Write me a Letter

I’d be very civilized about it, I said. I said, you’re an adult and not bound to me by law, and I accepted that there were in the world a handful of males more handsome than me and, yes, even one or two sexier. Also, a little fling, one moment of madness, it could happen to anyone. If it did, I’d have a good cry. Then, if he was smaller than me, and the odds on that were pretty good, I’d beat the living shit out of the guy. And then, I told her, I would pull up every plant in her vegetable garden in alphabetical order, from aubergine to zucchini. And after that, I’d enlist in the Foreign Legion. What I would really do, aside from bleed through every pore, I do not know. I thoroughly hope I never find out.
    It was just after two o’clock when the ladies went off in one cab, Will in another, and this dancing fool in a third. I went to sleep thinking about a line one of those longstemmed, MGM tap-dancin’ celluloid dolls once said: ”I was just a pretty good hoofer who got a lucky break.” My breaks should be so lucky.
    The following icy Thursday morn found us in a sort of Dunkin’ Donuts place in a huge underground complex of stores, restaurants, supermarkets, and what-have-you at Berri-De Montigny. The previous noche Will had suggested we meet there as it was roughly equidistant between our hotel and Mrs. Leduc’s mansion and also he was determined that we got to see some of the sights of the city while we were still around. Frankly, well-traveled gent that I am, I have seen sights more awesome than a shopping mall down a tunnel, but I held my counsel for once. I had to admit it wasn’t that stupid an idea; who wants to go sneering at summer squashes in an open-air market, no matter how picturesque it might be, during a Montreal winter, i.e., when it’s so cold outside even polar bears fly down to Sarasota for the season.
    Some kind soul had left behind a copy of the local English-language newspaper, the Gazette, on a nearby table. I glanced through it while fueling up for the day on blueberry muffins. By a coincidence, I’d telephoned the paper’s main offices downtown earlier to pose a simply query or two and talked to a most helpful and amusing chap: I do believe Canada was starting to grow on me. Among other items of world import, the Gazette informed me that the pretender to the French throne, the would-be King Charles XII, had three children and was selling real estate in Stouffville , Ontario .
    When I put the paper away, I said to Will, ”I have a present for you.” I took out a scrap of paper from my wallet and read out, ”Ministère des Affaires Sociales. Hôtel du Gouvernment—Population Register—Québec.” I handed it over.
    ” Merci beaucoup ,” he said, taking it. ”And what am I supposed to do with it now I got it?”
    ”I can think of something,” the twerp said.
    ”Don’t be vulgar, Sara,” I said. ”Birth certificate, Will. That’s where you write to get one, the guy at the Gazette told me.”
    ”I already got one,” Will said.
    ”That’s where you get your new one,” I said. ”Your new name, too.”
    ”I’m not with ya,” he said.
    ”Will, what did we decide last night, aside from deciding to offer the ladies one last drink?”
    ”What ladies?” said the twerp immediately.
    ”None of your business,” I said. ”I didn’t pry into what you two got up to last night, did I?”
    ”Me and the little lady went dancing,” Marlon said. ”On Crescent Street, man, has that changed, it’s jumping these days.”
    ”Yeah, if you like shitty discos playing crappy songs that were already out of date when I was still wearing rubber underwear,” Sara muttered. ”And chicks with more makeup than brains, wearing plastic miniskirts and phony-looking hairpieces and phonier falsies trying to butt in all the time.” She shot Marlon a hurt look. He looked innocently gorgeous.
    ”Disappear, Will, remember?” I said hastily. ”How do you think you do that?”
    ”Jeez, I dunno,” he said. ”I ain’t no magician.”
    ”He is,” Sara said. ”When it comes to getting out of picking up the tab.” All right, she was upset about something, was that any reason to lash out at me with her petulant slanders?
    ”Let me ask you another question,” I said calmly. ”When Fats comes looking for you again, as he well might do whatever I tell him, maybe in a year or two, how will he go about it?”
    Will thought for a minute, then shrugged.
    ”He’s not going to post