Gil Marsh Page 9

  Gil nodded. Hervé gave him a long look before he stepped out and shut the door.

  Gil did not remember what happened next. He must have put his head down to rest for a minute, but when he woke, it was dark out and he was underneath a thick but light comforter that kept him warm. He sat upright, much too fast, and was hit by a wave of dizziness that made him fall back onto his pillow. He shut his eyes, and when he reopened them, light streamed through the window.

  This time when he sat up, he felt weak but not dizzy. He swung his legs over and realized that he didn’t have any pants on—no shirt, either. Where had they gone?

  His momentary panic quickly subsided when he noticed his clothes, clean and folded on a chair near his bed; his dirty sneakers, minus encrusted mud, placed below them; and his jacket hanging off the back of the chair. The bottle of acetaminophen and his toothbrush lay on the side table next to the bed. His right knee was red and slightly swollen. Someone had washed the scrape and placed a small bandage on it. He bent the knee tentatively—it hurt, but he could move it. Slowly he stood. He couldn’t put much weight on it, but enough to hobble to the chair and dress.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Gil?” Gil recognized Hervé’s voice.

  “Come in.” He had just finished pulling on his sweatshirt.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d need help.”

  Gil gave Hervé an embarrassed smile. “Were you the one …?”

  Hervé raised his hand. “It’s okay. You slept through the afternoon and night. My niece, she take care of your knee.”

  “Niece?” Gil wondered what else had happened that he could not remember.

  “No worry. She’s a doctor. She looked at your head, too. You may have had a concussion. She said to keep an eye on you.”

  Bewildered, Gil looked out the window, down to a gleaming lake under rolling hills. A speedboat roared in the distance.

  “What day is it?” he asked.

  “Sunday,” Hervé said.

  Gil closed his eyes, confused by the loss of a day, and dizziness grabbed him. He tightened his grip on the chair, and Hervé was next to him, his strong hand holding him up.

  “You need some breakfast,” he said. “We talk after you eat.”

  At the mention of food, Gil felt very hungry. Hervé led him back to the kitchen table and served him a small glass of orange juice, half a dozen white-bread toasts, more of the white cheese, some fried eggs and five slices of bacon. Gil ate it all. Hervé gave him a cup of coffee with some sugar and milk, and Gil drank that, too.

  Hervé put his own cup down. “So, Gil Marsh. What happened to you?”

  Gil stared at this weathered, middle-aged man with his blue eyes and pink cheeks. He had picked Gil up from the gutter, given him shelter, found a doctor for his wounds, washed his clothes and fed him. Gil owed him an explanation.

  Without thinking, he felt for Enko’s ring and clenched his hand when he realized it was gone. “I’m looking for answers.”

  Hervé kept his gaze even, waiting for more. Gil looked down at his fist and smoothed it flat with his other hand.

  “It’s a long story,” he said.

  Hervé smiled. “It’s my day off. I have the time.”

  So Gil told him—not all, but enough. He told him that his best friend in the world had died and had given him a ring. He told him of his misadventure in Montreal, Adèle’s trick, the ticket to L’Annonciation, the mugging, his pursuit of the motorcycle men. Hervé didn’t interrupt him, letting Gil pause when he needed it, only sipping coffee and nodding as Gil spoke.

  “I was at the end when you found me,” Gil said.

  Hervé waved that statement away. “You are a healthy young man. Exhausted, yes. Hungry, yes. Bruised and beaten, yes. But you will heal in a few days. Ce n’est pas sérieux.”

  Gil looked at him inquisitively.

  “Nothing serious,” he explained.

  Gil blushed and looked down at his empty plate. “But all my papers are gone. And the ring—”

  “Oui,” Hervé said. “Those are concerns. But first you regain your strength. We should contact your parents.”

  “No!” Gil stood and a pain shot through his knee, forcing him to sit back down. He clutched at the table. “If they find me, I will just run away.”

  Hervé seemed concerned. “Are they that bad?”

  Were they? Gil had to admit to himself that they weren’t awful. “They don’t understand. And there’s something I have to do first.”

  Hervé tilted his head, inquiring.

  “Find where the ring was made.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  Gil sat still, thinking. “I don’t know. Not yet. But if they find me, I won’t be able to track it down.”

  Hervé held his gaze for a minute. Gil wasn’t sure what he saw, but he gave a slight nod before standing. “Very well. We can start by fixing my chaloupe.”

  “Sha-LOOP?” Gil asked.

  “My boat.”

  As Gil tried to rise again, Hervé put a hand out. “Wait.”

  He returned with an old wooden cane, solid, with a rubber tip at the bottom. “You use this until your knee heals.”

  The cane did make it easier to move about. Gil briefly wondered why Hervé had a cane on hand, but he didn’t ask. After washing the dishes, Hervé led him out the kitchen door, down a path broken by steps, heading toward the water. The day was beautiful, neither too hot nor too cold. Perfect running weather, Gil thought, if he could run. About ten feet up from the water’s edge, a small boat lay upside down on wood blocks.

  “My chaloupe,” Hervé explained. “She has a leak in the front, around one of the rivets, and I need to patch it.”

  The boat was about twelve feet long, four to five feet wide, made of aluminum. Its sides had been once painted blue but were now weathered, and most of the paint had been scratched away. Deep scratches were etched at the back edge, where a motor must have been attached.

  “You sit here,” Hervé said, pointing to a stump. He went over to a nearby shed and returned with a large tube. “Soften this.” He handed the tube to Gil. For the next fifteen minutes, Gil gently squeezed it until its contents began to soften. Meanwhile, Hervé roughed up the area around the rivet with sandpaper, wiping it clean with a cloth.

  “Ready?” Hervé asked.

  Gil gave him the tube. Hervé squeezed out a marble-sized amount of dark paste and began kneading it.

  “Keep this warm,” he said as he handed the tube back to Gil.

  Hervé placed the paste over the rivet, spread it quickly and smoothed it over the metal. He covered the sanded area entirely, leaving a uniform layer on the hull. After a few minutes of intense attention, he stepped back. “Bon.” Then he carefully flipped the chaloupe over onto another set of wooden blocks, climbed in and prepped the other side. After receiving another dollop of paste from Gil and smoothing it onto the bottom, he returned the tube to the shed.

  “Is that it?” Gil said.

  Hervé nodded. “We wait twenty-four hours. It’ll set. Then we can put it in the water to test it—but I like to wait an extra day, just in case.”

  Gil noticed the open drain at the back end. “Won’t that let water in?”

  Hervé glanced over. “I have a plug. Don’t worry.”

  A pair of Jet Skis zoomed past. Too close, Gil thought. Their wake made the narrow floating pier bob up and down, while waves crashed against the sand and weeds at the shore. Hervé gave them a dirty look but quickly shook it off.

  “Come. I show you the family property.”

  At a pace meant to accommodate Gil’s lame knee, Hervé gave him a short tour around the water’s edge, then led him to a flowering garden near the house. Although Gil’s knee still hurt some, it loosened with the exercise. He could feel the improvement. They sat on a bench overlooking the water. From this vantage point, Gil saw that the lake was much larger than he had realized.

  “It’s fifteen kilometers long,” Hervé
said. “That’s the south end.” He pointed to the left, where hills curved in and water snaked through channels hidden by islands and peninsulas. “Beyond those islands, it’s Old Man Miller’s land.”

  No houses were visible there. The shores to the north, on the other hand, were dotted with cottages.

  “Who’s Old Man Miller?” Gil asked.

  “A crotchety old man, not fond of visitors and protective of his land. But the lake is very pretty there. When my chaloupe is ready, I’ll give you a tour.”

  That wouldn’t be for two days. Gil had to find the bikers and rescue Enko’s ring, track down an old smithy and stay ahead of his parents. He had lost an entire day—they were probably in Montreal, looking for him! “I should get going—”

  Hervé shook his head. “I am not the doctor, but you bruised that knee bad. It’ll take another few days before you’ll be able to walk properly.”

  Hervé was right. But staying? “I’ve imposed on you.…”

  Hervé stared at Gil, making him feel uncomfortable. “I took you in. I am responsible.”

  That surprised Gil.

  “It’s my duty,” Hervé explained. “One man to another.”

  Gil did not quite understand what he meant, but he was flattered nonetheless. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  Hervé nodded. “Ben sûr. But today, we rest. It’s Sunday.”

  Gil willed himself to calm down. Even if his parents had figured out he’d fled to Quebec, they wouldn’t be any farther than Montreal. They’d have contacted Enko’s parents. Gone to his grave.

  He felt a pang. They’d see his grave before he did.

  He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on the lake. Boats continued to roar past, going north and south along the main channel. Most were speedboats of various sizes. But he also saw a smattering of pontoon boats, kayaks and a small sailboat. He wondered why Hervé didn’t own a nicer boat.

  “It’s a big property,” Gil said. “You’re here alone?”

  Hervé looked sad all of a sudden. “My wife died of cancer about ten years ago.”

  That was why Hervé owned a cane, Gil thought. It must have been used by his wife.

  “My niece used to stay, but she prefers to live with her fiancé now,” Hervé continued.

  “I’m sorry,” Gil said.

  “Thank you. But I’m fine. My son had a few tough years, but he’s now at L’Université Laval in Québec City, so I think he’s okay.”

  He had a son, just a few years older than Gil. Was that why Hervé had been so generous? Did he miss his son, off at school? But this just made Gil worry more about his parents. He pushed this thought aside yet again.

  Hervé rose. “Let’s get some lunch.”

  Over ham and cheese sandwiches and sodas on the porch, Gil summoned the courage to ask the question that had been bugging him. “Why don’t you have a speedboat?”

  Hervé laughed. “You are a young man.”

  Gil reddened. “But they’re faster than your rowboat.”

  “A chaloupe can be fast enough.” Hervé eyed Gil with amusement. “Speedboats are expensive and nowhere near as useful. You have to fuss with them every year—polish the chrome, take care of the cushions.…” He stood. “Come. Let me show you something.”

  Gil downed his soda and followed Hervé back through the house and out the kitchen door. Hervé led him up another path, across the road to the barn. He unlocked the padlock and switched on the lights.

  A large white chaloupe made of wood lay upside down on blocks in the center of the barn. On one side of it were two snowmobiles on trailers, while on the other were some more blocks and an empty space—to store the boat at the water’s edge, Gil figured. The rest of the barn was filled with old motors and parts, life preservers, water skis, cross-country skis, snowshoes, sleds and innumerable water toys. Everything had been kept clean—even the gas tanks looked as if they had just been dusted. The paint on the white chaloupe gleamed. Gil thought of the battered aluminum of the other boat and couldn’t help noticing the contrast.

  Hervé laid his hand on the wooden chaloupe, gliding his fingers over the hull. “Now this is a real boat. It was built by my grandfather. He was a craftsman.” He flicked off an invisible piece of dirt. “It was his last one. He didn’t finish it.”

  Gil couldn’t see what was missing.

  “I fitted the last planks,” Hervé explained. “I painted it and even floated it the year after he died. It had the most perfect balance. You could have hauled anything in it. But wooden boats were already going out of style—my father had a fiberglass one, lighter and faster. After we put this one away for the winter, we didn’t take it out again.”

  Hervé sat on an old stool. Gil glanced at the inflatable floats and flexible swimming noodles.

  “Did you use these?”

  “My son and niece,” Hervé said. “They liked to horse around.”

  “You don’t like to spend time in the water?”

  Hervé seemed even more amused than before. “I like the water. But when I was young, I preferred to explore. I know the area better than most anyone else.”

  A line of horseshoes were nailed on to several planks on one wall. They seemed out of place in a space dedicated to boats and to water and winter sports.

  “Where did these come from?” Gil asked.

  “Draft horses,” Hervé said, “back in the day when this was a farm. They used to pull the plow, the sleigh, everything you needed. My father liked to collect horseshoes as a boy.”

  Gil remembered his visits to Sturbridge Village in Massachusetts, where people reenacted the life of early nineteenth-century farmers. “You had to use a blacksmith to fit them, right?”

  Hervé blinked. “I suppose. I never really thought about it. It was before my time, you know.”

  Back in Montreal, Maurice had told him that Enko’s ring had been made by a blacksmith in this part of the Laurentians. He had suggested that Gil explore older settlements—like Le Gros-Curé. They had mined garnet nearby.

  “Was there a blacksmith in Le Gros-Curé?”

  “I would think so,” Hervé replied. “Blacksmiths were in every village. You needed them for horses, to fix farm equipment, for all kinds of things.”

  “How about at the end of the nineteenth century?”

  Hervé scratched his head. “It was a small settlement then, but there was probably a blacksmith.”

  Gil remembered the plaque in French with pictures of settlers. Was one of them a blacksmith? Why hadn’t he stayed in the village instead of trying to trek up to L’Annonciation?

  “You know,” Hervé continued, “I’m no historian. You should go to the bibliothèque. Maybe they have that information.”

  “Bee-blee-oh-TEK?”

  “A place to borrow books.”

  “A library?”

  Hervé grinned. “In French, une librairie is where they sell books. I can take you tomorrow.”

  Gil’s knee no longer hurt when Hervé woke him the next morning. He was feeling antsy, ready to leave in case his parents were on their way. But Hervé explained that the bibliothèque didn’t open until ten. “You can wait at the quincaillerie,” he said. “I have paperwork to do, and some shelving.”

  “Can I help?” Gil asked.

  Hervé hesitated. “A box of mittens and hats arrived, all jumbled up. I cleared some shelves for them.”

  “No problem.”

  “Jumbled up” was an accurate description, as if the shipper had decided to make unpacking as complicated as possible. Gil sorted half a dozen kinds of mittens and gloves and a bunch of hats, child and adult sizes. He didn’t notice that Hervé had unlocked the front door until a customer picked up a pair of insulated gloves and asked Gil something in French. Fortunately Hervé approached and answered the question. The woman returned them to the shelf, shaking her head. Hervé never lost his smile.

  After the woman left, Hervé turned to Gil. “The bibliothèque is open now.” At the front door, he po
inted down the street. “Just up that block. Take a right and it will be the big building on your left. You can’t miss it.”

  The library was a one-story building with a wheelchair ramp on its side. The tiny parking lot next to it was cracked and in obvious need of repair. The concrete steps to the front door were pockmarked, and one was missing a corner. But when Gil entered the building, the well-lit, open space felt as if it were brimming with books.

  A patron sat at one of the computers that lined a wall. Gil briefly thought of emailing his parents. He could reassure them that he was okay, maybe lead them off track. But he worried that they’d trace the email to the library. He had come here for one purpose—to find out about blacksmiths in the area. That was what he needed to concentrate on.

  A short, stout, middle-aged woman with straight, stringy light brown hair approached. “Je peux t’aider?” She had asked if she could help.

  “Do you speak English?”

  She scrunched her face and raised her hands. “Un peu. Juste un peu.” A little.

  Gil felt more and more embarrassed by his inability to communicate with people in their own tongue. He’d have to improvise.

  “May I use one of your computers?” He pointed to the wall.

  “Mais oui.” She led him to a terminal.

  For the next half hour, Gil fruitlessly searched for information about blacksmiths in Le Gros-Curé. He sat back and frowned.

  “Peut-être je peux t’aider,” the librarian said. She had returned, offering to help again.

  Yes, he needed help.

  Between pantomimes, scribbles on borrowed paper, the few words of French he understood and the few words of English she knew, he was able to ask whether they had any information about blacksmiths—“forgerons,” he pronounced carefully—in this area in the nineteenth century.

  The librarian lifted her finger. “Une minute.” She went to another terminal and began typing something in. She clicked several times, shook her head, cleared her results and tried again. About five minutes later, she sat back and beckoned to Gil.

  “Not very much,” she said. “Mais viens. Maybe this help.”

  She took him down an aisle between shelves. She pulled one book out, slipped it back in and then did the same with several more. All the books were in French. How on earth was he going to read whatever she showed him?