Powell St. trolley — San Francisco.

Pixie girl, blonde pigtails, maybe 10, and small for her age. Halfway through, likely approaching the scene where Violet has to marry Count Olaf. Yuck.

The Bad Beginning, Lemony Snicket (HarperCollins)

Page 99:

“I stayed up all night reading,” Klaus said breathlessly, as his sister opened her eyes, and I discovered what Count Olaf is up to. He plans to marry you for real, when you and Justice Strauss and everyone all think it’s just a play, and once he’s your husband he’ll have control of our parents’ money and he can dispose of us.”

Oh no, indeed! I wonder if she’ll make it all the way through the series or close the book before the end of Book One when Snicket offers a final warning, “if you like, you may shut the book this instant and not read the unhappy ending that is to follow.” I did just that.

Monique Trottier

Southbound, Spadina and Dundas — Toronto, ON

Caucasian male, early 30s, with shaggy blonde hair, wearing black-framed glasses, white, collared dress shirt, and light grey dress pants.

Happiness, Will Ferguson (Penguin)

Page 205:

Even Edwin was sorry to see him go. “Nigel, listen. About the incident with the necktie and the pencil sharpener —”

Nigel held up his palm in a small fluid motion, like a Buddhist monk preparing to stop traffic, and said with a soothing voice: “Yesterday’s weather, Edwin. Do not worry about the necktie. There is no need to apologize.”

“Apologize?” said Edwin. “You still owe me 140 bucks. Isn’t that right, Mr. Mead?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Mead. “You’re right. Nigel still owes you for that. Not to worry, Edwin, I’ll make sure that amount is deducted from Nigel’s paycheque — from Nigel’s final paycheque.”

The warm olives arrive and he’s surprised by how many of them there are. He glances peripherally at the waitress, and picks through the olives, gingerly plucking one that looks particularly, safely, tender, and pops it into his mouth, the skin falling free of the pit in one bite. He instinctively grips the bass of his pint glass for comfort, as if reaching for his girlfriend’s hand each night as they fall asleep. The waitress places the rest of the starters between them, nothing that doesn’t require the question, do I use a fork, or not? He grabs another olive, his fingers clumsy in the oil, and manages to palm it into his mouth. This one is tougher. He grinds the flesh in his front teeth while the man sitting across from him pours the last of his wine into the fresh glass that’s just arrived, passing the empty glass to the waitress who waits. He takes a long sip off the top of the glass, and continues. “I’m really happy to hear this. I was going to tell you to leave a month ago. Truly.” He plucks a fritter from the basket, dipping it into the sauce, biting, then dipping again. “Honestly, it’s high time you put you first, son. You’ve worked hard.”

He drops the pit onto his side plate, his hand falling palm up on the table. Relief. He isn’t just putting himself first; he’s putting his best foot forward.

80 Avenue du Parc Bus, Northbound

Male, 30s, longish curly brown hair, black t-shirt, black jeans, black oxfords, grey vinyl briefcase.

Fifth Business, Robertson Davies (Penguin)

Page 82:

She was a romantic, and as I had never met a female romantic before it was a delight to me to explore her emotions. She wanted to know all about me, and I told her as honestly as I could; but as I was barely twenty, and a romantic myself, I know now that I lied in every word I uttered – lied not in fact, but in emphasis, in colour, and in intention. She was entranced by the idea of life in Canada, and I made it entrancing.

Night. Hooting of owls.
Noveline (sighing): Sure, and there’s nothing more entrancing than cold weather.
Romana: What could be more romantic than endless snowy nights?
Noveline (drily): Endless summer nights.
Romana: Well, Canada has both. As well as more romantics per capita than anywhere else in the world.
Noveline: Is that a fact? Or have you been listening to Leonard Cohen again?
Romana: Hmmph.


Saleema Nawaz

Bean Around the World, Cornwall St. — Vancouver, BC

Caucasian male, mid 30s, blond hair, blue eyes, kind of dreamy. Wait, it’s my guy. He’s hunched over reading the oldest copy of the book I’ve ever seen. He points out that it’s from 1979, certainly not THE oldest. Eye rolling.

The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien (Unwin)

Page 108:

There was a howl of anger and surprise from the goblins. Loud cried the Lord of the Eagles, to whom Gandalf had now spoken. Back swept the great birds that were with him, and down they came like huge black shadows. The wolves yammered and gnashed their teeth; the goblins yelled and stamped with rage, and flung their heavy spears in the air in vain. Over them swooped the eagles; the dark rush of their beating wings smote them to the floor or drove them far away; their talons tore at goblin faces. Other birds flew to the tree-tops and seized the dwarves, who were scrambling up now as far as they ever dared to go.

Poor little Bilbo was very nearl left behind again!

Now that’s out of the frying-pan and into the fire. Poor little Bilbo.

Monique Trottier

July 29

Westbound, Bloor and Broadview — Toronto, ON

Caucasian woman, late 20s, with long brown hair in hair-band, wearing tan skirt, white tank top, and pistaschio-green sweater.

Mistress of the Sun , Sandra Gulland (HarperCollins)

Page 217:

In the weeks that followed, Petite rode with the King and his men almost every afternoon. She astonished them, riding in close behind the hounds and proving to be steady, fearless and strong, as good with a spear as any man. In a race, it was sometimes Petite who pulled into the lead, and sometimes the King. The couriers could not keep up.

She can’t recall how they became best friends, but remembers the end. Just as school let out for summer, he moved to town, but not to her neighbourhood. They were in the same grade, but that’s not how you make best friends. Your best friend lives next door, across the street, or, occasionally, two yards behind you. Your best friend can be in your class, but it’s not mandatory. Street rules: a nine-year-old and a seven-year-old have more than enough in common if all they do is toss a ball in the street until dinner’s called. And if the parents are willing to check your mail while you’re out of town, both households are on good terms.

He lived a bike ride away — twenty-three minutes, to be exact — on the other side of a bridge. They strolled ravines, straddled fallen trees, and the only time she met his father was the day he hoisted her bike into the wide trunk of his Cadillac and drove her back over the tracks as her mother was about to lock the screen door. The mother pinched her night robe closed at the neck, face-to-face with the father, his suit jacket sitting in the back seat of the car, his tie’s knot wrestled loose to sit on his left collarbone, his hand ushering her over the threshold with a gentle, and final, pat.

Corner of St. Laurent and Marie-Anne.

South Asian male, 20s, dark bushy hair, green t-shirt, khakis, sneakers, black bag. Walking and reading.

Blindness, José Saramago (Harcourt Brace & Co)

Page 25:

…it is here, she discreetly knocked on the door, ten minutes later she was naked, fifteen minutes later she was moaning, eighteen minutes later she was whispering words of love that she no longer needed to feign, after twenty minutes she began to lose her head, after twenty-one minutes she felt that her body was being lacerated with pleasure, after twenty-two minutes she called out, Now, now, and when she regained consciousness she said, exhausted and happy, I can still see everything white.

Night. Waxing moon. Sound of whippoorwills.
Romana (breathlessly): My goodness.
Noveline: They used to say some things would make you go blind.

Saleema Nawaz

Parc Jeanne Mance, on the grass near Esplanade

Female, 20s, dark curly hair. Wearing a yellow dress, lying on a blanket.

The Flying Troutmans, Miriam Toews (Knopf)

Page 33:

That night Logan came home drunk. I heard him fall down in the kitchen. I went in and switched on the light and he said, Oh man, dude, that is a seriously diaphanous nightgown you’ve got on. I switched the light off again and knelt down beside his head. C’mon, let’s get you up to bed. He wanted to stay there.

Day. Full sun.
Noveline: People always picture angels wearing nightgowns, don’t they? But just imagine the drafts. (shudders) I think heaven would be a place where everyone could wear pyjamas all the time.
Romana: (looking over) Then I guess we’re already there.

Saleema Nawaz

Olimpico patio, Waverly and St. Viateur — Montreal, QC

Male, late 20s, wearing grey zip-up sweatshirt with white stripes on sleeves. Shaved head, dark stubble, Aquiline nose.

Bright Lights, Big City, Jay McInerney (Vintage)

Page 68:

At Fifth Avenue you cross and walk up to Saks. You stop in front of a window. Inside the window is a mannequin which is a replica of Amanda — your wife, the model. To form the cast for the mannequin, Amanda lay face down in a vat of latex batter for ninety minutes, breathing through a straw. You haven’t seen her in the flesh since she left for the last trip to Paris, a few days after she did the cast. You stand in front of the window and try to remember if this was how she really looked.

Porch-swing. Sound of wind chimes.
Noveline: I love a cocaine culture novel. It’s like reading a particularly thrilling ethnography. All those dollar bills. All that euphoria.
Romana: It’s because you’re still hung up on Sherlock Holmes.
Noveline: (blushing) Rubbish. Now do you remember those mannequins they used to use in nuclear tests in Nevada? What on earth was that all about?
Romana: Rather like crash test dummies, I expect. Or just to make the whole thing more ghastly.
Noveline: I used to leave a mannequin in the window when I went out in the evening, to make it seem like someone was still at home.
Romana: (amused) Yes, it had a deerstalker, didn’t it?

Saleema Nawaz

Richmond, BC

Caucasian hipster grannie on orange scooter. Likely doesn’t realize how cool she is.

Water for Elephants, Sara Gruen (HarperCollins)

Page 316:

I stare forlornly at the windows of car 48, wondering how to break the news to Marlena that we now own an elephant, when she suddenly comes flying out the door, leaping from the platform like a gazelle. She hits the ground running, her arms and legs pumping.

I turn to follow her trajectory and immediately see why. The sheriff and the general manage of the Nesci Brothers are standing beside the menagerie tent, shaking hands and smiling. Her horses are lined up behind them, held by Nesci Brothers men.

Sara Gruen is one of those magical authors who let’s you taste the dirt in their words. Have you joined the circus?

Monique Trottier

Olimpico patio, Waverly and St. Viateur — Montreal

Caucasian male, 50s, with greying black goatee, wearing tweed golf cap, black leather jacket, blue striped shirt with top buttons unbuttoned, and black dress pants

Wake, Robert J. Sawyer (Penguin Canada)

Page 236:

Still, all the visual input was disorienting, and she found herself taking a look, then closing her eyes for five or six paces, then looking again. When they got to the food court, Kuroda went to the sushi place-which, Caitlin suspected, would disappoint him — and she and her mom went to Subway. Caitlin was amazed to see how colorful the sandwich fillings were, and, somehow, seeing the food made it taste even better.

Swirling mist. Harp music.
Noveline: It looks interesting, that book. All about the internet becoming self-aware.
Romana: And evil?
Noveline: Not sure.
Romana: Probably evil. (A pause.) But that page reminds me of the Great Disappointment.
Noveline: (dryly) Which one?
Romana: Remember that fellow who told me he owned a subway?
Noveline: Oh yes . . .
Romana: But then it was only a Subway restaurant.
Noveline: The sandwich man. There was something very sad about him.
Romana: It was the pickles. He had sad pickles.

Saleema Nawaz