L'Arrivée

Johnny looked out from the isolation of the speeding Jetta. He wondered if he was awake or sleeping, still in the swift-moving dream in which he had been wrapped so long since the great ride began. The darkness was rushing by and the blues rang loudly in his ears.

He had seen nothing but the highway for hours, away to his left and right vast shadows against the sky where the mountains rose unexpectedly from the forests and farmlands. Sleepily he tried to reckon the times and stages of their descent, but his memory was drowsy and uncertain.

The satisfaction of seeing the road signs changed back from English to French after crossing the frontière had settled to a warm glow as a world of memories flooded his thoughts. It was like going back in time.

He was looking out from his grandparents' kitchen table as the Sunday morning sun glinted through the snow and ice on the tall pines.

Pépère stood in front of the stove beating eggs with a fork in his favorite coffee cup, making a quick click-click-click against the side of the tea-stained cup.

He called out to Mémère getting ready for church, "'Henriette, Depeche-toi!"

Breakfast had to be finished an hour before Mass in order to receive communion.

The spell of his childhood recollections slammed shut as Autoroute 10 verred northward and the harsh fluorescent light from improbably tall poles marked the final approach to the Pont Champlain and Montréal. He was still topping 80 mph mid-way over the bridge as he changed lanes and prepared for final descent into the city.

He downshifted at the sign for Autoroute Bonaventure/Ville-Marie, put it back into fifth as he raced past the Parc de Technologie and the Casino de Montréal, then came to a complete halt at the bottom of Rue University.

Jean lit another cigarette and opened the window. He looked mechanically with eyes pinned open from coffee and cigarettes at the signs on the enormous Tour Bell.

He was still starring in a suspense movie that was playing in his mind.

He remembered his Hilton Rewards card in his wallet and decided where to go. The light turned green, he put the Jetta into first and took a left halfway up the hill.

The white door of Hilton Bonaventure's underground garage opened in perfect sychronization to his approach. Van Morrison's Bang Sessions smashed the waning darkness for a last time. He put on a tired and stretched fisherman's sweater and his irish cap while steering down the circling entrance to a parking space with his knee . It was 4:32 am.

Turning off the car, Jean threw the cigarette out the window and smiled to himself as he stepped out into the garage, "It's go time, baby."