Jackie looked out the window as the plane began its descent into Montréal-Mirabel International Airport with a gentle smile in her eyes. Laughingly she thought ‘On my tombstone they will write, “She kept her promises”.’ Soon she will be on the road and on her way to see her friend Brigitte at the surprise party her fourth, yes fourth, husband had organized for her 50th birthday.
Many years before Jackie had pack backed her way across Canada after her fiancé had broken her heart. She was determined to escape her small country town and the even smaller minds living there. It was in Canada she met Brigitte. Brigitte was 19 years old then, had had twelve jobs in six months and almost as many boyfriends. Jackie was 23, had one job and one serious boyfriend her whole life. How different could two girls be? Yet they bonded.
Jackie still remembered the promise they had made just before she left Canada to return home some 20 months after her journey had begun. They would meet again in Vieux Quebec for Brigitte’s 50th birthday. She already knew the first words she would say to Brigitte, a reminder of a time long ago when fear gripped them both for 10 whole minutes. They had kept in occasional touch over the intervening years, initially quite frequently but over time it had dwindled to sending Christmas and birthday cards. Brigitte has long forgotten the promise.
Jackie recalled……….
Arriving in Vancouver, jet lagged, alone, and still hurting. It just happened to be the one and only day Brigitte was employed in that little café down by the zoo in Stanley Park. Brigitte stood there tapping her pen on the order pad annoyed at this tall, lanky tourist standing there staring at the blackboard and taking up counter space. She thought “how hard can it be? Flat white, cappuccino, mocha?” She also noticed the dark rings under the girls’ eyes. It was not just jet lag that put those dark circles there. Brigitte knew those circles from her own experience. Although, truth be told she did bounce back better than most after all one man was pretty much the same as another only the name changed.
An hour later, on her next break, she noticed the girl sitting on the grass, lost in time, her hands clasped around her knees curled up as small as she could get with tears gently sliding down her face. So, she went over sat down beside her and started to talk. In a jumble of words bought on by exhaustion and relief Jackie tumbled it all out. That was how this curious friendship began. By the time Jackie reached Brigitte had had many calls wherein Jackie told of her adventure like the freaky encounter with a grizzly bear stealing the food when she was camping, meeting ‘real life Indians’ out on Charlotte Islands and even graduation day at the Mounted Police Academy in Regina. She could not resist telling Brigitte of her brush with fame having high tea with Michael J Fox at Chateau Lake Louise. So when Jackie begged Brigitte five months later to meet her in Quebec Brigitte cheekily said “’well I happen to be between jobs. Again!’”
Jackie said “’Coolio! We will have a ball. It will be party time, the Queen is visiting, loads of men in uniform and I know how that makes you happy.’” She then laughed and said “’on and off duty!’” Jackie was certain she could hear Brigitte drooling already.
We met up again at the youth hostel in Vieux Quebec and hit that night hit the bars to dance up a storm. Oh how we loved to dance. We had, maybe, one or two drinks too many in the bar that was heady with the beat of African music before stumbling out into the crisp foggy mystical autumn air.
“Hey let’s walk around The Citadel. Should be some cute guys on duty”. Brigitte suggested so off we went full of bravado. Who cares that it is almost 3am, cold and misty. Every time they met someone else out they called out in greeting “Bon nuit.” I only knew one real phrase. “’Je suis en touriste, Australie. Je ne parle pas Francais mais vous parlez Anglais n’est ce pas?’” (I am a tourist from Australia and I do not speak French but you speak English is that right?)
Skipping along past the old stone walls lit by the antique street lamps suddenly a man came rushing after us screaming “Jadarackery! Jadarackery!”
He is wearing a heavy black coat, glasses and is clean- shaven so he looks unremarkable.
We run and he chases shouting “’Jadarackery! Jadarackery!’”
He is gripping something in his hand. The street lights are catching it and we can see an occasional glint of something metallic. We fear it is a knife. I tripped and squinted in the light shielding my eyes with my right hand. He grabs my hand. My heart is thumping; Brigitte is screaming both of us fear he is some deranged maniac.
At that moment, two uniformed men grab him and hold him against the wall. They turned to us and one is quickly throwing completely unintelligible words at me. I yell “’Je suis en touriste, Australie. Je ne parle pas Francais mais vous parlez Anglais n’est ce pas? The officer says “Bien sur. Yes. Yes English.”
“’Calm down! What is wrong?’”
The maniac is jabbering on as the other man pins him against the wall.
I said “’He has a knife. He is chasing us, screaming ‘Jadarackery! Jadarackery!’ I don’t know who he is or what he wants.’”
After some discussion between the men suddenly they release our chaser and they all visibly relaxed and start snickering.
“’Why are you laughing?’” I asked. “’What is it?’”
“’He is asking “’Je dois écrire’ and not Jadarackery’”.
“’and that means what?’” I asked.
“’ He has a fetish. He likes to write. It’s a silver pen you see glinting, not a knife. That is all. Let him do it and he will go. We will stay with you. I promise to keep you safe. Just let him do it. He is ‘‘not well’’.” He said touching his finger to the side of his head.
Brigitte and I understood. With the uniformed men beside us we both held out our shaking hands. He wrote his name, then slunk away, saying “’Merci. Merci. Mademoiselles, au revoir!”
Now, she cannot wait to hear Brigitte laugh when she walks in to her party tomorrow shouting “Jadarackery!” Indeed.