Free The Years of Fire by Yves Beauchemin Page A

Spirit Himself, and there was a jeering crowd waiting for them in front of the building when they returned.
    Monsieur Victoire had seen the clouds of smoke as he was on his way home and run across the street to tell the Fafards. Charles and Henri were home alone that night, and they decided to go with Monsieur Victoire to take in the show.
    By the time they arrived on the scene the firemen almost had the fire under control, but it had caused a great deal of damage, not so much to the building as to the pride and reputation of the men in charge of it. Charles and Henri elbowed their way through the crowd until they were at the barrier the firemen had put up to keep the curious at bay, but even so a spark flew over and caught Charles on his left eyelid. He cried out sharply and rubbed his eye, but quickly forgot about the pain as he watched the embarrassed firemen, red with anger and chagrin. He laughed at the cruel jokes being shouted out around him, and even shouted out a few of his own, at which those around him laughed as well.
    By eight o’clock there was nothing much left to see, and since their toes were nearly numb the boys decided to go home. They’d lost sight of Monsieur Victoire long ago; shortly after their arrival he’d gone off to chat up a pretty South American woman muffled up in a white, hooded coat.
    They took a detour down rue Ontario. From time to time Charles raised his hand to his eye, since it had started hurting again. He wondered if he shouldn’t go to the hospital. Henri took a look at it and said it looked serious, and he told Charles he should do something about it. They were just coming up to a pharmacy; the windows were lit up and it seemed to be still open. They went in and were welcomed by a smiling woman in her fifties with black hair tied up in a ponytail. The woman looked them over carefully. The store was otherwise deserted, except for a balding man with grey hair and a pair of glasses balanced at the end of his nose, who was scribbling something behind a counter.
    Charles went up to him and, in his politest voice, asked for something to put on the burn on his eyelid. The man looked up and stared at him. For several seconds his deeply lined face remained entirely expressionless; it seemed to be reflecting an inner emptiness, which, admittedly, might have been a reflection of the lack of customers in the store.
    “How did you do that?” he asked at length.
    “I was watching the fire at the fire station a few blocks from here, and a spark flew at me.”
    The pharmacist continued looking at him blankly; he looked over at Henri, then back at Charles, then gave a long sigh. Was it because he was tired? Charles wondered. Or bored? Or had Charles, with his incautious curiosity, just provided him with yet another example of human stupidity?
    Finally the man recommended an ointment. Charles took out his wallet, asked a few questions about how to apply it, paid the bill, and turned to leave.
    “One minute,” said the pharmacist. “What’s your name?”
    Charles, though surprised by the question, told him.
    “Do you live far from here?”
    “Just at the corner of Dufresne and Ontario.”
    “Hmm. Not far, then.… Are you working somewhere in your spare time?”
    Charles shook his head and assumed the attentive, focused look that had so often gained him generous tips in his career as a delivery boy.
    “It’s just that I’m looking for someone to do deliveries on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. Does that kind of work appeal to you? You look like a good worker.”
    The man gave a very faint smile, which still was like a firework going off in the face of a totem pole.
    “Yes, of course, I’m very interested, sir,” Charles replied, under the envious gaze of Henri. “When would you like me to begin?”
    “Tomorrow, if that suits you. Get yourself here around five-thirty. I’ll pay you two dollars an hour.”
    And so Charles became an employee of Henri Lalancette, pharmacist, a