Séjour Saint-Louis

By Reed Stirling

Montreal in late nineteenth century, a gifted young poet falls victim to madness.

Today, a struggling father is driven to drink over the intransigence of his music-obsessed teenage son. An equally conflicted wife and mother threatens separation.
What connects these two worlds?

The Victorian fountain in Square Saint-Louis, a series of seemingly random incidents in the city, a bronze bust on a white plinth, and a school reunion where myth, art, and mysterious e-lixar fuse into dramatic reflections of family dynamics. Through mirroring, resolution proves possible.

Editorial Review
“Stirling does it again, entertaining the reader with a parade of engrossing characters. Through a complexity of allusion simple truths are revealed. Contemporary, relevant, challenging, Séjour Saint-Louis is fused with ambiguity and subtle humour.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Apr 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228616573

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SÉJOUR SAINT-LOUIS

Reed Stirling

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 9780228616573

Kindle 9780228616580

Web 9780228616597

Print ISBNs

BWL Print 9780228616603

B&N Print 9780228616610

Amazon Print 9780228616627

Copyright Reed Stirling 2021

Cover Art Michelle Lee

Cover image  Fountain @ Square Saint-Louis @ Le Plateau @ Montréal

copyright  Guilhem Vellut 

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book. Séjour Saint-Louis is a work of fiction.

Dedication

In memory of John, Catherine, and Nora

Quoth the raven Nevermore.

from The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

Oh! fais un peu que je comprenne

Cette âme aux sons noirs qui m’entraîne

Et m’a rendu malade et fou

from Chopin by Émile Nelligan

Scene One

Evening light filters though the pale purple curtains casting eerie, disorienting shapes on the floor and the wall next to the dark television screen. A wavering hand emerges from among the silhouettes, welcoming in the one instance, accusatory in the next, its longest finger quivering and extending and then waning in the aura of twin Victorian wall lamps that decorate the room. Rapping, rapping, then quiet, whereupon I hear more rapping. I wander in and out of a semi-dream state, my eyes unable to focus clearly, my mind like a wad of gauze incapable of filtering out what is real and what is not. But of this I am certain: the shadowy hand is not the source of the rapping.

The curtains blow in above the ledge. They twist about only to cling finally to the mass of material draped to each side of the window, and then fall back into place. With this, I fear, the entrance of some wraith-like revenant not totally unknown to me.

Not the form of forgetfulness I have been seeking. Not anything like it. No escaping even here the concerns of the wearying world, a world without Elinore. What had I really hoped for in coming to this place? A species of sombre bliss like that of the lotus-eaters referenced by Baudelaire. Really? Unlike those fated characters described in his story I cannot aspire to even temporary release. Most frustrating always is the imperative to clean up the messes left by others, my own screw-ups notwithstanding. The need for resolution — resolution on all fronts, at home, in the office, and abroad — continues to resonate as the wind and the rapping and the insistent moving shapes inform my addled brain.

Now comes a knocking at the door. My breathing quickens. When I arise giddy with expectation, and go to see who is there, it becomes immediately obvious that no one is there. My eyes adjust to the subtle light of the hallway. Nothing there to confirm or deny, nothing there to assuage my fretful apprehension.

My temples throb. The anxiety I’ve been feeling is palpable. I grasp an absurd thought: Elinore has somehow followed me here to Le Séjour Saint-Louis and is rapping on another door. Faint voices recede into the gloom. Somewhere beyond the mirrored alcove a second door closes confirming the fact that any number of guests reside in the hotel and Elinore is obviously not among them. I retreat without solace to the solitude of my own four walls, more miffed at this point than angered.

That strange odour lingers. I cannot identify it. It does not exactly stimulate glandular secretions. Nor does it discourage them. I feel duty-bound to inform the concierge in the morning of this disturbing peculiarity.

The curtains blow in once more, the wind again, and further rapping. I look out through the fusion of branches extending up the lattice work on the exterior wall and decipher dark birds gathered about and pecking away at some object of interest on a patch of grass off to the side of the terrasse — starlings possibly, or blackbirds, or perhaps young crows digesting adult directions. I cannot determine what with any clarity. But of this I am certain: no bird is the source of the rapping, just the branches on the lattice. Another gust of wind, and another breath of remonstrance blows in and hits me full in the face. I blink repeatedly. I reach over to grab my glass. I swallow a mouthful of whiskey and follow it quickly with another.

Before regaining my chair, I revisit at close range the picture on the door of the wardrobe, a framed print of a poster from some Rembrandt exhibition in Russia. I’m familiar with Russian script. I’ve seen enough of it on contracts and agreements, on signs and drilling machinery, and I’ve seen enough of it elsewhere over the years. I make out the words Pallas Athena, a painting in which Rembrandt depicts a helmeted figure with armour, lance, and shield. At first, before the dizziness set in, it reminded me of my wife Elinore in her scarf-adorned cycling helmet, auburn hair curling to the side, and she seemingly lost in contemplation of where to turn next; and the portrait still does in part; but then it reminds me of my son Elliot, his face half revealed as he emerges out of, or recedes into, the shadows. I can’t decide who it reminds me of most. Then the intensity of the effects of light on metal achieved by the artist occupies my attention briefly, and then the figure of some obscure bird on the crest of the helmet. It is an ornate headpiece for sure, and I snort at the thought of it serving as a cycling helmet. A hit at the bar at the bikers’ ball more likely! This leaves me conjuring up the image of the obnoxious youth sitting opposite me on the train this morning that I entertained an immediate loathing for, on his arm a grotesque tattoo of a helmeted head dripping blood. Then there were the piercings, the nose ring, the nuts and boltlike effects in his ear lobes, and gaping rips in the knees of his jeans. Perhaps loathing is too strong a term, and intense dislike will do, but the question remains: Was it he who intentionally left the anthology behind, he who led me back to Baudelaire? Upon settling in, which always includes hanging a suit up and donning casual duds, jeans and sweat shirt normally (dependant on the purpose of the trip), I intended to pull the anthology out of the slash in my all-purpose carrying case and re-read specific sections, but realized I’d turned it into the Central Station lost and found. Baudelaire indeed.

I’m not so out of it, nearly napping, that I fail to recognize how my thoughts are stimulated by guilt and scruple and the confusion of shadows, noises, and odours. I’m not so out of it that I fail to recognize the need to pursue understanding of where I am and why I am here and how inchoate thoughts drift along independent of logical sequence. True, I find myself lounging about in a half-hypnotic, semi-conscious state of mind, wilful yet largely inanimate, but not quite beyond the point of no return. A rational assessment of my present situation, this string of pearly thoughts, no doubt about it, and comforting to a degree. However, I cannot resist drifting off again into willowy realms of dreamy allusion.

When I come to, I am made aware of a new, not unpleasant scent in the room.

Incense!

Sandalwood, possibly. Elliot’s choice for his cellar shenanigans. Why incense at this time of the evening? To satisfy the need for something exotic? To pleasure the olfactory? Or is it merely the commonplace practice of masking the smell of marijuana? Are miscreant teenagers smoking weed down in the lane, or are hotel guests down the hall partying in the privacy of their own sensual delight, but with their window open to the whole neighbourhood?

These scented wafts, might they be heaven sent?

Could be.

My nose takes me back to Church services — the thurible swinging, the smoke rising, and the uplifting emanations of frankincense and myrrh. That unidentifiable smell from earlier has been overpowered by a higher odour of sanctity, it seems, which strikes me kind of laughing to myself as a minor blessing. By a similar turn I am taken back to religious duties at Yamaska College. I balk at that idea, not yet prepared, despite the magnanimous invitation of a student reunion, to recall en masse adolescent insecurities, malicious put-downs, and face-saving escapades.

I reach for my glass. Nary a whiff of solace left in it.

Damn, damn!

The empty mickey on the side table that I knock over with my overreaching confirms what I’ve suspected from the outset. Though in a long-favoured setting that is home to a history of positive memories, I should not have been sitting in this cozy but beguiling chair allowing melancholy to play havoc with my mind, all the while sipping Irish whiskey and wishing things were not as they are. Mixing alcohol and anxiety medication produces unpredictable effects. I was warned about that when filling the prescriptions. However, I now curse the lack of comforting commiseration these little thirteen ouncers contain. That acknowledged with some chagrin, I decide with a shrugging of the shoulders that it’s time to turn in.

Foul breath alerts me first. And then comes that sense of déjà vu as though one’s life experiences are understood by seeing only in a glass darkly. A balding weirdo, frightful and unsightly, is breathing deeply, and obscuring the mirror pane, but I see through his subterfuge, able to make out the anxiety, the discolouration, and all the other signs of premature ageing. I also see that he has bitten my lower lip with more intention than the expression of dismay might require.

My reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink leaves me totally nonplussed. I feel a kind of magnetism exerting pressure to get beyond the surface of this filmy world, where the surreal supplants the here and now of an upgraded WC in a boutique hotel. I am induced, nonetheless, to go with what I see, even though the room seems to be tilting a little out of square. And what do I see beyond the grimaces and the discarded, twisted tube of toothpaste that I dropped? Not a caring and providing father of three. Not a dedicated husband of twenty-five years. No, I see incipient dotage revealing its pallid, wan, wrinkled face.

But damn it all, I’m not that old, not as old as the horrid, skeletal wretch I see before me curling his withered upper lip. He proceeds to finger his scant nose, pluck his stubbled cheeks, and run bony fingers across his scalp in search of non-existent hair. And a lot of effort exerted from the other side just to stare me down!

Nothing to say? I shout, fists clenched. At this juncture, I’m nothing but angry apprehension. No more nasty revelations? No additional personal insults?

Silence. No response from the spectre opposing me. No insinuations. No intimations of impending failure.

Nothing.

And then an echo somewhere in my head of Elliot’s frequent retort when he in the guise of a teenage gangster accuses me of entertaining a myopic view of paternal responsibility: Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me?

This reprimand, insightful though it may be in terms of Elliot’s ability to mock me, is followed by a duet of baffling guffaws that sends me skipping out of the bathroom. Exhausted by these self-indulgent histrionics, reflections mirroring themes you might read about in moralistic but grim fairy tales, I know for certain it’s time for some real shut-eye. I close the window with slightly less than a bang. I collapse in a heap on the bed and close my eyes with absolute intent.

The hour runs late, well beyond midnight, and I still can get neither restful sleep nor anything like peace of mind. My drowsy thoughts flutter from this cocoon of a room to Baudelaire’s mysterious being and how on the train I dreamed of losing my soul. That, I speculate, might equate in the evanescent world of dream metaphor to Elinore’s imminent departure. She takes wing in the guise of a young woman floating across the Central Station concourse who fades into the Art Deco murals. All so startling, all so seemingly real.

And now this damn Yamaska College reunion. The invitation keeps insinuating itself into my enduring agitation. Am I into it? Not really, what with domestic troubles on my mind and business decisions I failed to make. Though years have passed, meeting up again with bullies and brats, and yeah-saying religious zealots and their contentious critics is not something I aspire to. Unburdening my soul to Desbiens will be difficult enough, let alone revealing personal matters, if it comes to that, in the company of virtual strangers. Though I can fake hail-fellow-well-met when necessity requires it, nonchalance is an attitude beyond my capabilities.

And so, the night tumbles on. No lulling this soul of mine into purposeful repose. No moments of tranquil serenity or pleasant reminiscence or remembrance of loving Elinore. No contentment in believing Elliot is well on his way to a successful and fulfilling life beyond the confines of his basement cell. Just dread of what may follow. What follows at this hour, I pray, is sleep.

The grisly mug in the mirror offers me a sardonic grin. I return the grin, intending to pass off last night’s highlights of horror as totally anomalous, but my recollection of them will not be dismissed too readily. Though I might in this morning’s light suppress the tangible sensation of uncertainty that so possessed me, I realize quickly that a curled lip and a shrug of the shoulders will definitely not do. It occurs to me, shamefaced by unavoidable crapulence as I am, that insouciance is nothing but confidence gone belly-up. I remain fragile. Even after all the years of successful accomplishment, I know I’m quite capable in the world of daily affairs of traipsing along too close to the slippery slope of complacency. Well-intended directives can slide off purpose or go completely awry. Admittedly, distraction has defined my modus operandi of late — a rather awkward business model as one of my bosses described it. In his usual style, pointed and deferential at the same time, he went on to opine the obvious: possessing complete information about a given situation results in the right decisions being made. He added with heavy emphasis that thorough familiarity with all personnel responsible for a specific job is paramount. I couldn’t agree more. Assigning the right guy to do simulation models for borehole instability is a case in point. That’s where the boss had me over the barrel.

With her usual acuity, Elinore has expanded the notion of having all the info to include understanding and compassion when it comes to decision-making on the homefront. Here, unfortunately, mutual agreement is less than assured: how and what to decide varies, naturally enough, according to point of view. It’s not always about discipline, she insists, or self-restraint, or Dad’s directives to a troubled teen about how to get real. It’s not always about patience and forbearance, I counter, because more often than not it’s about tough love. Elliot, the unfortunate subject of our ongoing contretemps, has his own take on these matters, which is not only overtly self-serving but also patently dismissive of paternal authority. He really tries my patience. Elinore balks at any talk of mine that argues in favour of physically throwing him out of the house. She’s his staunchest defence. Let him be the prodigal son, I suggest in a perverse turn of logic, and return not only penitent but also amenable to reform and parental direction. What will result? Responsible choices on his part after we’ve all feasted on the fatted calf as one big happy family sitting at the dining room table. Cynical, totally cynical, Elinore retorts, virtually gnashing her teeth. I suppose it’s not really in me to take such drastic action against a recalcitrant son. I cannot, however, deny the frustration he’s caused me over the last decade and how on more than one occasion I have felt the urge even when wearing moccasins or sandals to give him a good, solid kick in the ass.

Regarding the face in the mirror, the only right decision I can possibly make, given the present point of view, is to make it a clean shave, and promptly, without too much self-indulgence or too much rationalizing the whys and wherefores of the old heebie-jeebies that these days pass as habitual. And with no more than one nervous nick on my chin, I promptly get it done.

I find my cell phone where I left it: on the desk below the television screen. It dawns on me with my fingers quickly dialling in the appropriate area code that it is really too early to call home. Time zones! Everywhere I’ve worked I have to deal with time zones. It seems that Elinore and I have been two time zones apart, if not more, for longer than I can remember. The spread is getting wider. The image of her floating even further off home base resurfaces from among recent impressions of impending separation. Very subconscious of me. I turn away impatiently from that prospect. A phone call so early in the day, potentially described as inconsiderate and impetuous, will lead to the oft-declared assertion that it is not all about you, Brendan! A more reasonable approach to making contact, and in the process making specific inquiries, is by texting Monique. Encouragement is all I can offer my daughter from this distance because, unlike Elinore who is well versed in the subject, I do not have the background to help her in any direct way. What the hell do I really know about French symbolists of the 19th century? Nothing, absolutely nothing. After fingering in questions