J\u2019ai en t\u00eate une terrible histoire dont je voudrais me lib\u00e9rer avant que ma m\u00e9moire s\u2019endorme ou flanche tout d\u2019un coup. Il s\u2019agit d\u2019un certain personnage dont je ne connaissais pas le nom. Cet homme \u00e9bouriff\u00e9, v\u00eatu de guenilles et malodorant, qu\u00eatait neuf \u00e0 dix mois par ann\u00e9e au fameux carr\u00e9 Saint-Louis de Montr\u00e9al. Traversant le parc chaque jour vers dix-sept heures trente pour rejoindre mon logis, je le croisais, le d\u00e9visageais, l\u2019examinais et humais son parfum de lait suri.<\/p>\n
J\u2019ai vite appris d\u2019un voisin de palier, que l\u2019homme, appel\u00e9 Arthur, refusait pour lui-m\u00eame quoique ce soit qu\u2019il aurait pu donner \u00e0 plus pauvre que lui. D\u2019apr\u00e8s le voisin, chaque ann\u00e9e, c\u2019\u00e9taient les premi\u00e8res temp\u00eates de neige qui poussaient le qu\u00eateux vers l\u2019ouest du pays.<\/p>\n
\u00c0 Vancouver, me conta le voisin, Arthur passait quelques mois au chaud \u00e0 ramasser les seringues et les d\u00e9tritus des drogu\u00e9s habitant les cours arri\u00e8re des cinq ou six p\u00e2t\u00e9s de maisons situ\u00e9es sur la fameuse rue Hastings. Il nourrissait les afflig\u00e9s, consolait les d\u00e9sesp\u00e9r\u00e9s et encourageait les jeunes accros \u00e0 s\u2019en sortir. Arthur qu\u00eatait aussi \u00e0 ses heures, amassant des vingt-cinq sous pour fournir \u00e0 manger aux plus d\u00e9munis. Lui-m\u00eame se contentait de boire quelques boissons gazeuses et de manger les restes de nouilles frites laiss\u00e9es pour compte dans les cantines asiatiques avoisinantes.<\/p>\n
Selon moi, qui le croisais chaque jour \u00e0 Montr\u00e9al, cet \u00e9trange Arthur avait toujours l\u2019air d\u2019avoir un dard d\u2019abeille plant\u00e9 dans une fesse. Il boitillait, se d\u00e9hanchait, tra\u00eenait la patte et criait aux mouches de lui ficher la paix. En derni\u00e8re ann\u00e9e de coll\u00e8ge, mon p\u00e8re m\u2019avait lou\u00e9 une chambre en ville pour \u00e9viter les longs allers-retours vers notre maison de banlieue. C\u2019est ainsi que les jours de semaine, lors de mes d\u00e9placements, je croisais Arthur le qu\u00eateux.<\/p>\n
Ayant appris du voisin sa pr\u00e9tendue histoire, j\u2019\u00e9tais des plus perplexe. Qui \u00e9tait cet homme myst\u00e9rieux? Depuis quand qu\u00eatait-il? Voil\u00e0 qu\u2019au lieu de quitter ma chambrette pour les vacances de P\u00e2ques, j\u2019ai d\u00e9cid\u00e9 de rester en ville pour espionner Arthur. Oui, oui! J\u2019allais m\u2019asseoir sur un banc du carr\u00e9 Saint-Louis avec le journal du matin et un cahier lign\u00e9 pour suppos\u00e9ment avancer l\u2019\u00e9criture d\u2019un roman policier.<\/p>\n
J\u2019arrive donc tr\u00e8s t\u00f4t Vendredi saint au matin dans le parc quasi vide. L\u2019herbe mouill\u00e9e de froidure d\u00e9trempe mes bottillons. Un jeune policier \u00e0 bicyclette y est d\u00e9j\u00e0 et je le salue. Au fond du parc, en retrait sous un immense ch\u00eane, quelques so\u00fblons endormis cuvent leur vin. Les pi\u00e9tinant gaiement, des dizaines d\u2019\u00e9cureuils cherchent des glands pour leurs d\u00e9jeuners. Grelottant sur mon banc, je fais semblant d\u2019\u00e9crire. Dans ma t\u00eate, j\u2019imite l\u2019ing\u00e9niosit\u00e9 du fameux capitaine-d\u00e9tective Jacques Cinq-Mars dont je viens tout juste de lire le dernier exploit. Connu comme Barabbas dans la passion, cet Eliot Ness montr\u00e9alais aiguise soudainement ma curiosit\u00e9.<\/p>\n
O\u00f9 est donc pass\u00e9 le qu\u00eateux d\u00e9poitraill\u00e9 et g\u00e9n\u00e9reux? Mes yeux ratissent l\u2019horizon. Nada<\/em>! Quatre femmes d\u2019\u00e2ge m\u00fbr s\u2019approchent de mon banc. Elles virent \u00e0 droite et avancent vers une longue table \u00e0 pique-nique, elles s\u2019y assoient et parlotent \u00e0 voix basse comme si elles avaient quelque chose \u00e0 cacher.<\/p>\n L\u2019heure avance et ass\u00e8che le tapis de ros\u00e9e. \u00ab\u2009En avril, ne te d\u00e9couvre pas d\u2019un fil\u2009\u00bb, disait ma m\u00e8re. Mon roman imaginaire est au point mort. Je suppose qu\u2019Arthur dort encore. Serait-il en train d\u2019attendre le chant des cigales pour se r\u00e9veiller; la douceur du vent ou le m\u00fbrissement des premi\u00e8res framboises?<\/p>\n Le soleil est \u00e0 son z\u00e9nith, dirait grand-p\u00e8re Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric et mes yeux s\u2019affolent. Ils tricotent des nuages d\u2019inqui\u00e9tude. Mais o\u00f9 est donc Arthur? Je ne le vois nulle part. Sous le gros ch\u00eane, un \u00e0 un les so\u00fblons se r\u00e9veillent frip\u00e9s comme des paillassons. Ces hommes auraient-ils entrevu Arthur? L\u2019auraient-ils malmen\u00e9, saoul\u00e9, rudoy\u00e9 et cach\u00e9?<\/p>\n L\u2019officier \u00e0 bicyclette a chang\u00e9 de visage. J\u2019ai faim, j\u2019ai soif et mes jambes ankylos\u00e9es me font tr\u00e8s mal. Je me l\u00e8ve et marche un peu. Les quatre femmes d\u2019\u00e2ge m\u00fbr chuchotent encore. En m\u2019approchant de leur table, je r\u00e9alise pourtant qu\u2019elles ont chang\u00e9 de diapason. La plus vieille parle vite et plus fort. Comme si quelque chose de grave devenait \u00e9vident, flagrant, \u00e9peurant. Quelle \u00e9trange sensation!<\/p>\n De loin, un sifflement de sir\u00e8ne tranche l\u2019horizon. Les quatre femmes se l\u00e8vent et courent vers l\u2019ambulance. Une foule de badauds encercle le carr\u00e9 Saint-Louis. J\u2019essaie d\u2019interroger un ou deux itin\u00e9rants, mais personne ne me r\u00e9pond. Ils savent tous ce qui arrive, mais ils restent muets. Plusieurs habitu\u00e9s plient bagage et quittent le gazon. Ce sont des habitu\u00e9s de l\u2019endroit, je suppose. Des voisins des environs, des passants fatigu\u00e9s, des vieillards endimanch\u00e9s, des artistes en attente d\u2019inspiration; de simples promeneurs, peut-\u00eatre m\u00eame des ch\u00f4meurs.<\/p>\n Tel que je l\u2019avais pr\u00e9vu, le lendemain, je reviens m\u2019asseoir sur mon banc et entreprends de noircir les pages de mon cahier lign\u00e9. J\u2019y passe quelques heures, plusieurs larmes diluant ma frayeur.<\/p>\n Arthur est mort. Selon les ambulanciers, son c\u0153ur g\u00e9n\u00e9reux se serait arr\u00eat\u00e9 de battre vers quinze heures, ce Vendredi saint 12\u00a0avril 1968. Son corps d\u00e9pouill\u00e9, brutalis\u00e9, et finalement tu\u00e9, a \u00e9t\u00e9 trouv\u00e9 dans une ruelle adjacente au fameux carr\u00e9 Saint-Louis.<\/p>\n J\u2019apprendrai dans le Journal de Montr\u00e9al que l\u2019enqu\u00eate fut confi\u00e9e au capitaine-d\u00e9tective Jacques Cinq-Mars. Je d\u00e9couvrirai aussi, quelques semaines plus tard, que monsieur Arthur V. fut un homme tr\u00e8s riche, tr\u00e8s connu et tr\u00e8s \u00e9prouv\u00e9. Sa femme et ses quatre enfants ont p\u00e9ri dans l\u2019incendie d\u2019une de leurs r\u00e9sidences secondaires \u00e0 l\u2019\u00e9tranger. Arthur a voulu tout donner, tout disperser et il a consacr\u00e9 le reste de sa vie \u00e0 aider les d\u00e9munis.<\/p>\n Je m\u2019en veux encore aujourd\u2019hui d\u2019avoir dout\u00e9 d\u2019Arthur le qu\u00eateux! Les apparences sont souvent trompeuses.<\/p>\n Cora J\u2019ai en t\u00eate une terrible histoire dont je voudrais me lib\u00e9rer avant […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":26911,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-26910","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"I have a terrible story on my mind and I would like to get it out before my memory slumbers forever or suddenly fails me. It\u2019s about a person whose name I never knew. A dishevelled man, dressed in rags and foul smelling, begged on the streets of Montreal 9 or 10 months a year. I would see him every day around 5:50 p.m. when I would walk across the park to my apartment. I stared at him, scrutinized him and inhaled his scent of sour milk.\r\n\r\nI soon learned from my next-door neighbour that the beggar\u2019s name was Arthur, and such was his kindness, he would always share with those poorer than him if he could. According to my neighbour, the first snowstorms sent him on his way each year hitchhiking westward.\r\n\r\nIn Vancouver\u2019s warmer weather, Arthur spent a few months each year collecting used syringes and debris left behind by drug addicts living on notorious Hastings Street. He fed the afflicted, consoled the desperate and encouraged young addicts to get help. Arthur also begged from time to time, gathering quarters to help feed homeless persons in greater need. He lived off soda pop and fried-noodle leftovers from local Asian eateries.\r\n\r\nI crossed paths with him often in Montreal. Arthur always had a strange way of moving as if he had been stung in the behind. He hobbled, swayed, dragged his leg and yelled at the flies to leave him alone. In my last year of college, my father had rented a room for me downtown so I could avoid the long commute from our house in the suburbs. That\u2019s how I came to cross paths with homeless Arthur each weekday.\r\n\r\nI had many questions after learning his story from my neighbour. Who was this mysterious man? How long had he been begging for money on the streets? Instead of leaving my small room during the Easter holiday weekend, I decided to stay in town and secretly observe Arthur. I was going to sit in the park with the morning paper and a notebook and pretend to work on a mystery novel.\r\n\r\nI arrive very early at the deserted park on Good Friday. The wet grass moistens my boots. I wave to a young policeman on a bike. At the back of the park, under a huge oak tree, a few drunks are sleeping off a night of drinking. Cheerfully trampling the slumbering bodies, dozens of squirrels search for acorns for their breakfast. Sitting on the bench shivering, I pretend to write. I have just read about police captain Jacques Cinq-Mars\u2019 latest exploits in the newspaper and I try to imitate his brilliant skills. The famous officer, nicknamed Montreal\u2019s Eliot Ness, suddenly consumes my thoughts.\r\n\r\nWhere has the unkempt, big-hearted drifter gone? My eyes search the horizon. Nothing. Four elderly women are walking towards me. They make a sharp right and head straight for a picnic table where they sit and speak in hushed voices, as if they have something to hide.\r\n\r\nThe early morning is long gone and its dew is evaporating. My mystery novel is going nowhere. I\u2019m guessing Arthur is still asleep since I still haven\u2019t caught sight of him. Is he waiting for the cicadas to wake him from his slumber; for the warm spring wind to brush his cheek; or for the first raspberries of the season to ripen?\r\n\r\nIt\u2019s high noon and my eyes search everywhere. They knit together clouds of worry. Where on earth is Arthur? He is nowhere to be found. One by one, the drunks under the big oak tree wake up crumpled like doormats. Would they have seen Arthur? Did they steal from him, rough him up and then hide him?\r\n\r\nIt\u2019s a different police officer on the bike now. I\u2019m hungry and thirsty, and my legs are numb and hurting. I get up and walk a little. The four elderly women are still whispering. As I move closer to their table, I realize that their tone has changed. The oldest one speaks louder and faster, as if charging towards something terrible, threatening and scary. What a strange sensation!\r\n\r\nIn the distance, a siren cuts the air. The four women jump up from their table and run towards an ambulance. A crowd of onlookers circles the park. I try to question a few of the homeless, but no one answers me. They all know what\u2019s going on, but they keep quiet. Several regulars pack up their few belongings and leave. They must be frequent visitors to the park \u2013 neighbours, tired passersby, well-dressed elderly folks, artists waiting for inspiration, people out for a stroll and maybe even those out of work.\r\n\r\nThe next morning, I return to my park bench and start writing in my notebook as planned. I spend a few hours there. Several tears dilute my fear.\r\n\r\nArthur had died. I eventually heard that his big heart had stopped beating around 3 p.m. on Good Friday, April 12, 1968. His body, stripped and fatally beaten, was found in an adjacent alley.\r\n\r\nLater I learn in Journal de Montreal<\/em> that Captain Jacques Cinq-Mars was handling the investigation. I also find out a few weeks later that Mr. Arthur V. was once a wealthy and well-known man who had suffered terrible hardships. His wife and four children had perished abroad in a fire at one of their vacation homes. Arthur wanted to give all his possessions away, so he spent the rest of his life helping the needy.\r\n\r\nTo this day I regret my furtive surveilling of homeless Arthur. Appearances are often misleading.\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n
\n\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"