Like all good friends, Pierre and I had our bad patches. He could be an infuriating, arrogant, insensitive jerk. He made no attempt to hide that part of himself, which in and of itself I found admirable. I mean, the Americans had Dick Nixon. Even when Pierre was terrible at home, he looked fabulous out there on the world stage.
All great stories have a tragic dimension.
Pierre's walk in the snow that February night prefigured something, a mortal note, the theme of loss. A year ago, I opened my door to pick up The Globe and Mail. There on the front page was that heart-rending photograph of the family descending the stairs outside the church after Michel's funeral. The image hit like a hammer. The tears jumped out of my eyes.