Serafim and Claire Read Free Page A

he’d reached the doorway, the man with the ledger mumbled something into his acquaintance’s ear, who then nodded, smiling.
    â€œMr. Vieira. It’s been months, has it not? I trust that you’ve been well?”
    Serafim stopped, and for some reason held his tongue like a barkeeper in a commoners’ tasco , casting a glance back at the ship being loaded. He swayed slightly, a thin tree in the breeze.
    The man with the ledger, apparently discomfited by Serafim’s lack of response and drunkenness, excused himself and left to supervise the loading lines.
    â€œListen.” His friend uncrossed his legs. “Why don’t you come out of the sun. Step inside for a few minutes, have a drink. I’ve got a proposition for you.”
    Serafim turned back, levelled his gaze, considering this, then stepped through the doorway.
    Three shot glasses later, sitting on an even-legged steel chair, Serafim found himself laughing for the first time in what felt like weeks. Drinking aguardente , an incremental step up from his previous choice, Serafim and his friend butted out cigarette after cigarette, threads of smoke sculpting ever-changing horizons in the room. At first Serafim had scoffed at his acquaintance’s offer, but then a hazy conviction began to rise, swarming between the two men and their fervent conversation, plunging through its fateful undercurrents. And when his old friend stood and told him he had to tend to the ship, but suggested Serafim sleep off the drink on the sofa in the next room and think about it, Serafim went there immediately, curling onto the red cushions and unbuttoning his vest and jacket. He glided into an afternoon sleep, convinced that this chance meeting was no chance at all; that it was fortuitous, ordained. Just think of it! That a man of the sea — and a merchant, no less — might hold the solution to his, an artist’s, every problem. Serafim smiled to himself as he closed his eyes. Yes, luck was a strange thing.

Ville de Québec, le 2 février 1928
    Ma très chère Claire,
    I must confess how worried I am becoming. I have telephoned your apartment several times, pleading with the operator to let it ring just a little longer. Would you believe that I’ve been distraught enough to have even telephoned the only two hospitals I could imagine you in? Where are you, Claire?
    The only thing stopping me from catching a train to Montreal is that you mentioned there were auditions coming up and you may’ve gone out of town. This, at least, is my hope; that you are safe and well, on a stage in another city, impressing some new agent, or maybe even trying for one of those Russian ballets that are passing through New York or Boston. And I hope this while fighting the idea that this letter is just another in a bundle crammed inside your mailbox, while you are somewhere else, in trouble.
    Things here are frustrating as always. We’re preparing for the suffragist delegation coming to the city for the annual march on the Legislative Assembly. I wish you would come to it one of these years, Claire, join the struggle. Or even just visit.
    Please, the moment you get this letter, please telephone me. I desperately need reassurance that you are well, and that I am worrying for no reason at all.
    Je pense à toi,
    Cécile

3
    Claire’s memory worked like a radio station: memories that were pleasant and popular were repeated again and again. And with each reminiscence, Claire found that she could discover something new, some hidden timbre or cadence that she hadn’t quite appreciated before. And like a radio station, the selection of her memories changed with the times. A popular recollection one year might become forgotten or outmoded the next. Recently, it had been playing a countdown of her all-time favourite moments, the ones that had set her and her career on its bold trajectory.
    One particular memory she’d been recalling was an