Not all things are easy to dismiss in life. |
Last train to Montreal by Samuel Ramratan. There are experiences in a man's life that at times makes him feel ashamed. For someone who never liked to tell other peoples stories, today, circumstances have forced me to tell this tale to debate my shame before this world we share. It began one day in winter while taking the train from Toronto to Montreal. I was living there at the time, in a small apartment stuck above the din on downtown Saint Denis. Riding home that evening after spending three weeks with ailing parents in Toronto, I was, you might say easing the pressure of being cooped up with them by quenching my ravaging thirst. As we came closer to where I called home, the dust of the city rode shotgun with my senses. Next came that unique feeling all cities whose culture has stained their walls, halls and facades, endow on their residents. Montreal was adopted by me, certain moments, yes, Montreal had adopted me, and like all things, at certain instants disdain steps in, rejection clutters our minds and words flow while actions follow. My excuse is things started off badly because it was an off day, a middle of the week ticket so I had four seats to myself. You know the layout, two seats facing two. Having them all for myself found me with shoes off, feet up on the facing seat. There I was, relaxing, when two young children entered with their, as it turned out to be, grandmother. No they were not English, Jewish, Italian or any other such like, they were plainly French, French Canadian. Unfortunately for me I was surrounded by the last three empty grouped seats, so it was natural for them to select my space. Sure it was my space, It had been in my possession for three and a half hours amidst laughing, ranting, taunting, and joking , but I hadn't cried. They were my seats. My ass in one, winter coat in another, composition book on a third and feet up on the remaining one. My space for sure and all three of them must have felt it due to the manner I had grudgingly let go of those empty seats. Right off they started yammering in French forcing me out of my personal world bringing new thoughts into my head. She's old that woman, at least eighty, her voice is weak, age had surely passed over her, many times over. Older than my parents for sure. Their mood was intimate yet there was a solemn hush over their speech. I edged my ears closer to their conversation listening intently. There is this need people develop because after many years in a new language there still remains many unturned missing pages to learn which they feel gives them an edge. My curiosity was immediately perked, she was telling her two companions about her early memories of the city. She never mentioned the name Montreal, but all the other names were there. The old port, an east end where all poor French people had lived. She never said French Canadian, she had either dropped the Canadian part or it never existed for her at all. After about fifteen minutes of it, I aired my second mistake for them to judge this immigrant. What's this, I said, last train to Montreal? My words must have fell hard, because silence gripped them for enough time for me to reflect on wishing my elderly parents could be struck by such silence too, some times. I must have sworn under my breath because that brought granny out of her coma. I took the bus most times to the city, she almost protested, as if the only thing that offended her was taking trains. Sometimes those French are subtle in their ways but like all things avoidable I rose to the occasion sweeping around her like a new immigrant recently off a boat with a clear slate. Bus is good, oui, was my reply in halting Englishified French. The two children laughed out loud which did not seem to please her. But that moment I saved myself some hell. My nerves calmed, after toying with an insane idea of playing on the sentiments of the younger generation. I shut my mouth feeling locally brewed beer from the city rimming my lips. I spent those remaining minutes between the washroom and the carriage in front, almost no mans land in train terminology harassing the waiter. When the conductor announced our destination, I rushed over to my seat, grabbed my bags over their heads and scooted off to wait near the doors. As fate would have it, the metro was delayed, and I waited on the Bonaventure quay for ten minutes before it showed up. By this time my three travelling companions turned up like the proverbial penny just as the rubber wheeled metro cars ground to a halt allowing them to embark on the same car as I. Granny and the two children entered at the same instant as I and she grinned at me as if telling me something special, something I had not as yet learned in life. My last memory of her was perfectly dentured teeth hung about an aged white face. That evening I had missed her point. It could have been I was too tipsy, too excited, too immature or simply too foreign. It must have been those same sentiments that had made me blind to the changed attitude in her companions - their heads were held differently. Mabye they had come to know something I didn't. That night while doing the Montreal thing up and down Saint Denis then moving on to Saint Laurent, I never gave them a moments thought. I have never figgered out whether that last night move was a move up or a move down. Thinking back I guess Granny would have had that answer, but that night and the following days, she never crossed my mind, neither did the two children, an older girl and her brother. About six weeks later my mother asked me to visit her for a few days but my agreement was reluctant. I took the bus on that occasion from Montreal. It was in the morning and spring was slowly creeping into the city. The rain drizzled lightly on my way over to the bus terminus spotting my light overcoat with its dark marks. My feelings were mixed, more uncomfortable than anything else, for some strange unknown reason. I purchased a coffee from the snack bar to shake off my feelings and bitched at them because they had run out of cream. I was one step away from a dirty look. The driver was almost closing the bus door when I entered forcing me to rev up a bit and sail down the aisle heading for the rear. I saw the same two children whom I instantly remembered from when I had returned the last time by train. I looked around for Granny but did not see her. Feeling like the man I was, I asked in my best bogus French - Where's Granny? They both looked at me with haunting eyes that have brought me here before you and replied together - Elle ne revient jamais à Montreal, elle est mort. |