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.
I found four pages of Ménards in the Montreal phone book, seventy-eight listed with the initial S.
After forty-two calls I decided Ménard was a job for a detective.
Next.
Phan Loc Truong’s nail salon had occupied Cyr’s property from 1998 until 1999.
Not as discouraging as Ménard, but the White Pages alone listed 227 Truongs. No Phan Loc. Two P’s.
Neither of the P’s listed was a Phan Loc. Neither knew a Phan Loc who had operated a nail salon.
I started working my way through the rest of the Truongs. Many spoke little English or French.
I was dialing my twenty-ninth Truong when a voice interrupted me.
“Find anything?”
Anne was standing in the doorway. The room had gone dark without my noticing.
“A lot of ladies willing to do my nails.”
Discouraged, I turned off the computer.
Together Anne and I cooked steaks, potatoes, and asparagus. As we ate, I told her about my fruitless afternoon.
After dinner we watched two Inspector Clouseau movies while Birdie dozed between us. None of us laughed much. We all turned in early.
Around noon on Sunday I tried the Boucherie Lehaim again.
No go.
At two P.M. my call was answered.
“Shalom.” Voice like a baritone oboe.
I introduced myself.
The man said his name was Harry Cohen.
“Is this the same Boucherie Lehaim that was located on Ste-Catherine during the eighties?”
“It is. The shop belonged to my father then.
“Abraham?”
“Yes. We moved in eighty-seven.”
“May I ask why?”
“We cater to a strictly kosher crowd. This neighborhood seemed a better fit.”
“I know this may sound like an odd question, Mr. Cohen, but can you remember anything about the basement of that building?”
“The cellar was accessed through our shop. We kept nothing there, and I don’t remember anyone ever entering or leaving it.”
“Might other tenants have used the basement for storage?”
“We would not have permitted that kind of use of our space, and the only way down was through a trapdoor in our bathroom.
"“Do you know his reason for doing that?”
“My father is extremely conscientious about security.”
“Why is that?”
“He was born Jewish in Ukraine in 1927.”
“Of course.”
I was grasping at straws. What to ask?
“Did you know the tenants that preceded or followed you?”
‘No.”
“You were in that location for almost six years.
