Peut-\u00eatre ai-je oubli\u00e9? Vous ai-je parl\u00e9 d\u2019AMQUI, l\u2019\u00e9picentre de la vall\u00e9e de la MATAP\u00c9DIA? L\u00e0 o\u00f9 je me suis achet\u00e9 des petits rouleaux \u00e0 friser chez Hart parce que j\u2019avais la chevelure d\u00e9confite par quelques orages. Oui, oui, ce soir-l\u00e0, \u00e0 CARLETON-SUR-MER, j\u2019ai dormi comme dans l\u2019ancien temps, avec un grand foulard de t\u00eate emmaillotant mes rouleaux torturants. Au matin, lorsque ma t\u00eate de gorgone entra dans l\u2019espace CAF\u00c9 de l\u2019h\u00f4tel, le beau jeune homme qui servait aux tables m\u2019a aussi apport\u00e9 un \u00e9trange sourire avec le caf\u00e9. Un sourire et quelque dix autres caf\u00e9s, que j\u2019ai bus en \u00e9crivant ma lettre matinale.<\/p>\n
Bref, en quittant CARLERTON, la BAIE DE MARIA, ainsi que sa jolie plage et sa mer magnifique m\u2019ont tout de suite \u00e9blouie. J\u2019ai m\u00eame ador\u00e9 les petits escaliers pour descendre dans l\u2019eau, accroch\u00e9s ici et l\u00e0 aux rebords de la route. MARIA m\u2019a fait penser \u00e0 une immense tarte au citron qui n\u2019a pas besoin de meringue pour \u00eatre magnifique. Avec ses bras grand ouverts aux touristes et sans nul besoin de bling bling pour attirer les incr\u00e9dules, je pourrais presque conclure que MARIA est une des meilleures bouch\u00e9es gasp\u00e9siennes.<\/p>\n
Je roule et je roule, et lorsque j\u2019approche de CAPLAN, la trag\u00e9die d\u00e9bute! Un ciel embourb\u00e9 de foudre et d\u2019\u00e9clairs me d\u00e9frise les bouclettes. Je cherche mes a\u00efeux. Je cherche la maison de mon grand-p\u00e8re Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric, ou celle d\u2019\u00e0 c\u00f4t\u00e9 o\u00f9 nous habitions. Un d\u00e9luge les aurait-il d\u00e9racin\u00e9es? Le village de CAPLAN serait-il devenu un trou d\u2019aiguille dans une mappemonde? Ou est-ce moi? Serais-je devenue trop s\u00e9nile pour reconna\u00eetre le village de mon enfance? Aurais-je tout oubli\u00e9 pendant la pand\u00e9mie?<\/p>\n
Telle une vieille chaussette au lavage, mon village aurait-il r\u00e9tr\u00e9ci de moiti\u00e9? \u00c0 part l\u2019\u00e9glise, pourl\u00e9ch\u00e9e de bourrasques, je ne reconnais plus rien. Que faire, que dire? Les rues, les trottoirs et les petites devantures gazonn\u00e9es sont vides. Je descends donc sur la gr\u00e8ve et constate imm\u00e9diatement que le quai aux millions d\u2019anguilles a disparu. La terre des falaises et le sable ont encore la m\u00eame couleur de jadis : rouge ferreux. Moi qui imaginais un petit pique-nique bucolique pr\u00e8s de l\u2019eau, je ravale ma faim. M\u00eame les roues de ma bagnole renfoncent de d\u00e9sespoir. Que faire? Revenue devant l\u2019\u00e9glise, la pluie faiblit. Elle se change en crachin et devient fine, persistante et p\u00e9n\u00e9trante. Je d\u00e9sesp\u00e8re. J\u2019aurais peut-\u00eatre d\u00fb ne point y revenir? Personne ne me conna\u00eet. Personne n\u2019a vraiment besoin de me conna\u00eetre.<\/p>\n
Qui pourrais-je \u00eatre, maintenant? Une poup\u00e9e de chiffon, emport\u00e9e par la vague? Un requin me tirant \u00e0 droite et me jetant \u00e0 gauche? La houle \u00e9crase mon ventre. J\u2019ai mal partout. L\u2019imaginaire et le r\u00e9el s\u2019entrechoquent dans ma caboche. \u00c9tais-je si jeune la derni\u00e8re fois que j\u2019ai vu CAPLAN? Serais-je trop vieille aujourd\u2019hui? Un instant, l\u2019\u00e9glise m\u2019amadoue. Se souviendrait-elle de mon bapt\u00eame? J\u2019ai l\u2019impression d\u2019\u00eatre une morte-vivante. Toutes ces ann\u00e9es durant, le cimeti\u00e8re n\u2019a-t-il pas veill\u00e9 sur les corps de mes grands-parents maternels? O\u00f9 sont les petites poches de noisettes \u00e9caill\u00e9es que grand-maman gardait pour les grandes occasions, suspendues dans la pantry, comme elle l\u2019appelait? Nous ne les avons pas toutes mang\u00e9es.<\/p>\n
Un long moment, le ciel m\u2019asperge de larmes. O\u00f9 aller? C\u2019est dimanche. Tous les commerces sont ferm\u00e9s. La bagnole d\u00e9cide de redescendre sur la gr\u00e8ve. Elle aussi d\u00e9sire s\u2019enfouir dans le sable d\u00e9tremp\u00e9. Au large, j\u2019ai l\u2019impression d\u2019entendre des sir\u00e8nes chanter. Elles \u00e9tendent leurs fringues gluantes sur la cr\u00eate des grosses vagues. Ces reines de l\u2019oc\u00e9an sont costaudes, elles se sont nourries de toutes les anguilles de la baie. Et je les envie. Tout le monde sur cette terre a une histoire \u00e0 raconter, pourvu qu\u2019il y ait quelqu\u2019un pour l\u2019\u00e9couter. Mais je suis toute seule sur la gr\u00e8ve et ma voix s\u2019effrite, mes mots tombent dans des coquilles vides.<\/p>\n
Soudainement, je vois un homme en cir\u00e9 noir qui marche sur la gr\u00e8ve, la t\u00eate pench\u00e9e. \u00c0 coup s\u00fbr, il d\u00e9terre des moules, comme nous le faisions, enfants. Je m\u2019en souviens tellement! Fr\u00e9rot bataillait toujours pour \u00eatre le meilleur, le premier \u00e0 remplir son seau, le premier \u00e0 attraper une truite au ruisseau. Il a aussi \u00e9t\u00e9 le premier \u00e0 s\u2019endormir avec les vers de terre. J\u2019ai envie de pleurer. La vie est si br\u00e8ve; la paix aussi fr\u00eale qu\u2019un oiseau \u00e0 l\u2019aile pendante. Mille chagrins labourent mon esprit, mille questions restent sans r\u00e9ponses. La surdit\u00e9 du monde me bouleverse. D\u2019un coup, toutes les plages d\u2019autrefois quittent ma m\u00e9moire. Mon cerveau se dess\u00e8che.<\/p>\n
Ma vessie \u00e9tant sur le point d\u2019\u00e9clater, je cherche en vain un endroit o\u00f9 me cacher. Je quitte la gr\u00e8ve et d\u00e9cide de remonter la 132 en direction de MONTR\u00c9AL. Ma bagnole \u00e9berlu\u00e9e grimpe les falaises et d\u00e9passe la pancarte AU REVOIR, CAPLAN. Mon c\u0153ur est au neutre. Adios, amigos! Mes deux paumes soud\u00e9es au volant, je frise les 100 km \u00e0 l\u2019heure. Le moteur gronde et voil\u00e0 qu\u2019\u00e0 ma droite, une affiche rouge feu annonce : D\u00c9PANNEUR A+ FEUX D\u2019ARTIFICE EN VENTE ICI. J\u2019y entre en serrant les cuisses. \u00ab Avez-vous\u2026? \u00bb, que je demande. \u00ab Au fond \u00e0 droite \u00bb, de r\u00e9pondre un tout jeune gar\u00e7on. Je me vide enfin de ma tristesse et, en sortant, trois belles rang\u00e9es de magazines r\u00e9cents me sautent aux yeux. Je jubile! J\u2019en choisis six puis j\u2019attrape un gros sac de popcorn au fromage, un cola di\u00e8te et une Coffee Crisp pour le dessert. C\u2019est d\u00e9cid\u00e9. Je retourne \u00e0 CAPLAN.<\/p>\n
14 h 20 : Je roule sous une pluie fine et sans m\u2019en apercevoir, je d\u00e9passe mon village natal. J\u2019immobilise mon bolide. Un instant, je crois \u00e0 un signe du ciel. Une femme dans la tourmente est certainement plus fantasque qu\u2019une baleine bleue? Mon r\u00e9servoir est aux trois quarts, j\u2019envisage de rouler jusqu\u2019\u00e0 Perc\u00e9, convaincue que lui, majestueux rocher, sera encore l\u00e0, \u00e0 m\u2019attendre. Je d\u00e9marre, j\u2019avance \u00e0 la vitesse prescrite. Au loin, je distingue \u00e0 peine la ligne d\u2019horizon s\u00e9parant le ciel de la mer. Tout est blanc, beige cr\u00e9meux. Lorsque j\u2019arrive \u00e0 PASP\u00c9BIAC, je trouve un joli motel de jadis \u00e0 100 $. Je recharge mes appareils et j\u2019\u00e9tale mes achats sur le grand lit queen de la chambre. Je raffole des magazines. C\u2019est mon point faible en ce qui concerne la consommation \u00e0 outrance. J\u2019ai devant moi RICARDO, V\u00c9RO, CH\u00c2TELAINE, ELLE QU\u00c9BEC et BEL \u00c2GE. Oui, oui, les vieux m\u2019int\u00e9ressent au plus haut point. Aujourd\u2019hui, j\u2019ai aussi achet\u00e9 LA SEMAINE avec la belle photo de dame Janette Bertrand en couverture. C\u2019est une de mes idoles. Je suis toujours int\u00e9ress\u00e9e de lire ses bonnes recommandations et je d\u00e9sirerais tellement conna\u00eetre sa recette de long\u00e9vit\u00e9.<\/p>\n
Au mur, devant mon lit, une immense t\u00e9l\u00e9 me d\u00e9visage. Je l\u2019allume et ouvre mon sac de popcorn. La vie redevient magnifique. Un bain d\u2019eau chaude savonneuse a pris soin de laver toutes mes frustrations du jour. \u00c0 l\u2019\u00e9cran, Al Pacino raconte sa vie. Je suis combl\u00e9e. Je l\u2019ai ador\u00e9 jouant Fausto dans Parfum de femme. Mon c\u0153ur palpite, mes yeux s\u2019alourdissent et je m\u2019endors dans les bras d\u2019Al, fier successeur de son p\u00e8re, le Parrain.<\/p>\n
\u00c0 suivre dimanche prochain!<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Peut-\u00eatre ai-je oubli\u00e9? Vous ai-je parl\u00e9 d\u2019AMQUI, l\u2019\u00e9picentre de la vall\u00e9e de […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":8219,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8218","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"Perhaps I have forgotten? Did I tell you about Amqui, the heart of the Matapedia Valley? Where I bought myself curlers at Hart\u2019s because my hair had become dishevelled by several storms. Yes, that night in Carleton-sur-Mer, I sleep just like in the old days, with a big scarf swaddling my scalp-stretching curlers. In the morning, when my Gorgon head enters the hotel's CAF\u00c9 area, the handsome young waiter serves me an enigmatic smile with my coffee. A smile and about 10 more coffees, which I drink while writing my morning letter.\r\n\r\nI leave Carleton, and further along, I am instantly dazzled by the bay in the town of Maria, with its pretty beach, magnificent sea and the little stairs that lead into the water, installed here and there along the edge of the road. Maria reminds me of a perfect lemon pie that doesn't need meringue to be beautiful. With her arms open wide to greet tourists and no need for bling to convince the skeptics, I might even pronounce Maria to be a top Gasp\u00e9sian destination.\r\n\r\nI drive and drive, and as I approach Caplan, tragedy strikes! A sky full of thunder and lightning flattens my curls. I look for my ancestors. I look for Grandpa Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric's house, the one next to where we used to live. Did a flood uproot them? Has the village of Caplan become a pinhole in a map of the world? Or is it me? Have I become too senile to recognize the village of my childhood? Have I forgotten everything during the pandemic?\r\n\r\nLike an old sock in the washing machine, has my village shrunk in half? Except for the church, which has been blown over by gusts of wind, I no longer recognize anything. What to do, what to say? The streets, the pavement and the little green front yards are empty. So I go down to the seashore and immediately notice that the pier, with its thousands of eels, has disappeared. The cliffs and sand are still the same iron red colour as before. I had imagined a bucolic picnic by the water, but I swallow my hunger. Even the wheels of my car bulge in despair. What can I do? Back in the church parking lot, the rain weakens. It turns into a drizzle, fine, persistent and penetrating. I despair. Maybe I shouldn\u2019t have come back? No one knows me. No one really needs to know me.\r\n\r\nWho am I now? A rag doll, carried away by the wave? A shark flinging me right and then left. The swell crushes my stomach. And I hurt all over. Imagination and reality clash in my skull. Was I that young the last time I saw Caplan? Am I too old today? For a moment the church coaxes me, would it remember my baptism? I feel like the living dead. Hasn\u2019t the cemetery watched over the bodies of my maternal grandparents all these years? Where are the little pockets of shelled hazelnuts that Grandma kept hanging in the pantry for special occasions? We didn't eat them all.\r\n\r\nFor a long moment, the sky sprays me with tears. Where should I go? It\u2019s Sunday. All the shops are closed. The car decides to go back down to the shore. She too wants to bury herself in the soggy sand. Offshore, I feel like I can hear mermaids singing. They spread their viscous clothes over the flounces of the large waves. These sea queens are strong; they have fed on all the eels in the bay. And I envy them. Everyone on this earth has a story to tell, as long as there\u2019s someone who\u2019ll listen. But I am all alone on the shore and my voice is crumbling, my words tumble into empty seashells.\r\n\r\n\r\nSuddenly, I see a man in a black raincoat walking along the shore, his head bent. He's probably digging up mussels, just like we used to do as kids. I remember it so well! Brother was always fighting to be the best, the first to fill his bucket, the first to catch a trout in the stream. He was also the first to push up bright daisies in the earth's embrace. I feel like crying. Life is so short; peace as frail as a bird with a broken wing. A thousand sorrows plough through my mind, a thousand unanswered questions. The deafness of the world overwhelms me. Suddenly, all the beaches from the past vacate my memory. My mind is desiccated.\r\n\r\nMy bladder about to burst, I look in vain for a place to hide. I leave the beach and decide to drive up the 132 in the direction of Montreal. My bewildered car climbs the cliffs, past the sign AU REVOIR, CAPLAN. My heart is in neutral. Adios, amigos! My two palms welded to the steering wheel, I'm going almost 100 km per hour. The engine rumbles and on my right, a fire-red sign announces: \u00c0+ CORNER STORE FIREWORKS FOR SALE. I walk in, desperate for a washroom. \u201cIs there a...?\u201d I ask. \u201cAt the back on the right,\u201d a very young boy replies. I feel like I have discharged all of my sadness and, on my way out, I spot three rows of recent magazines. Wonderful! I pick out six of them and grab a big bag of popcorn, a diet cola and a Coffee Crisp for dessert. That's it. I head back to Caplan. It\u2019s 2:20 p.m.\r\n\r\nI drive through the light rain, and without realizing it, I pass right by my hometown. I bring the car to a dead stop. This is a sign from heaven, perhaps. A woman in turmoil is still smarter than a blue whale, no? My tank is three-quarters full and I now set my sights on Perc\u00e9, convinced that this majestic rock will still be there, waiting for me. I start off, motoring along at the speed limit. In the distance, I can barely make out the horizon separating the sky from the sea. Everything is white, creamy beige. When I arrive in Pasp\u00e9biac, I find a nice, old-fashioned motel for $100. I charge my devices and spread out my purchases on the motel\u2019s queen size bed. I love magazines. It's my weak point; the one thing I indulge in. I have RICARDO, V\u00c9RO, CHATELAINE, ELLE QU\u00c9BEC and BEL \u00c2GE (a magazine for seniors) in front of me. Yes, I am very interested in reading about old people. Today I also bought LA SEMAINE, with a beautiful photo of journalist and writer Janette Bertrand on the cover. She is one of my idols. I always enjoy discovering her recommendations, and I would love to know her recipe for longevity.\r\n\r\nOn the wall in front of my bed, a huge TV stares at me. I turn it on and open the bag of popcorn. Life is beautiful again. The hot soapy water from my bath has washed away all the day\u2019s frustrations. I am fulfilled. On the screen, Al Pacino is telling his life story. I thought he was great in the role of Fausto in SCENT OF A WOMAN. My heart flutters, my eyes grow heavy, I fall asleep in Al\u2019s arms, now the newly crowned Godfather.\r\n\r\nTo be continued next Sunday! \r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n