The Quebec Anthology: 1830-1990

"Pomme Douly and the Instant of Eternity" 1988

Suzanne Jacob Translated by Wayne Grady POMME DOULY AMD THE IMSTAMT OF ETERhlTY Suzanne Jacob was born near Abitibi and enrolled at the College Notre-Dame-de-PAssomption de Nicolet in 1965, where she was introduced to the worlds of theatre and music. She taught French as a second language from 1967 to 1972; during this period, she began writing songs and stories, some of which appearedin the journalsLiberte, Possibles,and La Nouvelle Barre dujour. In 1970 she was named best authorcomposer -performer at the Patriote de Montreal, and since then she has followed the dual careers of chansonniere and writer. She divides her time between Paris and Montreal, Her first book of poems, Flore Cocon, waspublished by Parti pris in 1978, and a second collection, Poemes I: Gemellaires, k Chemin deDamas, appeared in 1980. Her first collection of short stories, La Survie, was published in 1979 by the publishing house Le Biocreux, which she and the writer Paul Pare (author of the "quasi-novels" L'Improbable Autopsie and Us:essai-fictiori) founded in 1978. She has also written two television dramas:Exercicepour comparution and Le Mur. Jacob's most recent book, LesAventures dePomme Douly (1988), is a collection of linked short stories depicting the somewhat chaotic life of a beautiful, intelligent, but directionlesswoman living in Montreal. The story reprinted here, "Pomme Douly et 1'instant d'eternite," translated byWayne Grady as "Pomme Douly and the Instant of Eternity," picks up her life between adventures,as it were—while she ismaking ends meet by working as a grocery-store check-out clerk. "Pomme Douly and the Instant of Eternity" is a translation of "Pomme Douly et 1'instant d'eternite" published in LesAventures de Pomme Douly (Montreal: Editions du Boreal Express, 1988). 374 SUZANNE JACOB A lways getting by. There is always someone at hand to murmur the right phrase into Pomme Douly's ear. At the moment, she is getting by by working as a clerk at a Steinberg's supermarket, the one near the corner of Cotedes -Neiges and Queen Mary Road. The northwest corner. Not right at the corner, but almost. It looks out under its heavy awnings like a prostitute with too much mascara, peering across the street into the window of the RenaudBray bookstore. Pomme makes this depressing observation to the parasite who is currently inhabiting her refrigerator and her Coree comforter, and when his eyes don't light up with interest she figures his batteries are dead and she throws him out. It is one more act of cruelty added to a long list of atrocities, seeing that it is the middle of February and the parasite doesn't have any winter clothes to wear while searching for his next free meal. But Pomme doesn't waste time worrying about him, being well aware of the inexhaustible capacity of parasites to find new hosts, especially parasites whose specialized habitat is other people's beds. The fact that she never allows herself to muse out loud, for the benefit of her sisters-in-bondage, on the vast number of semi-naked bodies that are, at this particular time of year, stretched out along the beaches of Florida, visions of which flash through her mind every time a bag of oranges rolls by on her conveyor belt—the conveyor belt itself constantly reminding her of the intense pleasure of watching her suitcase disappear through those little flappy curtains at the airport—doesn't mean that she doesn't complain about other things. She complains about being assigned to a different check-out counter every day, which not only makes her feel insecure herself but, along with her, all the old pensioners who come to Steinberg's under the pretext of wanting a container of plain yogurt or fifty grams of lean ground beef, but who really come out of a need to have some regularity in their lives, which Pomme feels obliged to offer but can't if she is at a different cash register every time they come in. Then there are those awful, heavy awnings that cover the store front like the mascaraed eyelashes of a cheap POMME DOULY ANDTHE INSTANT OF ETERNITY 375 whore (she still likes that image), and which keeps what little sunlight that trickles down to street level from creeping in through the supermarket windows as far as the check-out counters. A losing battle, Pomme tells herself...