Each neighborhood is different and, of course, each Montrealer (Montrealais) is different, making up the pieces of the mosaic of our city. Some are bright and shiny, others are dark and somber, but all have a shadow in the noir.
2017 marks Montreal’s 375th birthday and we’re pleased to add this collection to the literary life of an amazing city.
John McFetridge & Jacques Filippi
Montreal, Quebec
August 2017
Part I
Concrete Jungle
Rush Hour
by Patrick Senécal
Translated from French by Katie Shireen Assef
Downtown
“Slight congestion on South Shore exits. Traffic is flowing smoothly on Jacques-Cartier. Décarie northbound is experiencing delays; there’s a broken-down car on the 640. North Shore bridges are all clear.”
“Thank you, Hugues. It’s 3:35. And now, we turn to the new bill that has just been—”
Hugues takes off his headset, props it on the center console, and turns onto Notre-Dame East, still a clear drive for now. Between the front seats, the two-way radio that communicates with Transport Québec and the highway patrol is silent: a good omen. While he’s listening to a traffic update on another station, one of the two cell phones mounted on the dashboard rings. He activates the speaker.
“Traffic, bonjour!”
“Hey, Hugues! How about this weather, eh?”
“Well, it’s spring, Diane. Time to get out your golf bag!”
He’d recognized the voice immediately, as he always does with his regulars. This particular resident of Laval has called him every day for the past seven years. Others have been communicating with him since he started this beat sixteen years ago.
“Can hardly wait! Say, Hugues, I’m on Acadie northbound, and it’s starting to back up something awful.”
Hugues grabs his notepad and jots down a few symbols only he can decipher.
“Already? The 15 must be jammed then.”
“Well, screw it. I think I’ll stop off at Rockland Centre and wait for it to pass—”
“Diane, no! You’ll go on another shopping spree!”
She chuckles softly and they chat for a while, about everything but traffic, then she tells him she’ll call again later. Hugues has no idea what Diane looks like, and the same goes for most of his regulars. He likes these odd, distant friendships that develop over the years with people he’ll probably never meet, the familiarity that grows between disembodied voices. It’s his favorite part of the job, and it’s what he’ll miss most when he retires. He’s only fifty-three, so it’ll be awhile, but that doesn’t mean he’ll get to stay on the road. At most stations, the “car office” has been replaced by a conventional one, full of screens and telephones. Hugues may be the top traffic reporter in Montreal, but he knows that his bosses are keen on this change. Doing this job from an office would be beyond depressing.
He shakes off the thought, takes a call from another regular, makes notes, listens to an update on another station. After ten minutes, still on Notre-Dame East, he answers a call on one of the two hands-free phones.
“Traffic!”
“How is the traffic, Hugues? Not too stressful, I hope?” It’s an unfamiliar male voice. Probably a first-timer, or someone who hasn’t called in a long while.
“Oh, no! It’s normal for a Thursday afternoon.”
“No shit. You have no clue what stress is, Hugues.”
Hugues stops at a red light. An arrogant jerk calling in to take jabs at his job? He’s had two or three of those in sixteen years. The main thing is not to egg him on by getting angry.
“And you — you know what it is, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes. I know.”
“And what is it that you do, sir?”
“For the moment, I’m unemployed, and I might be for a long time. But everyone knows my story, Hugues, even you.”
“Really? You’re a star, then? Well, good luck to you, and good—”
“I used to work in traffic, but a much more complex kind than your little road-bound racket. You didn’t want to admit that last year. You belittled my job on the air to make yourself look good.”
Hugues frowns. Notre-Dame is starting to jam, so he turns onto Avenue Haig. “What the — what are you talking about?”
“Come on, Hugues, try harder.”
The reporter glances down at his dash screen: Unknown Number. Of course. “Listen, I’m hanging up now. I have other things to—”
“You’re on Haig, then? Perfect, pull over,” the man says.
Hugues feels his jaw drop. He looks in the rearview mirror; no one seems to be following him. “But how do you know—”
“I advise you to pull over now.”
Hugues wonders if he has finally come across someone a bit more sinister than the average crank caller. He comes to a full stop at the side of the road, ignoring the ringing of his other cell phone. “All right then, who are you?” he asks.
“Try harder, I told you. I gave you plenty of clues.”
Hugues clicks his tongue in irritation. He doesn’t remember bad-mouthing any reporter a year ago. And what other kind of traffic is this guy talking about? And suddenly, he understands. “Létourneau,” Hugues sighs.
“At least you have the decency to remember my name.”
It would be difficult to forget — the story had made headlines around the world. Philippe Létourneau, a forty-something Quebecer who worked as an air-traffic controller in New York, had committed a disastrous error by allowing a plane to land on a runway where another aircraft was already parked. The crash had been horrific, causing nearly a hundred deaths.
On the morning after this tragedy, in the middle of the first traffic report of the day, the program host had said to Hugues, on the air, that it was a good thing his job wasn’t as complicated and stressful as air traffic.
“Well, sure,” Hugues had replied, “but both jobs demand a lot of responsibility, mine as much as his. I have to anticipate everything that happens on these roads, or drivers’ll be furious with me. Sadly, I think this Létourneau lacked professionalism and failed to manage the stress of his job. It’s terrible for him, I know, but there’s no messing around in this line of work.”