В сердце большого города скрываются тайны и загадки. Каждое утро открывает новый слой этой истории, напоминая о безвозвратности прошлого. Внутренние драмы и судьбы, переплетающиеся в пространстве и времени, создают непредсказуемую атмосферу будничной мелодрамы.
The sky was gunmetal, the air heavy with unborn snow.
“Bundle up,” I told Anne, zipping my parka.
“Where are we going?”
“Hôtel de Ville.”
“We’re booking a room?” Muffled through angora scarving.
“City Hall. It’s a four-block walk.”
Perched atop place Jacques-Cartier, Montreal’s City Hall is a Victorian extravagance in copper and stone. Built between 1872 and 1878, the place looks as though its designer didn’t quite know when to call it a day. Mansard roof? Très Parisien. Columns? Of course. Porticos? Bien sûr.
Though devastated by fire in 1922, Hôtel de Ville remained structurally sound, was rejuvenated, and today is a favorite with both natives and visitors, one of Montreal’s most charming landmarks.
“One would not confuse this with the Clover City Hall,” Anne said as we climbed the front steps.
I pointed to a balcony over the front door. “See that?”
Anne nodded.
“Charles de Gaulle made his famous or infamous Vive le Québec Libre speech from that balcony.
“When?”
“Sixty-seven.”
“And?”
“The separatists liked it.”
Despite its modern status as a tourist attraction, Hôtel de Ville remains the city’s main administrative center. And the repository of the information I was seeking. I hoped.
Anne and I entered to the smell of radiator heat and wet wool. Across the lobby, a kiosk offered Renseignements. Information.
A woman looked up when I approached. She was about twenty, with towering blonde hair that added inches to her height.
The woman stifled a yawn as I explained what I wanted. Before I’d finished, she pointed to a wallboard listing offices and locations, her bony arm clattering with plastic bracelets.
“Accès Montréal,” she said.
“Merci,” I said.
“I think she could have been less interested,” Anne said, trailing me to the office directory. “But not without a heavy dose of Lithium.”
In the Access Montreal office we encountered an older, heavier, and decidedly friendlier version of Ms.
“Bonjour. Hi.”
I explained my objective in French.
The woman dropped chained glasses to her bosom and replied in English.
“If you have a civic address, I can look up the cadastral and lot numbers.”
I must have looked confused.
“The cadastral number describes the parcel of land. The important one is the lot number.
