The only reasonable, the only courteous, the only realistic response, is that both of us, Carl and I, keep our mouths shut. I will focus on the tepid sunlight, now beginning to filtre through the clouds, faint touches of silver and gold on the surrounding leaves. Francois walks tall and silent, a little ahead of us. Everything he does, expresses, postures, is infused with elegance. Does he even guess how gifted he is.
"You were born in Montreal?" Carl asks suddenly, hesitantly.
"We were sponsored by a local family They are white Quebecois, who trace their ancestry in la belle province back over three centuries. Their name is Gagnon. We lived with them."
"That must have been very kind of them", says Carl.
"Nothing at all kind about those people", he retorts. "Mother was their servant, their grateful slave, rather, and by extension, so was I."
"But they rescued you", says Carl.
"Okay, they weren't particularly cruel. And Mom said afterward that she really wanted to help, enjoyed helping, because she felt so burdenned by a debt of gratitude. And they exploited her to the max...."
No comments:
Post a Comment