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

Corner of St. Laurent and Villeneuve.

Caucasian male, 30s, brown tousled hair, plaid Western shirt, skinny jeans, sneakers, carrying nothing but a novel.

Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides (Vintage Canada)

Page 43:

Eleutherios and Desdemona Stephanides left Bithynios on August 31, 1922. They left on foot, carrying two suitcases packed with clothes, toiletries, Desdemona’s dream book and worry beads, and two of Lefty’s texts of Ancient Greek. Under her arm Desdemona also carried her silkworm box containing a few hundred silkworm eggs wrapped in a white cloth.

Day. Kettle whistling.
Romana: Remember when we stopped eating honey?
Noveline (crossly): Yes. (relenting) The poor little bee slaves.
Romana: Well, there’s something I need to tell you about your dressing gown.

Saleema Nawaz

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

Epicurean in Kitsilano — Vancouver, BC

Caucasian female, early 60s, sipping espresso and enjoying her little nook in the coffee house. Sunshine streaming in through the French doors.

Flesh and Blood: An Alex Delaware Novel, Jonathan Kellerman (Ballantine Books)

Lauren had been fifteen at referral. Thin file: one history-taking meeting with the parents followed by two sessions with the girl. Then a missed appointment, no explanation. The next day the father left a message canceling any future treatment. Unpaid balance for the final session; I’d made a halfhearted effort to collect, then written it off.

When old patients get in touch it’s usually because they’re doing great and want to brag, or exactly the opposite. Either way they tend to be people with whom I’ve connected. Lauren Teague didn’t qualify. Far from it. If anything, I was the last person she’d want to see. Why was her mother contacting me now?

Sweet coffee and the pleasures of psychological thrillers and mysteries. This is summer.

—Monique Trottier

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

80 Avenue du Parc Bus, Northbound — Montreal, QC

Caucasian female, 20s, with long black hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a bright green down vest, and carrying a pink LL Bean knapsack embroidered with the initials “KW.”

The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, Michael Chabon (HarperCollins)

Page 177:

I looked at the black windowless flank of the Carnegie Institute, watched people slip down the back stairs to the rear door of the museum cafeteria; they had nice old Slovak ladies in there who wore clear plastic gloves and served spaetzle and ham and other heavy things. I thought about how I used to prefer that cafeteria to the dinosaurs, the diamonds, and even the mummies.

Sunset. Two lawn chairs. The sound of crickets.
Romana: I haven’t had spaetzle in a dog’s age.
Noveline: A dog’s age . . . In dog years? That’s a very long time, indeed.
Romana: You’re so literal; I don’t know how you can stand it.
Noveline: (stiffly) It was a joke.
Romana: Oh, darling. I’m sorry. I’m in a trance of spaetzle of days gone by. The taste of heaven, surely.
Noveline: And do you suppose the Rapture will come with gravy?
Romana: (A pause, considering) Yes.

Saleema Nawaz

80 Avenue du Parc bus, Southbound

Caucasian male, late 50s, with long, wild, white hair and thick black eyebrows, wearing red and blue polo shirt, khaki jacket, jeans, and sturdy, brown hiking boots.

The Russia House, John le Carré (Viking)

Page 339:

Ninety seconds later, as they were preparing to leave, Cy and Paddy saw a silhouette at Igor’s window and took it to be Barley’s. The right hand was adjusting the top of the curtain, which was the agreed signal to say “All’s well.”

Noonish. Shadows of two figures below an oversized striped umbrella.
Romana: Do you remember the system I used to have with the potted plant? When I put it out on the balcony and you weren’t to ring up to the flat no matter what?
Noveline: (sighing) How could I forget? You and your dalliances. And that infuriating African violet.
Romana: (wistfully) I would have made a tremendous lady spy. Those ideas just came to me so naturally.
Noveline: I think you can just say spy, dear.

Saleema Nawaz