LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

old city of Quebec. The Gagnon farm is found on one of the first roads of New France, the Avenue Royale. Sadly, no Gagnon live on this farm today.”

      “Sorry to hear that.”

      “Me too. It was very special. Unfortunately, my papa must sell the farm when I am a child.”

      “Was that when you moved here?” I asked in surprise. I’d had the impression Papa Gagnon had only occupied this particular farm for the past ten years. If they’d moved here when Soeur Yvonne was a young girl, that would make it twenty-five or thirty years ago.

      “Non.” She placed her hand over the silver cross as if seeking solace. “We lived in Sainte-Famille, a small village on Île d’Orleans. My papa and Yvette come here later.”

      I found it curious that Papa Gagnon would move to this western end of the province, where Québécois culture was only one of many, when his roots so directly tied him to the heartland of French Canada. I asked Soeur Yvonne why.

      But as if she hadn’t heard, she resumed walking down the hall to the kitchen. I followed her through the door and into the sauna heat wafting from a large cast-iron woodstove. I immediately undid my jacket and removed my wool hat.

      Yvette, bundled up in a white bathrobe, sat huddled in a wooden chair at one end of a long pine table that was more suited to the size of family Soeur Yvonne would have preferred than the Gagnons’ small one. Her broken arm was tucked within the folds of her bathrobe. She no longer wore the bandage around her head. In its stead was another bleak reminder of her accident, a large angry red scab.

      “How are you doing?” I asked, removing my jacket and scarf. Still hot, I unbuttoned my sweater and took it off too.

      “Much better, thank you,” she replied with her usual shyness. Her wispy auburn hair, tidied into two long braids, gave her the appearance of an obedient child.

      I sat across the table from her on a wobbly arrow-back chair, well beyond range of the stove’s heat. I glanced around the expansive kitchen that consumed the entire rear of the small farmhouse. I might have been mistaken about the origins of the antique parlour furniture, but I had little doubt about the source of this kitchen. Yves’s modern taste and generosity were evident in the top-of-the-line refrigerator and smooth-top stove, both in gleaming stainless steel, and the sleek cherry wood cupboards with their granite countertop. But as much as I admired the kitchen, I felt that its crisp modern lines didn’t entirely fit with the Victorian feel of the house. On the other hand, the woodstove and the battered brass woodbox blended right in with the rural setting.

      Bright morning sun poured through two large windows, making the room feel even hotter. Through one of the windows I was pleasantly surprised to see Yves’s black car parked across the yard, next to one of the outlying barns.

      “Will Yves be joining us?” I asked hopefully.

      I felt Yvette tense as she turned a startled glance to her older sister. Soeur Yvonne answered, “My brother is not at home.”

      “But isn’t that his car?”

      She glanced out the window, “Bien sûr, I forget. He leave his car here. Mais, today he go to Montreal with a business associate.”

      “Oui, c’est vrai,” Yvette chimed in.

      Soeur Yvonne walked over to the window. “The sun brings much heat, non?” She flicked closed the curtains of the first then the second window, but not before I noticed a man of Yves’s slim build entering the barn. He was wearing a camelhair coat similar to the one Yves had worn on his visit to my house.

      Good. He hadn’t left yet. Perhaps he would drop in to say goodbye. But then again, maybe he wouldn’t. From the way Yvette had reacted to my question, the sisters might have told Yves not to join us.

      “Please, a little coffee, Madame Harris?” Soeur Yvonne held up a large glass filter coffeepot, filled no doubt with the strong, rich coffee loved by most French-Canadians.

      While I did like mine strong, usually this coffee was a little too harsh for my taste. “With milk, heated if possible.”

      “Of course, café au lait.” She half-filled a small bowl with steaming milk, then added the almost black liquid. She passed it to me. After pouring the same for herself and Yvette, she placed a china plate filled with pets de soeurs on the table. I smiled as I reached for one of the deliciously sweet pastries. “Nuns’ farts” was the English translation for these small rings of baked dough drenched in cinnamon and brown sugar. Soeur Yvonne’s sombre comportment suggested she didn’t appreciate the humour in the name.

      For the first time since entering the room, I focused my attention entirely on Yvette and was shocked. On Sunday when I’d visited her, she’d been bustling with energy and well on the road to health. Today, three days later, she appeared lifeless, withdrawn. Her face bore a sickly, grey pallor.

      “Oh, dear, have you had a setback?” I asked. But her sister sitting beside her answered. “Thanks to the blessed Virgin, she goes better. Now you have not such pain, eh, ma petite?”

      Yvette meekly nodded.

      “Is your arm causing you pain, or is it one of your other injuries?” I persisted, wanting Yvette to speak for herself.

      Once again Soeur Yvonne answered for her, “The pain is in here.” She pointed to her chest.

      “Yes, I imagine broken ribs can be a painful injury and are probably slow to heal. I hope it doesn’t hurt you too much, Yvette?”

      She mumbled that it didn’t, while her sister declared, “Each day she goes better, n’est-ce pas, ma petite?”

      Soeur Yvonne patted her sister’s hand almost as a mother would a child. And given the probable fifteen-year age difference and her nurturing training as a nun, it was to be expected.

      At that point, the small brown cat I’d seen with Papa Gagnon on my first visit sauntered into the kitchen, leapt up onto Yvette’s lap and commenced purring.

      Her eyes glistened with tenderness. “Mon minou,” she said, running the hand of her uninjured arm over the cat’s back. “My little pussy cat.”

      “A Burmese cat,” Soeur Yvonne added. “I give this pet to my sister because his colour is like the hairs of my sister, non?”

      “Hmm, yes it is.” In fact the cat almost seemed to be an extension of Yvette’s rich mahogany hair as she bent over to give her pet a kiss.

      We continued drinking our coffee in strained silence. I was dying to find out the reason for Yvette’s call, but was reluctant to ask in front of this older woman. Because my friend hadn’t brought it up herself, I sensed that it was something she preferred to talk about away from her sister’s overbearing presence. Moreover, murder hardly seemed the kind of topic to discuss in front of a nun.

      I was trying to figure out a way of getting Yvette alone, when Soeur Yvonne brought the subject up herself. “It is so tragic, the death of this young woman, non?” she said.

      “Yes, very. I understand she was a daughter of one of your brother’s business associates. Did you know her too?”

      “Non, pas du tout. I never meet this young woman. So sad, but we must not forget she has found joy. She is with our Lord Jesus.”

      I should’ve expected this reaction. “And I guess Yvette didn’t know her either?”

      Yvette raised startled eyes towards me. She started to shake her head, as if to disagree, but stopped.

      “Oui c’est vrai, n’est-ca pas, ma petite? I think you meet Chantal for the first time when you work on this trail, non?”

      Yvette dropped her eyes back down to her lap. “Oui, you are right, Yvonne,” she whispered. “I forget many things after my fall.” She broke off a piece of pets de soeur as if to eat it but didn’t.

Скачать книгу