Not For Every Eye

by Gérard Bessette, Steven Urquhart

Overview

Both touchingly comical and extremely provocative, this novel deals with ennui in Quebec and the intellectual alienation of a disenchanted hero, Hervé Jodoin. Jodoin has come to Saint Joachim to work in the town's only bookstore. The proprietor, Léon Chicoine, is a seemingly respectable man who claims to be the secret agent of free thought and liberty, keeping a collection of books for specific customers only. However, when Jodoin sells a book by a well-known, subversive author, the resulting crisis within the town involves not only Chicoine, but also the town priest and our hero's lonely landlady. This revised edition contains both English and French versions of the critical bibliography, a list of related readings, and chapter-by-chapter questions for discussion and essays.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781550962109
Publisher:	Exile Editions
Publication date:	09/04/2018
Series:	Exile Classics series
Sold by:	INDEPENDENT PUB GROUP - EPUB - EBKS
Format:	eBook
Pages:	128
File size:	676 KB

About the Author

Gérard Bessette was a noted French Canadian author and a former professor at the Royal Military College and Queen's University in Canada. His work includes the award-winning The Cycle and Incubation. He was the recipient of the Governor General's Award and the Prix David. Steven Urquhart is a translator, the executor of the Gérard Bessette estate, and an associate professor at the University of Saskatchewan. He lives in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

March 10

My first move upon arriving in Saint Joachim was to find myself a room. With only about fifty dollars left in my pocket, I wanted to avoid spending the night at a hotel. I know myself too well: once settled in, I'd have stayed there indefinitely.

As I got out of the bus, I was dead tired and went into the little restaurant that serves as a bus terminal to buy myself some cigars. While the girl was handing me my change, I noticed a copy of the local weekly Le Courrier de Saint Joachim lying on a shelf. I picked it up. It was three days old, but this was of no consequence.

Making my way to a wooden bench in a corner of the restaurant, I opened the paper to the classified ads. There were just about a dozen rooms listed for rent. I jotted the addresses down in my notebook and then asked the waitress for a map of the town. She seemed surprised by such a request, scratching her forehead before rummaging through a drawer filled with odd sheets of paper, from which she eventually extracted a yellowed map. She thought it necessary to warn me that it was several years old, and pointed out that I could get a more recent one at Léon's Bookstore. This was the establishment where I had to present myself to take up my duties as a clerk. I wasn't eager to put in an appearance ahead of time and assured her that the old map would do the job just fine.

I went back and got into a booth with a Formica-topped table where I spread out the map of Saint Joachim. The city's topography is not complicated. The avenues, almost all bearing the names of saints, stood in even rows running north and south parallel to the little green river, which interrupted its wanderings at this point as though on purpose. The streets cut the avenues at right angles and were numbered from First to Twenty-eighth on the map. I say "on the map" because I noticed that their number has almost doubled since the publication of the map in 1936. In any case, this was of no importance to me. I knew that Léon's Bookstore was located almost in the city centre, on Fourteenth Street and, as I hate moving about, I wanted a lodging as close as possible to my work.

Of the eleven rooms advertised, two were for women only and six for men and three for either sex. Among those theoretically available to me, I was able to isolate six on the map. For a moment, I thought about establishing an itinerary for each of the two relevant categories: men only on the one hand, men or women on the other. But this procedure would have almost doubled the distance to be covered and so I gave up on the idea.

Having settled upon my route, I left my suitcase at the checkroom and offered to pay for the map that I had used. The waitress told me to keep it; she had no use for it. Aside from traveling salesmen and relatives of the inhabitants, few strangers visited Saint Joachim. I was the exception and had no doubt come here for business affairs? Ordinarily, I don't answer questions of the sort. But as she had shown herself to be kind enough, I told her that in a certain way, one might say I had come on business as long as it was taken in the broad sense of the term. She didn't seem to quite grasp my response and nodded her head with a confused look on her face.

At the first two houses where I rang the bell, I was told that the rooms were already rented. This was probably true. I say "probably" as it isn't out of the question that I was turned down because of my appearance, particularly my clothes. My felt hat, which I dutifully raised as soon as each door was opened, has several unusual bumps and a greasy streak that couldn't be overlooked by an attentive eye. The sleeves of my overcoat were frayed at the edges and my scarf wasn't as clean as it could have been. As for my face, I've seen uglier, but it's pale and sagging with deep wrinkles the length of my cheeks. But, all in all, I am presentable enough and express myself with a certain ease. The proof is that at the next two addresses, they were ready to accept me. This time, I was the one to refuse, not so much because of the rooms as because of the matrons who tried to worm personal information out of me.

I don't regret refusing as I am completely satisfied with the room that I occupy now. It's not large, but what does that matter? It's exactly eleven by eight and a half feet; I measured it one evening when I had nothing to do. By this, I mean one evening before I adopted my present routine. In reality, I never have anything to do in the evening.

It's a question of killing time, which is not easy given that I am too tired to go walking after work. When you can walk leisurely and as much as you like, you can always manage to get out, even in a small place like Saint Joachim. You stroll along the main streets; you look at the shop windows or gaze at other strollers. You go over to the station or bus terminal at arrival and departure times; you sit around and listen to the gossip etc. But when you lack the energy for long walks and you know that you can't get to sleep before the early hours of the morning, then killing time becomes a serious problem.

That's why, after my evening digestive stroll, I always end up wearily settling in at the tavern. Not an ideal solution, I know; but I can't stand the notion of shutting myself up in one of Saint Joachim's cinemas, all of them filthy theatres, two with nothing better than wooden seats and, the third, insufficiently heated. On the other hand, I don't like staying alone in my room. I gave up reading quite some time ago. As for music, I'd need to buy a radio and I am not sure I'd like it. No, in my case, the tavern is definitely the best solution.

In addition to the one in the hotel, which is situated next to a noisy dance hall that gives me a migraine, there are three other watering holes in Saint Joachim. They are all about the same. If, after feeling them all out, I finally settled on Trefflé's Place, it's because this establishment is located only ten minutes away from Léon's Bookstore and from my room, in an eccentric district where I am unlikely to run into my customers. The regulars are mainly workmen, sometimes quite rowdy (especially Friday and Saturday nights), but they leave me alone.

I usually set myself up in a corner, against a hot-air vent near the toilets. With each swing of the door, of course, there's a rather dubious aroma that floats out, but this is the warmest place and the one that requires the least movement when I have to go relieve myself. Besides, I'm beginning to get used to the smell; I smoke a few more cigars, that's all. On the whole, I have nothing to complain about concerning my sessions in the tavern.

The only serious inconvenience is that my system takes rather poorly to beer. Let me explain: it's not the intake that bothers me; it's the elimination. After the seventh or eighth glass, I begin to experience a burning sensation in my bladder. For a few days, I really thought that I'd have to give up beer altogether, but while leafing through the newspaper, I came across an advertisement for a really remarkable antacid salt called Safe-All, and I bought a bottle. A good dose between the third and fifth glass and my discomfort is reduced to a mild tingling.

At first thought, it might seem simpler not to drink at all, or at any rate to drink less, as in no way am I an alcoholic. Before settling here, I drank very little on the whole, except at class reunions, and fortunately these occur only once a year. But no matter. I didn't start this journal to rehash old memories. I took it up to kill time on Sundays when the taverns are closed ... But, I was explaining the why and wherefore of my libations. To be fair, I have to acknowledge that the waiters at Trefflé's have nothing to do with it. They don't push you to order. They come and get my glass when it's empty, but they never ask me if I want another. I'm not saying that they act this way by virtue of altruism, but the fact remains that I raise my finger of my own free will, whenever my glass is empty. And so, the waiter comes and places two more glasses in front of me. I give him twenty-five cents (twenty for the beer and five for the tip) and then he thanks me and goes away. The staff's discretion was one of the reasons that made me opt for Trefflé's rather than Le Baril or Le Bon Buveur.

As it would appear then, there's no external pressure being placed on me. Still, it's necessary to take the circumstances into account. For one thing, I take up a whole table to myself, having warned the waiters that I don't care for company. Then too, it must not be forgotten that I spend an average of seven hours a day in Trefflé's. Given this situation, there is a certain moral obligation to consume a reasonable amount.

In any case, I've now reached an average of twenty glasses per evening, without any ill effects other than the one previously mentioned. Naturally, I didn't reach this amount the first evening. Starting at six or eight glasses, it took me three weeks to progressively climb to my current level.

But enough of that. All these musings don't change any of the business at hand. Let's move on to the circumstances that brought me to Saint Joachim. On second thought, no, not today. It's getting late and my arm is tired.

CHAPTER 2

March 17

I'll begin, then, at the beginning. Early in February, after having been unemployed for almost two months and being down to my last fifty dollars, I decided to look for work. I went down to the government employment office and took a look at the hiring bulletin board. They were looking for lumberjacks, an assortment of travelling salesmen, two mechanics, three lathe operators, half a dozen bookkeepers, some dishwashers, and a few labourers. In short, nothing very tempting. I asked an unemployed guy standing nearby whether that was all the jobs. He said no: additional lists were kept in the offices as there wasn't enough space to post them all. Then, he asked me if I had my card. This was the first time that I'd heard of such a thing. The card in question is a small certificate issued by the employment office attesting to the fact that the applicant has no criminal record and is looking for work "in good faith." This expression struck me as ridiculous. I couldn't conceive how it was possible to look for work "in bad faith." But this was mere inexperience on my part. The guy explained to me that many of the jobless report to the office for the sole purpose of getting their unemployment insurance, and that they continually manage to refuse any work offered. I thought that this was an ingenious technique and was sorry not to be able to resort to it myself. Unfortunately, in my capacity as a repetitive tutor at Saint Étienne College, "a charitable institution," I wasn't protected by unemployment insurance. In any case, to get my card, I had to submit to an interview. The prospect didn't enthuse me, but as I was rather tired, I sat down on the bench next to the guy and waited. There were at least fifteen people ahead of us. They were called in one by one, and so the rest of us slid the seats of our pants along the wooden bench that had been polished by such use. The guy was no longer saying anything and seemed nervous. He was afraid of not getting his card stamped. I remember lighting a cigar and drawing a few puffs; then I fell asleep.

A few minutes later, a dig from my neighbour's elbow jolted me awake and I opened my eyes. At first, I was thinking that it must be my turn to be interviewed, and that I hadn't waited a long-time ... But I was mistaken. As I raised my head, I saw a fat man in a navy-blue suit standing in front of me with his hand extended.

"How're things, Hervé?" he asked me. "We don't see you anymore. What's become of you? Still teaching?"

I recognized Martin Nault, a former classmate. Just my luck. With his long pointed chin and mug like a boxer, Nault had always seemed peculiarly repulsive to me. I made as if not to see his outstretched hand and answered indifferently that I had given up teaching.

"Indeed," said Nault, while scratching his chin, "I remember now. Who was it that told me, that? ... Oh! Yes, it was Massé. He went over to the school to see you, and you were no longer there ..."

The fact that Nault knew all about it didn't surprise me. He's the kind of idiot who goes for class gossip and memories of "the old Alma Mater" the way certain "country-folk" thirst for news of cousins eight times removed that they don't even know. Another unemployed person had just been called in and I slid another space along the bench, without paying attention to Nault. But he wasn't thrown off that easily. I have to say that my classmates have always taken me for an eccentric, a cynic; so much so that I can dish out the worst discourtesies to them without them getting offended. There was a time when I enjoyed cultivating this character, as it's enjoyable to be able to insult people with impunity. But, it also entails some disadvantages — as now, for instance, when you've got to get rid of a pain in the rear end. Never had I realized this more than at that moment when Nault, belly and buttocks heaving, face beaming, examined me with con descension and gluttony while hoping that I would tell him about my trials and tribulations.

"What are you doing here?" he asked me again, seeing that I hadn't opened my mouth.

I took plenty of time relighting my cigar before answering and then told him that the décorum appealed to me and that it was pleasant and luxurious.

In fact, the employment office occupied pretty slummy quarters. Dirty grey walls, sooty windowpanes, floors covered with chipped linoleum, all of which made me think of the waiting room of a backcountry railway station.

Nault exploded in a loud, greasy laugh. My reply hadn't riled him in the slightest and he put his hand on my shoulder, a fat paw overgrown with a black fleece.

"Come on into my office," he said. "We can chat in peace in there."

I got up and followed him, I'm not too sure why. Or rather, I suspect that it was because my neighbour had been jostling me with his elbow and clearing his throat to attract my attention since Nault's appearance. Obviously, he wanted an introduction. As I learned a few minutes later, Nault was the Assistant Superintendant of the office. But, as far as I was concerned, the unemployed guy could always damn well look after himself. Between the two, I still preferred an interview with Nault.

Hardly seated in his office — which, I noted with satisfaction, was only slightly less shoddy than the waiting room — Nault resumed his interrogation.

"Well then, so you've left the good fathers of Saint Étienne? What are you doing now?"

He said this as he rubbed his great hairy hands together with a greedy smile on his lips. He was already licking his chops over the prospect of reporting my misfortunes to our former class mates. So I told him that at the moment I was the president of the university, but that I was thinking seriously of changing positions, inasmuch as my secretaries, a pair of costive old maids, refused to let me feel up the coeds as meticulously as I'd have liked. Nault doubled up with laughter at this stupid reply. This is the kind of "wit" that earned me my reputation with my classmates.

"And what sort of position do you have in mind?" Nault asked, when his attack of hilarity had subsided.

I answered that it was all the same to me, provided I didn't have to do anything.

After a renewed outburst of laughter, Nault began to rub his chin reflectively. He wanted to help me; that was clear, but without compromising his own prestige. I don't blame him for nursing doubts as to my ability to get a job. Neither my clothes nor my demeanour were such as to inspire confidence in an employer. I hadn't had, as the saying goes, the opportunity to renew my wardrobe for some time. As a "pedagogue," people had gotten used to always seeing me in the same shabby attire and had given up commenting on it. They contented themselves with paying me a starvation wage and letting me stagnate in the junior classes.

Suddenly Nault's noggin lit up, and he snapped his stubby fingers in a triumphant gesture.

"Do you still like books?"

Half-pursing my lips in indifference, I told him that books didn't burn as long as coal, but that when no other fuel was handy, I had been known to still use them sometimes.

Nault burst out laughing once again, then abruptly, he put on his serious face of Assistant Superintendant.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Not for Every Eye"
by .
Copyright © 2010 The Estate of Gérard Bessette.
Excerpted by permission of Exile Editions Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents

Introduction,
Not for Every Eye,
Related Reading,
Questions for Discussion,
Bibliography,