The Long-Faced French-Canadian, Pt. 1

She was one of those typically long-faced French-Canadian women with dark curly hair and a nose like a polished rock. The only reason I bring her up now is because the story she told me was unlike any I had ever encountered, then or since. Even after I found out that the whole story was made up -- false -- a lie -- the story has made such a strong impression on me that I almost believe in it more than the truth. Almost.

She walked into my office like so many other women before me, seeking help. Except I could tell immediately that something wasn't entirely normal about her. Her tone was all wrong. You see, normally, a first-meeting will go something like this: woman walks in with a heartbreaking story about man, some lover, whom she can't let go of for whatever reason (love, money, etc.), but man has disappeared (murder? cold-feet? another woman?), and she has to know the answer.

I look for answers. Maybe I sleep with her in-between, maybe not. Curiously, that always depends entirely on how well the case is going, nothing to do with her or me. She could profess all the undying love in the world for this man I'm supposed to find, but if the case is going well and it seems like we have a good shot at some kind of reunification, she will sleep with me. She could be as furious as scorned women can get -- I hear it's like hell -- at the man, but if it looks like he's gone for good, I usually get nothing. Women are indeed curious creatures, I have learned this much. Men? They just barely make a little more sense, I think (running away is a natural and understandable animal response, isn't it?), but I suspect that I feel this way entirely based on my own bias. Perhaps men and women are both equally crazy.

Anyway, this French-Canadian woman's tone was completely wrong. I don't travel much, so I don't know that much about Canada, or Quebec, or French-Canadian culture, or French-Canadian women, so maybe there was nothing with her tone at all. But I still felt like something was amiss. This is what happened.

"Hello, detective."

"Have a seat."

"Merci. I have never done anything like this before. Please tell me how to begin."

"The beginning works."

A smile. "Oui, the beginning. When I was born, my father was an architect in Europe --"

"Hold on, hold on. I didn't mean THAT beginning. I meant the beginning of what brings you here."

"But monsieur, I only know of this beginning, and no other. This beginning and this beginning only could have brought me to you."

An interesting perspective on things. "OK, continue."

"My father was an architect in Europe, designing football stadiums. He was kind of obsessed with them. Naturally, he had no idea how to relate to me, a little baby girl. I was probably like a bewildering alien creature to him when I was born. He tried to be a good father, I think, but I don't think he was capable of it. Baby daughters can be difficult for certain men, I believe. Do you have any children?"

I wanted her to cut to the chase already. I wasn't used to long David-Copperfield expositions from my clients. They usually get right down to the emotional whallop of how they got hurt, first thing. This woman was slowly, deliberately, methodically building me up.

"No children. No time for them."

"Of course. Well, my mother worked just as hard as my father, two jobs, doing phones during the day and waitressing on weekend evenings. Yet I found she always seemed to have time for me in a way my father didn't."

"Stop right there. If your dad was a commercial architect, he probably could support all three of you with no problem. Why did your mom have to work so hard?"

"I see I have found the right man for the job. You are very keen. Yes, it was entirely unnecessary for my mother to be working two, even one job. I believe she did it because she wanted to set an example for me, on how to be a strong woman independent of a man. More than that, I know she believed in this principle for her own life because her father, my grandfather, never supported her in any way. He was an alcoholic and a philanderer and he died when my mother was still young."

"Typical boozer-schmoozer, huh?"

"Do you like to drink, monsieur?"

"Yeah, sure, I enjoy a scotch every now and then."

"Do you like women, monsieur? I am not asking if you are a homosexual. I know you are not, because your secretary is very pretty. But do you like women?"

"Only in very controlled doses."

Another smile. "You are an interesting man."