In the streets of Verdun a few days ago. From the Church, Galt, Gordon, Rielle… An SPVM car begins to follow me on rue Verdun. I’m moving forward, 4e Avenue, 5e Avenue, I turn right on the 6eright immediately after on Bannantyne, then left again on the 6e. At the end, Champlain corner, the flashing lights come on and I am stopped.
I was there for a funeral. A great-aunt, on my father’s side. The fourteenth and last of her family, died at almost 98 years old. Notre-Dame-de-Lourdes Church. There were around forty of us. Before the ceremony we greet each other, we chat a little. An aunt, distant cousins. They thank me for being there, for coming. Strangely, people believe that being an artist or having a somewhat public existence comes with a kind of impunity in the face of the humanities.
The two police officers get out of their vehicle.
“Hello, I’m stopping you because you don’t seem to come from the area, your driving was hesitant. »
In reality, for those who don’t know, law enforcement cars are equipped with a camera that reads and identifies license plates remotely. They already knew that my car was registered in another district of Montreal. Maybe she thought I was drinking?
” What are you doing here ?
— I have just come from a funeral.
– My condolences. » She paused briefly, and asked, “Can I see your driver’s license?” »
First, no worse, I told myself. She said “condolences” and not “my sympathies”. This is a good start to our relationship.
I imagine that at the police academy, we train police officers to develop a sort of instinct or to trust their intuition. Apparently my driving was a little timid. Just as good a reason as any, I told myself.
And following our brief conversation, they must certainly have concluded that, since I came from elsewhere, I was looking for my way, relying on a GPS. The reality is elsewhere. I was far from lost.
After the ceremony, I was told thank you again for coming to the ceremony of this great-aunt who had lived on rue Woodland, in Verdun, all her life, and whom I had barely frequented, although certainly around ten times at extended family gatherings and at one or two Christmases at my parents’ house. I listened to people, but inside, in silence, it was easy. A single, beautiful reason would have made me come back from the other side of the world or from another planet. 20 years ago, the then lover had a serious car accident, her legs crushed, while she was pregnant. Aunt Réjeane, a hairdresser by trade, hearing the news, came to the hospital the following days to wash his hair during his convalescence. Slow and gentle movements. Generosity and kindness. So simple. In one of the testimonies during the ceremony, we mentioned this story. I don’t remember thanking her when she was alive. Stupid that I am. I said thank you to his photo and the urn, placed at the end of the aisle, in this hollow silence within itself. And I told the story to his daughter who only spoke English.
After checking, the policewoman gave me back my driving license and wished me a good day. I asked him :
“Let’s say that I don’t turn left immediately, because it would be an offense to cut the lane of the intersection, but that I turn right here, and that I zigzag a little in the streets to find my way, then the highway, you’re not going to stop me again, are you?
— Well no. »
And she smiled. You swear. This will be a struggle on a daily basis.
I didn’t tell him that I knew the streets, alleys and corners of Verdun like the back of my hand. I was a bicycle delivery boy at the A&T Pilon Market, summer and winter, for three years when I was 15, at the corner of Church and Claude. I wasn’t disoriented, on the contrary. A moment of great lucidity.
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reference: www.lapresse.ca