Côte-des-Neiges (Chapter III)
By: Juan Alberto Cirez
Tags: Religion, Technology, Erotica, Music, Fiction

EL QUE NO SE PUÉ TIRÀ SE’ONDEA — WHERE THERE IS WILL THERE IS A WAY

I had never been more enchanted, more delirious with desire, and more terrified of anybody as I was of this woman. There she was, her body wrapped around my body, her eyes locked with mine — I was hers, of that I had little doubt…

A 45 mins brisk walk…or a quick 15 mins taxi ride. Either way, we were going to dance the night away

Background

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons and/or events is purely coincidental. The main character — and narrator — is Alejandro Zurita, a twenty-two year old bon vivant, studying Business Administration at Vanier College in Montréal in the early spring of 1996, just as the dot com boom and the Web 1.0 is about to start…

Scents of summer

The air felt warm but comfortable, a riotous combination of scents jockeying for position inside our senses: Faint notes of pollen, flowers, and fresh-plowed earth coming from just outside the city. Every year, as the summer entered its finals weeks, farms would start spreading manure, so that the nutrients would fertilize the soil before the winter; then the wind would carry the smell far and wide.

Gitana, gitana

Gitana, gitana

Tu pelo, tu pelo

Tu cara, tu cara

“Oui, bonjour? C’est Candy,” she answered.

The old Willie Colón song, Gitana, was Candy’s ringtone. When her phone rang, she reached into her purse for her sleek and decidedly utilitarian Motorola STARTAC. It may look dated now when compared to an iPhone SE (2020), but in 1996 this was the best and latest in mobile technology.

It was THE status symbol, announcing the owner as a modern and plugged-in member of the intelligentsia. Candy was a recently minted member of the club as a young and up-and-coming marketing executive working for Hydro-Québec, the provincial power utility and one of the most important centers of money, power and influence in the province.

“Oui, Ça va Marie,” she looked up smiled, reaching out and squeezing my hand. Marie La Liberté was one of her oldest and closest friends. She was a Registered, ER Nurse at the Centre Hospitalier de l’Université de Montréal; the largest hospital in the city — and by 2020 — the largest in North America.

“We just finished le souper at Hélena…oui, just walking to the old port…” she trailed off, as we continued on Rue McGill, enjoying the sights and sounds.

The scents of ethnic cuisine — an exotic, eclectic mix of oils, meats and spices — wafting out of the open doors and windows, spilling onto the streets; tightly wrapped around the bits of sounds and conversation.

The rhythmic patterns of cutlery clinking against dishes, off-key interpolations of Descending E Phrygian scale, Cuban Clave, or Cante Alentejano providing the soundtrack. The faint, sulphurous smell of car exhaust, the omnipotent aroma of fish, tainted water, and rotting moss coming from the nearby Saint Lawrence River…C’est Montréal. Vivant. Brut!

“Oh, no. We are going dancing tonight. Alejandro me soulèvera et nous danserons toute la nuit,” she whispered on the phone, giving me a sexy, knowing wink; leaving Marie with only the sound of her voice to read between he lines.

We walked down on Rue McGill and turned right on Rue William and continued to the corner of Rue des Soeurs-Grises, slowing down some more as we passed Restaurant Hà-Vieux-Montréal, another of one of the city’s premier spot.

The reputation was well deserved, a meal at Hà wasn’t just a meal. Hà immersed their guests in the traditional Vietnamese concept of Bia hơi¹. In Vietnamese, “bia hoi” refers to both fresh-brewed beer and the roadside restaurants where locals, perched on plastic stools, gather to consume it.

“What?” she said, sounding both annoyed and surprised.

Sacrament and Debauchery

“Coño; pero que mierda e’ ‘eto! They moved?”, she asked; switching from French, to English, to Spanish, using the Hispaniola dialect, with the South-Eastern register; all without missing a beat. Yeah I know. Sexy and intelligent, she was THAT hot.

At the corner of Rue William and Rue Wellington, we turned left towards Charon Brothers Park. Square des Frères-Charon as it was known in French, is a small square and park at the crossroads of several historic streets around Old Montréal; bordered clockwise by Rue Wellington, Rue McGill, Rue Marguerite-d’Youville and Rue des Soeurs-Grises.

The square was built as part of a network of public spaces along the axis of McGill Street; which itself is a historic thoroughfare that links the Old Port/Old Montréal to the contemporary city center, Centre Ville. We continued on Rue Marguerite-d’Youville until Rue de Calliére and veered off to walk around the Pointe-à-Callière Museum complex; taking the time to admire its mix of modern and faux-classical architecture.

“Sure, Marie. Il n’y a pas de problème. We’ll meet you guys at l’cathédrale,” she said.

The Cathedral or l’cathédrale, was a small Latin Club on Rue Peel, near the Peel Métro station. It was just a small, square room with tables and bar stools arranged against the wall; with the bar at one end, and the dance floor in the middle.

It wasn’t much to look at but it was hugely popular with our crowd, people who enjoyed real music — played by real musicians with real instruments — and who knew how to handle themselves on a dancefloor.

If you knew how to dance Salsa, Merengue, Cumbia and Bachata; and you like to been seen and dress to the nines, l’cathédrale was the place to be on Friday nights.

“That was Marie. They moved l’cathédrale,” she said as she ended the call and returned the phone to her purse.

The tone in her voice had that excited quality, that distinctive timbre one gets when dying to tell someone a big secret, but not saying much and waiting for them to figure out the clues.

“Y donde ‘tà ‘hora. Where to did they relocate now?” I asked.

“3988 Rue Saint-Denis, Le Plateau-Mont-Royal,” she said, impatiently waiting for my mind to catch up and for me to get the joke.

“Wait a second!” I said, finally making the connection.

The sacrilegious jerk in me, the a-hole who enjoyed watching porn on which female performers dressed as nuns could not contain his glee.

“That’s the old Catholic Church. The one they had to close down last year!”

“That’s right, Saint Jude Catholic Church. Looks like ‘ol Judas Iscariot is up to his old tricks again,” she joked, and the ironic pun was not lost on me.

The influence of the once all-powerful Catholic Church of Québec had been reduced from a lion’s roar to a domesticated cat’s purr. By 1996, the average attendance rate in the province’s churches had plummeted to an unsustainable 7%; down from a lofty high of 90% in the years leading up to the 1960s.

All told, about 40 churches were falling out of use each year in the province. In almost all cases due to shrinking congregations and the parishes no longer being able pay their bills. The Archdiocese of Québec’s inability to adapt to a changing realities of dwindling congregations and an aging population — along with a lack of young people stepping up to replace the retiring clergy — had culminated in the demise of one of the province most powerful institutions.

The end result has been an increasing number of unused church properties being sold to the private sector⁴,⁵,⁶. Some churches have been converted into pizza parlors, Spas, or even luxurious condominiums — and one, apparently — into a temple of hedonistic inebriation, sweaty bodies and wanton debauchery.

“Come, my child,” I said, doing my best pervi-Monsignor impersonation,

“tonight we shall listen to the gospel of Tito Puente, Héctor Lavoe, Willie Colón and the venerated apostles of La Fania All Stars,” provided we don’t burst into flame the minute we set foot inside the building, I thought.

“Yes, father,” said Candy in her equally exaggerated, naughty catholic school girl³ voice.

“Oh, we are going to burn in hell,” I thought, as I took her hand to continued our stroll.

A voice that conjured Eden

As the sun was finally setting and the first points of light appeared in the sky, we left the Pointe-à-Callière Museum behind, casually strolled down Place Royale, and back onto Rue de la Commune towards the Vieux Port.

Rue de la Commune traces the original shore of the Saint Lawrence River. The historical buildings along the north side of the road are former commercial buildings, now turned into upscale, hipster shops and restaurants serving the city’s booming tourist industry.

A 45 min leisure walk or a brisk 15 min taxi ride…either way, we planned to dance the night away

We walked by the Montréal Science Centre, with its massive IMAX Theatre and up to the Sailor’s Memorial Clock and Tour de l’Horlodge — The Montreal Clock Tower. This impressive monolith, whose construction began in 1919 and lasted until 1922, is set on a small bend along the river shore; offering fantastic views of Île Sainte-Hélène and the South Shore.

The Clock Tower is about 45m or 148 ft tall, the stairs have a total of 192 steps from the bottom to the top of the tower. There are three observation stops along the staircase. The north facing side has a memorial plaque to the sailors who died during the First World War; while the western facing side has rectangular columns reaching from the base.

On one of the green spaces along la promenade there were several street performers, food vendors and souvenirs peddlers all vying for the tourists’ attention and dollars. We passed a quartet of musicians playing a strip down version of an old “fusón” Son Cubano Candy liked, called De Oro by Fernando Echavarria⁸,⁹ y La Familia André. Excited, she grabbed my hand and dragged towards them.

“Oye, mi pana. Dejeme cantar un poquitico aqui!”, Yo! move over, let me sing some bars! She said to the guy singing. She just grabbed the microphone, and the poor guy simply stepped aside and let her.

Y hay en tus ojos negros, junto al sol

Lo alegre en tu sonrisa

Y tu pelo en la brisa de oro

Mi sueños trenzó (To’ el mundo) te quiero

The guy playing the quinto, trés golpes and salidor congas, nodded at me, as if asking “Do you want some of this…?” He didn’t know I had a set of cueros at home and played with friends every once in a while. I sat down and proceeded to show off my marcha, timba, and cumbia prowess — doing my best to honor Pedro Peralta, the percussionist in the original recording — while Candy’s voice filled the air,

Que de tus ojos le hablo a tu boca

Y a tu boca le hice sentir

Lo que guardaba aquí en mi pecho

Y sólo despertó por ti

En tu pelo teji mil sueños

Y en tu aliento sembre un clavel

En tu cuerpo hice mi cobija

Y mi sábana fue tu piel, te quiero

She was a goddess. Her silky-smooth, breathy voice bringing Fernando’s poetry to life,

of my eyes, I spoke to your lips

and I made your lips into desire

A desire that burns inside my heart

That roars for no one but you

With a strand of your hair, I wove a thousand dreams

With your voice I conjured Eden

Inside of me you found your shelter

My bare skin your blanket

By the time the music ended, over one hundred people had congregated to watch and hear “her performance”. She got an already-standing ovation from the now “adoring” public. A couple of older gentlemen gave her flowers, hastily bought from the street vendors; and professed their undying “love”, to the chagrin of their wives. The guys playing kept pleading,

“Otro màs! Otro màs!” One more. One more. It was all very sweet, spontaneous and beautiful. The perfect ending to a romantic stroll through what has to be the most idyllic place in all of Montréal.

A fresh poison each week

We headed out again on to the street, walking a few paces to the taxi stands; and a quick 15 minutes ride later, we arrived at l’cathédrale. The place was packed. Jean-Pierre, “l’incroyable Hulk”, as he was called, recognized Candy and waved us in,

“Merci, JP,Ça va?”, she asked, flashing that Monna Lisa smile that made you hand over all your money.

“Oui, Ça va, Candy,” he replied, opening the door for her, while giving me the universal, if silent ‘sup bro chin raise.

“Marie et François sont déjà à l’intérieur et vous attendent les gars. Profite de ta nuit,” he informed us just as we went in — indicating Marie and François were already waiting for us — and closed the door behind us. Marie spotted us the minute we walked in and came running to meet us by the bar.

A Church-to-Latin-Club conversion is a tricky proposition. The best church conversions, according to Clarence Epstein, history professor at Concordia University, emulate the original intention of the structure as a meeting place or public space.

The owners of l’cathédrale seemed to have heeded his warning, because the interior was airy, welcoming, and unlike many other clubs in the city, it made having a conversation — while the music was playing — something resembling normal.

The bar occupied the place of the altar, against the high Lancet windows facing the street. At the other end was a small stage, used for live performances, with a DJ booth off to the side. As before, tables and stools were arranged against the wall, leaving plenty of room for the dancefloor.

A rig of stage lights and speakers was suspended high above. All other available spaces, including the bell tower were set up with chairs, bar stools or leather couches. Ostensibly, this was to encourage the patrons to mingle, drink, dance and talk. The last part without resorting to shouting over the music and drunken sign language.

“Now It’s Party!”, she crowed.

She threw open her arms, first giving Candy, and then me, a warm hug and the traditional Faire La Bise, or two-sided, Frech style kiss. There is a science to a French greeting: To proper Faire La Bise, you lean forward, touch cheeks and kiss the air while making a kissing sound with your lips.

Marie grabbed Candy by the hand and off they went to find a seat and gossip. This left Francois and I to do what boyfriends do when their girlfriends run off to gossip — about their girlfriends — with their other girlfriends: We went to the bar and ordered drinks.

François Amadou was a Noir de France, or Black Frenchmen. Originally from Bénin in West Africa, he had grown up in France, in Issy-les-Moulineaux just outside Paris. He had moved to Montreal in 1994 and worked for the CBC French service, Ici Radio-Canada Télé, in Montréal.

Given the cultural similarities between Benin and Hispaniola — most of the African slaves that ended up on the island came from the ancient Kingdon of Dahomey — we hit it off immediately. Despite not knowing a word of Spanish, he was a fantastic salsa dancer, and could hold his own with the congas. Needless to say, I liked him a lot.

“So, primo, what’s new in the world of news,” I said, using the Spanish vernacular for “cousin” as we approached the bar, gesturing the bartender for a beer and a glass of white wine for Candy. It was François’ job to tend to Marie’s needs, drinks-wise and otherwise.

“Same old, same old. Ce sont les tonneaux vides qui font le plus de bruit,” he lamented.

His “beat” was the political desk, and in 1996 there was never a shortage of noise and drama from Montréal City Hall, Quebec City or Ottawa. He wasn’t wrong, It’s the empty barrels that make the most noise. Jean Chrétien and his friends just didn’t shut up.

“Yeah, but it beats the hell out of a nine-to-five job. C’mon let’s get our ladies drunk and take advantage of ‘em,” I said, grabbing our drinks and heading back to meet up with the girls.

“Ça ma l’air bon,” he concurred. Sounded it like a plan indeed.

Once the proper amount of beers, spiced rhum, tequilla shots and wine had been duly consumed. The stress of the week drained away by flood of laughter and animated conversation, Marie, François, Candy and I worshiped at the Church of Saint Jude. We listened to the gospel of José Alberto “El Canario”, exhorting the faithful to sing along,

Que paren el reloj

Que suban esa música

Que bajen esa luz

Que quiero bailar contigo

Words are like air, they are like the wind

After a smoldering set of Salsa Romántica, when Eddie Santiago’s “Tú me quemas” and Frankie Ruiz’ “Desnudate mujer” packed the dance floor; the music stopped, the lights dimmed and the fog machines hissed — covering the dancefloor in an thin, endless fog. When the first chords of the clarinet rang out, Candy looked at me in the semi darkness, with hunger in her eyes.

This was her song — Willie Colón’s Gitana — and she wanted to be seen. She wanted to look into my eyes and see pure, unadulterated lust looking back at her. She wanted every man within her line of sight to want her, to desire her…and to feel the envy of every woman wishing to be her as she swayed and danced, giving herself to the music with reckless abandon.

She grabbed me by the waist and pulled to her, forcing me to feel the rising heat off her body, the fire raging inside of her. When the bass, the Bongos Drum, and the Maracas entered on the ONE count of the 8th bar, I was not quite sure if I had it in me to finish the song. There was a 50/50 chance I would be dragging her into another bathroom stall and have my way with her before Willie sang the first verse.

The way the rhythmic structure of the bass line — and syncopated percussion — emphasized the ONE, made her push her body into mine, her breast into my chest, her thighs against my legs, until I could feel the throbbing in the space between them. Delirious, I wished I could throw her onto the floor and taste her.

But just as I was sure to lose my mind, just when I thought I could not hold on any longer, the song changed its time signature. Going from a flamenco-inspired, orgasm-inducing, slow Son Montuno, to a more traditional and subdued Guaguancó —as Willie sang the chorus, she gently pulled away.

Gitana, gitana

Gitana, gitana

Tu pelo, tu pelo

Tu cara, tu cara

If there was a song that perfectly described Candy; how she loved, how she hated, it was Gitana, or Gipsy Woman. The pulsating 8th notes, the driving marcha: change of hand, hold, turn. Cross body lead, turn. My God, this woman could dance!

Her hips swaying in perfect rhythm with the music; her chest heaving, wet hair clinging to her face…and every pair of eyes belonging to a man slave to her body’s every move.

Porque sabes que te quiero

No trates de alabarme tú

Pues lo mismo que te quiero

Soy capaz hasta de odiarte yo

There she was: raw, pure…sexual. This woman was magnificent, powerful, and complete. The intelligence and confidence, the fearlessness and ambition. The piercing green eyes. The full, pillowy lips, wet traces of rouge where her skin met her mouth. The perfectly tanned, silk smooth skin glistening in the lights.

The passion, the jealousy, the blind rage, the empathy and the hate. All perfectly balanced and contained for the moment, but make no mistake, she was a lion in captivity — majestic and docile yes — but ready, willing and able to rip you to shreds at the slightest provocation.

Porque sabes que te quiero

No trates de alabarme tú

Pues lo mismo que te quiero

Soy capaz hasta de odiarte yo

This woman could look into my soul without opening her eyes. She could make me feel what she felt, whisper in my ears without uttering a word. She could be far across the room and yet hold me captive to her gravity. I was a mere satelite orbiting her, falling deeper into her embrace.

I had never been more enchanted, more delirious with desire…more terrified and aroused by anybody as I was by this woman. There she was again, her body wrapped around my body, her eyes locked with mine — I was hers, of that I had no doubt.

Sin mirarte yo te miro

Sin sentirte yo te siento (yo te siento)

Sin hablarte yo te hablo

Sin quererte yo te quiero

Kiss me once again before we say goodnight

“Amor, take me home and make love to me,” she whispered.

Make love to me. Not fuck my brains out, or plow me until it hurts; but “make love to me”—there is a difference. Her request meant she wanted me to bring her to the place I felt most safe, and make her feel safe. The place where I was the most at ease and make her feel at ease.

It means to show up and be present. To show her my true, honest and naked self, so that she, in turn, could show me her own, true, naked self. It meant she would give herself to me truly, madly, deeply. She would do so without any barriers or walls, no pretenses or games…with no boundaries and no safety net.

She would vurnerable, lower her defenses and let me in, so long as I too did the same. She meant that she would give me her all — her mind, her body and soul — and trust me to handle her precious cargo with kind love and tenderness.

This was a request for intimacy, vulnerability, and trust. The ensuing multiple orgasms she would inevitably enjoy, however, were an ancillary benefit to the emotionally bonding experience.

The song ended, we walked off the dancefloor and said our good-byes to Marie and Francois, stumbling towards the exit. JP motioned to a taxi as soon as we walked out, opening the door for her to get in — I was on my own.

I managed to get into the cab and sit next to Candy, without cracking my head open,

“Thank you, GP,” I thought.

I heard myself shout our address, passing a CND $20 to the driver; telling him to keep the change. I took in a big breath of the fresh morning air, trying to clear my head, getting my mind into game mode for the night’s encore performance – I mean, to make sweet jungle love ’til the mornin’ to the woman in my life. There is a difference…