Cowboy. Louis Hamelin

he abruptly stopped and looked around, watching for signs of weariness in his counterparts, leaving his start-up formula dangling in the still air, like a form of apathy. “To cut a long story short...”

      The kitchen, like the bedrooms, was designed as a simple outbuilding attached to the general store. From the table, through the bay window, you could keep an eye on the stoic gas pumps, which looked more like worn landmarks, headstones or cairns than the outcrops of an underground reservoir. Beyond the restaurant, you could see the level crossing and the Grande-Ourse highway which, on the other side, continued to wind towards the lake, the hotel and northward. Another window, through the storage room containing the safe and the manager’s office, looked out on the only aisle that was lined with shelves, at the end of which stood the heavily bolted main door. This casement allowed Benoît, the Old Man, and Mr. Administrator to exercise constant vigilance, even during meals. Apparently, no one had thought of organizing alternating shifts behind the stores counter. It seemed evident that meals were to be shared, and normal to allow the convivial unity to be broken repeatedly to trot to the other end of the building and tend to customer whims. Whoever bumped into a closed door only had to plunk his face in the wire-meshed side window to be quickly spotted by one of the diners. The greatly dreaded words would then ring out amid the gurgling of boiling soup or the ardent mastication of a hamburger, “Giiiiiilles! A customer!”

      Gilles, that’s yours truly, to help you. Gilles Deschênes. I’d become the humble servant in this village of fools, quickly learning that no feast could compromise the well-being of commercial exchanges. The simple intimacy of a vital function such as nourishment seemed taboo in this place. The grace Mr. Administrator muttered before sinking into his chair went hand in hand with the cash register’s clear ringing.

      Benoît, the group s youngest member, was conscientious, self-taught, and good at figures. Promoted as the Outfitters’ manager at twenty-two, he rarely showed signs of being the least bit happy with life. People acknowledged that he had a certain sense of responsibility. That responsibility, and his birth a few parallels north of the national average, had been enough to earn him this thankless job the previous year, following a tavern conversation with nepotistic overtones. Ti-Kid Benoît saw no difference between recreation and work. He did everything diligently, at an intense pace, with carefully cultivated stress.

      The Old Man, for his part, had no head for figures, but I swear he had no equal in scrounging a little fast profit. Whenever money was discussed, wherever it was located, even as far as Fort Knox, he’d clearly make it his business. The Outfitters didn’t even have to pay him, couldn’t afford it anyway. He had a pension, and was satisfied with little. He was still hanging around GrandeOurse, working for the establishment locals despised, because he was driven by a competitive spirit where his welfare meant little. He now worked exclusively from devotion to the gods of mercantilism. The simple pleasure of shady deals and the deadly need to toil away always roused him.

      For the last two years, however, Mr. Administrator had been doing his best to ease the Old Man towards the exit. But his attempts had been fruitless, and the patience of shareholders had reached its limit, A proper dismissal, therefore, was on the agenda for this visit. Contrary to his two assistants, Mr. Administrator lived in big city suburbs, travelling here only on inspection tours of variable length, during which he liked giving outward signs of sustained activity.

      Every night he’d withdraw, greatly preoccupied with the mandate given by his associates, to sleep over in the large white house perched on a nearby hill that had once belonged to the Company’s supervisors. The mere sight of this debonair decisionmaker coming down the steep path, at daybreak, was like a cold shower to the Old Man, who was forever flinching. He smelled of hot soup, and knew he’d become a nuisance by setting the whole village against the business, by coaxing with flattery only to disparage afterwards, and by amusing with anecdotes before hurling retrospective curses. This imperishable little village continued to revolve around him; he always had his nose in everybody’s business. He was on the lookout, constantly well-up on everything, as renowned as Barabbas in the Passion, and unanimously hated. When it was his turn to speak, he’d spring to his feet, his chair having grown too hot. He couldn’t express himself while seated, and had to put all his weight in the balance, wobbling between each word, swinging his arms all round and swaggering like an old rooster with a flaming crest. He spoke like people fart, delivering each term by pushing it out, while Mr. Administrator encouraged him with gestures.

      “The national sport around here is tongue-lashing the Outfitters! And its open season all year, besides! Everyone’s been on our back from the start, and now they want to challenge the price of electricity! Heartless wretches! Then there are those who boycott the store, who order supplies from Sans-Terre by railway, in conspiracy with the train guys! What do they want, for Gods sake? All they do is whine, they’re never happy, we always have to run after them to get paid, they quarrel all year, the only way they spend their time around here, neighbour pitted against neighbour, and everyone united against the Outfitters! Rotten, lazy, no-good, profiteering welfare cases!”

      He was out of breath and stopped talking, wiping a rough tongue across the soup drenching his chin. For a short time, Mr. Administrator had been trying to interrupt him with a gesture that was both sweeping and composed. He got up and began to pace about the kitchen, highlighting some of his words with an imaginary wand.

      “The problem around here,” he said, sententiously, “is the absence of law, which is to say of any representative able to enforce it. In our society, the right to property is the foundation of all law. The only property that matters in this place is the one you can protect with a gun...”

      Benoît nodded. The Old Man’s only reaction was to burp haughtily.

      “In short, we have to show them we’re tough.... We’re not here to do charity, are we? Let them buy their groceries in Sans-Terre if they want! It’ll mean we won’t have to play the public authorities! And Grande-Ourse will finally become a model outfitting camp. You see, friends, luxury tourism is incompatible with a local population.... But we’re too kind, what can I say!”

      “Too kind!” confirmed the Old Man.

      The conversation then shifted to the upcoming visit of American fishermen. In fact, the long weekend in the third week of May, which coincided with the beginning of fishing season, ushered in the summer invasion. When mentioning the anticipated event, the Old Man’s voice was but a gentle murmur. He wiped tears from his eyes. They were finally speaking his language.

      “Real gentlemen, they are,” he said. “Real gentlemen, yes sir!”

      There’d be a real rush on Victoria Day, the Old Man assured me, people would line up at the gas pumps and at the counter.

      The general store remained the Outfitters’ milch cow; for the moment, the only relatively profitable part of the economic unit created by the purchase of Grande-Ourse. Mr. Administrator was intensely optimistic. Due to the rather understandable lack of precedent — a private corporation purchasing a village was a first in Quebec’s municipal records — he had ample leisure to delude himself with comfortable predictions, believing the opportunities offered to his administrative mind were infinite. Yet the transition to cushy tourism was turning out to be difficult.

      The dead season dragged on, and quiet evenings were typical.

      One morning in mid-May, fall made an unexpected visit: a snow-filled sky greeted me when I awoke. A frigid atmosphere permeated the store. For the first time, I was encountering a nomadic group that returned each spring with the break-up of ice on lakes. We were still only dealing with scouts from the dreaded horde: the tough ones, those familiar with the region, returning to open some rudimentary cabin secluded deep in a valley, and appraise the damage caused as much by the rigours of the season as the recklessness of snowmobilers. They were distinguished by their tans, which winter hadn’t changed, and a good-natured savageness in their gaze. Among them were a few greenhorns who could be recognized by their blue colour. They invaded the store in a mad rush, accompanied by an angry wind, twirling around a little, somewhat agitated, rubbing their hands. They asked for warm gloves,