Книга Monday Mourning — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

”

The hindbrain thought seemed to relax slightly.

As Ryan and I left the restaurant we had no idea we were being watched.

26

THE MAP OF MONTREAL MAKES ME THINK OF A FOOT, WITH Dorval Airport and the west island suburbs forming the ankle, the toes pointing east, and the heel dropping down into the Fleuve St-Laurent. Verdun forms the fatty pad of the heel, with Pointe-St-Charles as a tiny toeward bunion.

The Point is topped off by the Lachine Canal, and bottoms out in the CP rail yards. Vieux-Montréal and its port lie to the east.

Originally inhabited by immigrants working construction on Montreal’s bridges, the Point has street names that reflect a strong Irish presence. Rue St-Patrick. Sullivan. Dublin. Mullins.

But that’s history. Today the Point is largely French.

Less than twenty minutes after leaving Lafleur, Ryan turned onto rue Wellington, the neighborhood’s main east-west artery. We passed sporting goods stores, tattoo parlors, the MH Grover clothing shop, a Wellington institution for decades.

Here and there, a perky café interrupted the drab little strip.

Ryan paused where rue Dublin tied into Wellington on the left. On the right, a row of Victorians looked incongruously playful, styling out in pastels, ornate woodwork, brick arches, and leaded glass. I could read the name Dr. George Hall scripted in milky glass above one front door.

Ryan noticed my gaze.

“Doctor’s Row,” he said. “Built in the nineteenth century by a group of fat-cat physicians looking for prestigious addresses.

The hood’s changed a bit since then.”

“Are they still private homes?”

“They’re divided into condos, I think.”

“Where’s rue de Sébastopol?”

Ryan tipped his head left. “It’s a rabbit warren in there, lot of dead ends and one-ways. I think de Sébastopol skims the edge of the rail yard.”

As Ryan turned onto Dublin, I noticed a historic marker out my window.

“What’s Parc Marguerite-Bourgeoys?”

“Mon Dieu, Madame la docteure, you’re referring to one of Quebec’s best-loved ladies.

Sister Maggie set up schools for little girls back in the seventeenth century. Pretty rad idea for Quebec at the time. She also founded the Soeurs de la Congrégation de Notre-Dame. A few years ago the church upped her pay grade to saint.”

“Why the sign?” I asked.

“In the mid-sixteen hundreds Bourgeoys was given a hefty hunk of this little peninsula.