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.
Suddenly, I was in a froth to get another opinion.
“Annie, you’re a rock star.”
“I shimmer.”
“You up for a couple more stops before dinner?”
“Mush on.”
Anne waited in the car while I dashed up to the lab, made a quick call, and grabbed the buttons. When I rejoined her, she was listening to Zachary Richard on a local French station.
“What’s he singing about?”
“Someone named Marjolaine.”
“I think he misses her.”
“So he says.”
“Local talent?”
“Louisiana Cajun. Your part of the world.”
Anne leaned back and closed her eyes.
It took twice the normal drive time to return to the old quarter. Though it was just past five, night was in full command. Streetlights were on, shops were closing, pedestrians were hurrying, heads bent, purses and packages pressed to their chests.
Leaving boulevard René-Lévesque, I followed rue Berri to its southern end, then turned west and crept along rue de la Commune. To our right, the narrow lanes of Vieux-Montréal crisscrossed the hill.
“It’s beautiful,” Anne said. “In an arctic tundra sort of way.”
“Cue the caribou.”
In the ice-free months ships belly up to quays jutting from the river’s edge, and cyclists, skateboarders, picnickers, and tourists throng the adjacent parklands and promenades. This evening the riverfront was still and dark.
At the head of place d’Youville, I turned onto a small side street, and parked opposite the old customs house. Anne followed as I trudged downhill, threading her way drunkenly in my tracks."
"Glancing across the river, my gaze fell on the snow-misted outline of Habitat ’67. Built for World Expo, the complex is a pile of geometric cubes that challenges the delicate art of balance. Born more of imagination than architectural pragmatism, Habitat’s walkways and patios are a delight in summer, an invitation to hypothermia in winter.
Andrew Ryan lived in Habitat.
A multitude of questions sidetracked my concentration.
Where was Ryan? What was he feeling? What was I feeling? What had he meant? The need to talk. Agreed. But about what? Commitment? Compromise? Conclusion?
I pushed the questions aside. Ryan was working an operation and not thinking or feeling anything having to do with me.
