Yesterday I was waiting for an elevator in the lobby of a retirement home. Beside me, leaning on a walker, stood a little old lady of my acquaintance.
Bonjour, Hélène.
She looked over at me. The penny dropped.
Ah bonjour, monsieur!
We waited together, patiently. I looked at her walker. The last time I saw her she got around with a cane.
Pourquoi?
I motioned to the walker.
She sighed and answered in a French-Canadian accent as thick as goalie’s pad.
Je suis fatiguée. Ben ben fatiguée…
We looked up at the elevator display. It seemed to be stuck on the third floor.
I felt a nudge at my elbow. Hélène held out a newspaper clipping, protected in transparent plastic. She urged it on me.
Regarde-moi ça!
I took it from her. It was from Ottawa’s French-language daily. Yesterday’s edition.
A picture of Hélène, wearing a deranged, gleeful smile. On her head a conical, comical party hat.
The headline read: La Doyenne d’Ottawa!
The caption stated that Hélène Chatelain, the city’s oldest resident, is seen here celebrating her 108th birthday.
We got on the elevator. I placed the clipping face up on the tray of her walker. The door closed.
We looked at each other.
Cent huit?
Her smile was positively demonic.
Zahn witt!... Ben ouais…
I recognized the smile from the newpaper. I looked down at the clipping.
She misunderstood. She thought I was looking at the walker. Reproachfully.
The doors opened at her floor.
Vous savez, monsieur, she apologized. On a beaucoup beaucoup dansé.
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