Last train to Montreal

Last train to Montreal by Samuel Ramratan.

There are experiences in a man's life that at times
makes him feel ashamed. For someone who never liked
to tell other peoples stories, today, circumstances
have forced me to tell this tale to debate my shame
before this world we share. It began one day in
winter while taking the train from Toronto to
Montreal. I was living there at the time, in a small
apartment stuck above the din on downtown Saint
Denis. Riding home that evening after spending three
weeks with ailing parents in Toronto, I was, you
might say easing the pressure of being cooped up
with them by quenching my ravaging thirst.

As we came closer to where I called home, the dust
of the city rode shotgun with my senses. Next came
that unique feeling all cities whose culture has
stained their walls, halls and facades, endow on
their residents. Montreal was adopted by me, certain
moments, yes, Montreal had adopted me, and like all
things, at certain instants disdain steps in,
rejection clutters our minds and words flow while
actions follow.

My excuse is things started off badly because it was
an off day, a middle of the week ticket so I had four
seats to myself. You know the layout, two seats
facing two. Having them all for myself found me with
shoes off, feet up on the facing seat. There I was,
relaxing, when two young children entered with their,
as it turned out to be, grandmother. No they were
not English, Jewish, Italian or any other such like,
they were plainly French, French Canadian.

Unfortunately for me I was surrounded by the last
three empty grouped seats, so it was natural for
them to select my space. Sure it was my space, It
had been in my possession for three and a half hours
amidst laughing, ranting, taunting, and joking , but
I hadn't cried. They were my seats. My ass in one,
winter coat in another, composition book on a third
and feet up on the remaining one. My space for sure
and all three of them must have felt it due to the
manner I had grudgingly let go of those empty seats.

Right off they started yammering in French forcing
me out of my personal world bringing new thoughts
into my head. She's old that woman, at least eighty,
her voice is weak, age had surely passed over her,
many times over. Older than my parents for sure.

Their mood was intimate yet there was a solemn hush
over their speech. I edged my ears closer to their
conversation listening intently. There is this need
people develop because after many years in a new
language there still remains many unturned missing
pages to learn which they feel gives them an edge.

My curiosity was immediately perked, she was telling
her two companions about her early memories of the
city. She never mentioned the name Montreal, but all
the other names were there. The old port, an east
end where all poor French people had lived. She
never said French Canadian, she had either dropped
the Canadian part or it never existed for her at all.

After about fifteen minutes of it, I aired my
second mistake for them to judge this immigrant.
What's this, I said, last train to Montreal? My
words must have fell hard, because silence gripped
them for enough time for me to reflect on wishing
my elderly parents could be struck by such silence
too, some times. I must have sworn under my breath
because that brought granny out of her coma.

I took the bus most times to the city, she almost
protested, as if the only thing that offended her
was taking trains. Sometimes those French are subtle
in their ways but like all things avoidable I rose
to the occasion sweeping around her like a new
immigrant recently off a boat with a clear slate.
Bus is good, oui, was my reply in halting
Englishified French. The two children laughed out
loud which did not seem to please her. But that
moment I saved myself some hell. My nerves calmed,
after toying with an insane idea of playing on the
sentiments of the younger generation. I shut my
mouth feeling locally brewed beer from the city
rimming my lips.

I spent those remaining minutes between the washroom
and the carriage in front, almost no mans land in
train terminology harassing the waiter. When the
conductor announced our destination, I rushed over
to my seat, grabbed my bags over their heads and
scooted off to wait near the doors.

As fate would have it, the metro was delayed, and I
waited on the Bonaventure quay for ten minutes
before it showed up. By this time my three travelling
companions turned up like the proverbial penny just
as the rubber wheeled metro cars ground to a halt
allowing them to embark on the same car as I.

Granny and the two children entered at the same
instant as I and she grinned at me as if telling me
something special, something I had not as yet
learned in life. My last memory of her was perfectly
dentured teeth hung about an aged white face. That
evening I had missed her point. It could have been
I was too tipsy, too excited, too immature or simply
too foreign. It must have been those same sentiments
that had made me blind to the changed attitude in
her companions - their heads were held differently.
Mabye they had come to know something I didn't.

That night while doing the Montreal thing up and
down Saint Denis then moving on to Saint Laurent,
I never gave them a moments thought. I have never
figgered out whether that last night move was a move
up or a move down. Thinking back I guess Granny
would have had that answer, but that night and the
following days, she never crossed my mind, neither
did the two children, an older girl and her brother.

About six weeks later my mother asked me to visit
her for a few days but my agreement was reluctant.
I took the bus on that occasion from Montreal. It
was in the morning and spring was slowly creeping
into the city. The rain drizzled lightly on my way
over to the bus terminus spotting my light overcoat
with its dark marks. My feelings were mixed, more
uncomfortable than anything else, for some strange
unknown reason. I purchased a coffee from the snack
bar to shake off my feelings and bitched at them
because they had run out of cream. I was one step
away from a dirty look.

The driver was almost closing the bus door when I
entered forcing me to rev up a bit and sail down the
aisle heading for the rear. I saw the same two
children whom I instantly remembered from when I had
returned the last time by train. I looked around for
Granny but did not see her. Feeling like the man I
was, I asked in my best bogus French - Where's
Granny? They both looked at me with haunting eyes
that have brought me here before you and replied
together - Elle ne revient jamais à Montreal, elle
est mort.