Lise Gauvin
Translated by Aliya Esmail
Eight O’clock
Just a few details distinguish this building from the rest of them. A slightly wider facade, shutterless windows decorated with a white trim give it a bourgeois air in a street otherwise noted for its motley appearance.
Four floors, one on top of the other, each with five windows in perfect symmetry. In the slope of the roof, the dormer windows placed at an equal distance from each other give the building a mischievous touch. Their placement, slightly offset from the rest, attracts the eye. There is an impression of unassuming charm, as is felt with some Renaissance buildings.
All the windows are closed, some of them lined inside with opaque curtains. Others let pale rays that have just escaped the night filter in.
It is winter, and it is cold.
Sometimes a shadow is seen, parting the curtains slightly, disappearing.
A curly head appears in a window frame.
A new day begins.
Noon
Most of the curtains are drawn open.
First floor. People come and go, sit at their desks, chat with their counterparts, shake hands. The same people come and go in front of the windows, from the first to the fourth and the fourth to the first, as if it were the same undifferentiated space. In the background, silhouettes make a brief appearance before sitting on chairs lined up along a dividing wall. Travel agency? Tourist information center? Financial services? Judging by the difference in clothing between the people who move and the people who wait, it would seem more like a charitable foundation or an unemployment center.
Second floor, first window from the left. A man’s head, in profile, chews the food he brings to his mouth. With a slow, measured, methodological gesture. Repeated twenty times. The table must be positioned against the wall just below the window, because the face looks encased by the frame that defines the window to the left and center. High forehead, aquiline nose, emaciated cheeks. Looks like one of the card players in Cezanne’s paintings. Even the imposing stature and rigidity is the same.
Second floor, fourth window from the left. A woman works in front of a computer. Every so often, she pauses, picks up the handset in front of her, engages in a conversation that she accents with strong gestures, then returns to her keyboard. Hair in a bob cut, impeccable outfit: small black tailored suit, blouse with an open collar. From the confident way she performs each of her movements, she could be an experienced journalist, or a business manager supervising remote operations.
Third floor, first window from the right. A child leans out. His nanny, a black woman, immediately calls him inside and scolds him. A few minutes later, two angry kids fight over a ball. It flies from one to the other until the smaller child throws it forcefully out the open window. Cries ensue, alerting the neighbors. A few astonished faces appear on the second and fourth floors. One of the children starts crying. The nanny rocks him gently, singing. The ball is nowhere to be found.
Fourth floor, second window from the left. A basket full of laundry stands on the table next to an ironing board. The wind raises one of the sheets, one end of which falls casually on the floor. A shelving unit stands against the back wall with large, deep boxes spaced no more than four or five centimeters apart. The room seems unoccupied, yet the window is wide open.
Fifth floor. The dormers are always silent.
Four O’clock
First floor. Same back and forth as before.
Second floor, first window from the left. No glimpses of a profile. Only the table is always visible. On it, a half-filled glass of wine.
Second floor, fourth window from the left. Still in front of her computer, the woman has hung her jacket on the back of her chair. Her fingers press the keys of the keyboard at a tremendous speed. Sometimes she turns her head to look outside, granting herself a few moments break.
Third floor. Nothing moves. The children will have gone to play in the park or have accompanied their nanny to the market. Unless they are still dreaming from an unusually long nap.
Fourth floor. A woman leans on the windowsill and looks out to the street. The break is short-lived. After a few minutes, she goes back to work, spreads a white sheet on the board standing waist-high and, iron in hand, tirelessly repeats the gestures she has been taught.
Fifth floor. In one of the dormer windows, the silhouette of a man appears, sitting with his back facing the window.
Eight O’clock
First floor. People come and go in front of the windows. Many more than in the morning. Some have a drink in their hands, others nibble on small sandwiches while talking. Women, each one more elegant than the last. Some necklines show perfect curves. The men have replaced their ties with crewneck t-shirts and matching jackets. Couples are made and disbanded in a complex choreography. It is rare for two people to spend more than three minutes together chatting. A worldly dance where mobility is essential, with profits or losses guaranteed at the end of the performance.
Second floor, first and fourth windows from the left. Nothing to report.
Third floor. Someone approaches the children’s window. The shades are drawn, slowly. It is time for fairy tales recited by an adult with a deep voice. Ogres, goblins, and princesses compete to be the focus of the dreams to come. The teddy bears listen without protest. Their little masters hold their breath.
The lights go out on already heavy eyelids.
Fourth floor. The woman takes a sheet from the basket, folds it, irons it, then puts it on the shelf where several boxes are now occupying space. She is standing, bent forward slightly.
Fifth floor. Behind the dormer window, almost at the height of the ceiling, a head of brown hair is leaning over a notebook. Loose curls give this head the appearance of an errant angel. At some point, the angel—or his double—gets up to open the window. He looks to be about twenty years old, although the vast dark circles under his eyes contrast with their brightness and his mischievous mouth. He immediately returns to his desk, pencil in hand.
Midnight
Second floor, first window from the left. Broad shoulders lean against the glass.
Fourth floor. The ironer is focused on her task. To finish before dawn, if possible. The basket is almost empty. The boxes almost full. She is still standing, bent forward even more.
Fifth floor. The young man does not seem to feel the wind rushing into his room and constantly changes the opening angle of the window.
He writes. Looks up for a moment. Looks again at the notebook. Runs and reruns his hand over his forehead, as if to erase unwelcome thoughts. Drop them on the page. Get rid of them.
While the right hand repeats this gesture with more and more fervor, the left, the one that writes, suddenly stops.
One O’clock in the Morning
Almost all the windows have gone dark again.
Street lamps stand guard.
Second floor, second window from the left. The man with the elongated profile unbuckles his belt. Drops it. Opens a cupboard. And takes out a piece of clothing that he puts on the bed at the back of the room. Takes off his shirt. A small lamp has replaced the ceiling light. In the dim light, there is a slender body, soon dressed in dark pajamas. The gestures are slow and precise. The man sits down on the bed as if waiting for something or someone. After a few minutes, he switches the light off.
Nothing and nobody came.
(2011)
Lise Gauvin is a French-Canadian professor, writer, essayist and literary critic. She teaches literature at the Université de Montréal and writes a column of French-language letters in the Quebec newspaper Le Devoir. She has published popular short story collections like Fugitives (1991) and Arrêts sur image (2003), as well the work of essay/fiction, Lettres d’une autre (1984). Gauvin has been a recipient of many prestigious awards, including the Prix Acfas Andre-Laurendeau for French language literature in 2007 and most recently, in 2015, the Ordre national du Quebec, for her dedication to analysing and critiquing literature, not only of Quebec, but of the entire Francophone world.
Aliya Esmail has studied linguistics, anthropology and French extensively throughout her undergraduate degree at the University of Toronto and has continued to link them to her current studies. She is currently pursuing an MA in translation studies at the University of Ottawa. She wishes she could have been a translator when Harry Potter was still new, but has settled on rereading them every year instead. Aliya also enjoys travelling and trying new foods, but you can almost always catch her chilling in her room with a good movie and a hot cup of tea.
