Setting foot on the shore at last, Moralès sighed as flashes of that morning came back to him. Sébastien’s inebriated grin, Joannie’s unbridled locks. He untangled the line, made sure the silvery spoon was firmly attached, and cast the lure over the water in a long, smooth arc.
Ten hours on the road to get here, and he’d driven into a lie. Did he regret what he’d done? Suffice it to say that Sébastien Moralès wasn’t exactly on top form when he opened his eyes at the end of that Gaspesian afternoon with a pounding headache, dry mouth and a blanket tangled around his legs.
Hauling himself upright on the sofa, he picked up his phone. He was sure the ringtone had brought him back to life, but the handset was on silent. A series of texts and missed-call notifications filled the screen. Maude had obviously been trying to get hold of him, but he wasn’t going to reply. Not right now, anyway.
He’d been mad at his partner since Thursday night. Since the huge argument they had about infidelity. For every couple, some topics of conversation are like cracks in a home’s foundation. When you’re caught up in the enthusiastic confidence of youth, you buy a fixer-upper, thinking a few drops of spring snowmelt seeping into the concrete basement won’t make the place any less solid. As the years go by, the cracks widen, but laziness or routine means you don’t notice the smell of the rising damp creeping up the side of the stairs. Then, one stormy night, you hear an ominous sound down below and are dumbstruck to see the wall has caved in.
In the middle of the night, amidst the nauseating words and misunderstandings, Maude had decided to go to her sister’s for a few days to give herself and Sébastien some time to breathe and reflect on their future. She had grabbed a few handfuls of clothes and slammed the door on her way out, leaving him in a hell of a state. Maude’s confession had not been the worst thing, rather it was the dagger she’d then thrown at him – ‘we’re both responsible for what happened’ – that had cut his mind to shreds until morning came. How dare she blame him for her own infidelities?
Sébastien didn’t go into work the next day, and, as if he hadn’t been through the wringer enough already, his mother called to chat about where her career was going next. Since she hit the menopause, she had been swept up in her dream of becoming a great artist. He’d only been listening with half an ear, and Sarah had caught him at it.
‘Are you listening to me, Sébastien?’
‘Sorry Mum, I didn’t catch the last few words.’
‘I’d appreciate it if you gave me a hand with my move.’
‘To the Gaspé?’
Silence at the other end of the line. ‘No. I just told you: I’ve bought a condo here in Longueuil, right by my studio space. I’m moving in tomorrow.’
‘You’re not going out to join Dad, then?’
‘No.’
‘But you’re the one who wanted to move to the Gaspé. You’re the one who persuaded him to get a transfer out there.’
‘Yes, but I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Let me guess: your “agent” Jean-Paul has a hand in this,’ he said with a sneer. The one time he had seen his mother with the guy, she was fawning all over him like a teenager with the school heartthrob. It had made him want to puke.
‘Well, my artistic career has taken off unexpectedly lately, and…’
‘Does Dad know?’
Another silence descended on the conversation, a longer one this time. Then his mother said, ‘Your father’s a grown man, Sébastien. He’s not a victim of my choices. He’s just as responsible as I am for the situation…’
With that, Sébastien hung up on his mother. Seething with anger, he grabbed his things and loaded the car to the roof. He didn’t bother leaving a note for Maude before he hit the road for the Gaspé. He was furious, but also confused. But who was he angry with? Maude? Obviously. His mother? Maybe. Himself? He wouldn’t have been able to see why. His father?
The question struck a chord in his mind. Who else could be to blame for his family’s failures besides his father? Just over thirty years ago, Joaquin Moralès had said goodbye to Mexico because he’d got a young Canadian tourist pregnant. The proud, young Mexican police officer left his country behind for a life as a good, malleable suburban husband just outside Montreal. Had he not essentially abandoned his homeland, turned his back on his family and cast his culture aside – all for Sarah, his wife? The more Sébastien thought about it, the clearer he could see his father, silent and obedient at his mother’s feet. Subservient. And because no woman respects a man who acts like a doormat, now his mother was waltzing off with her art agent. How did they not see that coming? Maybe she’d been cheating on his father for years. Who knew? She’d even managed to get him out from under her feet by roping him into moving to the Gaspé.
Sébastien had jumped to these conclusions as he drove away from his home, and the resentment had come flooding in. Because children tend to mimic their parents, he told himself, he had made the same mistake as his father, bowing to his partner’s whims. And he was now suffering the humiliation of her cheating.
He had to face the fact that the failure of his own relationship was rooted in the example of behaviour his father had set him. And so, all fired up, he had made a beeline for the highway, determined not just to take a break from Maude, but also to confront his progenitor and free himself from the filial subservience that was ruining his life.
As the miles went by between Montreal and Quebec City, he had pictured the entrance he was going to make. Between Quebec City and Rimouski, he had hashed out his argument. Between Rimouski and Amqui, he had fine-tuned the words he was going to use to take his stand. The further he had driven, the clearer his thoughts and the sharper his tongue had become. But driving into Carleton, he had realised he was hungry. He only had an hour left to drive, but he couldn’t show up at his dad’s place with an empty stomach. That would have been embarrassing, for a chef.
So, he had pulled over at a bistro for a bite to eat. It doesn’t take much for hunger to turn to thirst. Especially in a seaside town on a Saturday night. He had soon slipped into the drink and when the Latin American rhythms had filled his ears, for the first time in forever he’d washed up on the dance floor. Caught up in a whirlwind of his own making, he had twirled one girl after another by the hand. And when they had whispered in his ear, ‘Ooh, Moralès, that’s Mexican, isn’t it?’ he had figured, why the hell not? And rolled his tongue around an accent only his father’s family had owned. As the night had advanced, the drink had quenched his moral thirst and cooled his temper such that he found himself seeking refuge from his claustrophobic relationship in the arms of his doting father.
Joaquin hadn’t asked any questions that morning, but Sébastien – too exhausted to get into a father-and-son heart-to-heart – had felt an unspoken pressure to justify his surprise visit. Of course, he could have just said something vague and pressed pause on the confrontation he had come here for. To buy himself some time, he could have told a harmless fib and said he’d got the week off unexpectedly and decided to surprise his father. But he had felt an obligation to come up with something more tangible. A project.
That was why, when he saw the pots and pans jammed against the rear window of his car, he had opened the door, grabbed the box and spun this yarn: ‘I’m here to do some culinary experimentation!’