Pestilence at nineteen

Five

December 14 , 2019. Canada.

Joan ran speedily towards the Saint-Houblon Quatier Latin restaurant in Montreal , she was besnowed and the ride from Quebec had been rough. She had been here for three months and was on time for the Christmas festivity preparations. She wondered why Dr Foxx had delayed her to this point.
"Que voulez-vous que je vous offre?" came the attendant. She didn't speak much French but she knew he was talking about what she might want.
"Je veux de la bière" she said , with a slight compunction and doubt of its authenticity , she changed her mind - "beer" she requested in English . She watched the way the attendant smiled to himself , this angered her very much "Canadians with their superiority complex!" she thought. She took off her denim jacket and placed it around her chair. In no time , the bartender came with a sassafras beer and champagne.
" We have gastro pub foods Madame" he proffered.
"No thanks. Just beer would suffice" she said sharply and this ushered him move to another table. As she drank her beer , she espialed the Canadian lifesyle , it was somewhat unreal...it felt like they had everything they wanted and nothing could put them in a state of shambles. She had visited several site seeings, the Atlantic Basin , the Hudson Bay , the Pacific Basin...Canada was the country with the largest number of lakes. Aunty Ifeka said they worshipped a "Mami wata spirit" for them to have so much lakes , this expression always made her laugh hard. She was about to down another glass of sassafras when a hand held her shoulder.
"Well well well , who do we have here?" came the light voice , as she turned her neck to look at the unheralded guest , she quickly hissed at the figure, for she recognized the ugly looking hat.
" What do you want Hafiz?" she asked impatiently
"Nene relax , I just want to talk to you" he said. The way he pronounced her Ukwani name with his Iraqis intonation made her even angrier , and surprised.
"Where did you get my name from? my native name for that matter!" she asked. He grinned widely and was about explaining when she stopped him...
"Fuck off...I don't need your explanation , I told you before , I am not interested and I don't want to be your Princess , go marry your Iraqis girls" she grabbed her jacket and was about to leave when he held her
"You can't leave me like this Nene , I am a Prince , a Prince in Al Aziziyah , you must let me talk to you or my men over there won't let you leave this restaurant!" he was drawing attention now and this was the last thing she wanted. She scurried through the men and ran outside the restaurant , pushing everyone and everything aside , she ran as fast as her legs could carry her , she saw the men walking briskly behind her , she was too engrossed with the men not catching up that she bumped into someone , who held her steadily from falling flat. At the sight of this , the men retreated.
"What are you doing trying to ruin your beautiful face before Christmas Madam?" asked the young man puzzled. She was too dizzy to speak for the impact was rather bumpy than light.
"Home...Rue Saint-Paul street" she said falling slowly. He held on to her and was somewhat confused on what to do , he had thoughts of taking her to the clinic but he felt he had to comply with her wishes. Quickly , he stopped a taxi .
"Rue Saint-Paul" he said getting in with the lady. He did this with hwyl because his home was just close by , he stayed at Saint Laurent Boulevard. As the taximetacabriolet moved on , he stared deeply at her face , more importantly her lips , he was able to guess she wasn't Black American due to instinct , he presumed her to be a South African. As the taxi came to a halt , she woke up simultaneously. And paid the driver.
"What!? you weren't unconscious?" he asked unbelievably as he came out of the taxi.
"Yes. I had to feign. Some guys were after me".
"Oh! do you mind telling me what gives?"
She stopped and frowned at the idea of making friends with a male Canadian , but this Canadian saved her , so what could go wrong?
"Sure , come in...but don't get too comfortable" she informed him.

* * *
As they got in , she offered him a sit by the fire place and went straight to the kitchen.
"Nice library you got there Ma'am"he commended , she moved on pretending she didn't hear a thing. She watched him stand up from his sit to observe an artwork on the wall , it was a picture of the Virgin and Child. He stared the picture for some time that Joan felt really uncomfortable.
"I didn't steal it you know" she said looking fixed at him
"No no...I didn't say that , I know you got it from the mart like everyone else would , I was just observing the paintings"
"So ? what about it?"
"It has an history. The oldest form of art in Canada began with the French-Canadian sculptors , who produced religious works for churches in the late 1600's . The statue of the Virgin and the Child was one of them and it was created in Montreal about 1750...so seeing it in a picturesque form made me admire it's aesthetic" he said
While he gave all those details Joan admired him , she was starting to like this young man , his wit , his informative personality...she was tempted to ask
"Are you a history Student or something?"
"No. I am an english student ... you see I am working on a dissertation on the Post-Canadian literary aesthetic using Sculpture and art as a point of contact - I am not really..."
"Really?" she interpolates him "me too - I am an english student and I am working on a dissertation too"
"Really?" he asked amidst laughter
"Yes! it's crazy right?"
"You bet "he winked
"What school?" they asked together.
"McGill University!" they replied simultaneously too
There was an awkward pause and silence as both individuals were hyped with excitement.
"Here is your drink" she said giggling " let me go change my clothes"she walks out smiling unknowingly to herself.
When she came back , she noticed he was up and was viewing her music cassettes.
"You listen to Bob Dylan?!" he asked astonished
"Yeaaahh , I love his folk music" she said feeling satisfied with herself.
"You listened to Hurricane by Dylan?" he asked
"Yes! a thousand times , have you listened to Knockin' on Heavens Door?" she asked
"Yeah 1973, my grandpa calls it a thriller!" he smiled as he answered. She was so obsessed with the way he flaunted his skill on dates and statistics. She moved to the cassette player and slotted in one of Dylan's music and it played pleasurably.
"That sounds like The Mighty Quinn?" he asked
"Yeah you bet" she said smiling as she watched him dance with mirth. It was so unreal to her. How it all happened.
"Haven't you thought of why Dylan won the Nobel prize for Literature in 2016 without him having any literary background?" he asked
"I guess it's because his songs ideally reflect social problems..." she replied quite unsurely
"Close... according to Danius , who holds a doctorate in literature from Duke , after being questioned about the decision to give Dylan the award says : Dylan has found himself by loosing himself over and over just like the Greek Poet Homer".
"Funny , our Nigerian 1986 Nobel prize winner , Wole Soyinka , weighs his criticism contrary to how you put it , he says : since they now allot the Nobel prize to musicians, he himself knows he wrote some few poems and music in his books and should get a Grammy award no doubt". They both laugh hard until he asked a question.
"You are Nigerian?"
"Yes. I am , from Delta State to be precise" she wondered where all this informativeness was coming from , then , something struck her
"What do I call you my hero?"
He laughed softly "I am no hero , call me Jason , Jason Durham." he said.
"I am Joan , it's nice to meet you"
"Joan what?"
"Joan Jesa" she said
"Okay Mrs Joan , you still haven't told me why you bumped into me" he grinned
"Bumped into you? you bumped into me!" she said feigning anger "well it's the usual , male trying to find their spouses where they aren't supposed to"
"You mean Hafiz Mahmud...sorry , Prince Hafiz Mahmud?" he asked
"Oh ! so you know him , why pretend?"
"Looks like you are not the only one with the pretense" he smirked.
"Okay , touche " she smiled "you say you attend McGills , how come I never see you around?"
"Well that I can't say for sure , but I know some badass sapients in the literary department..."
"Really , mention them"
"I know the radical Poet Amanda Snow , I know Shekodran Dimitrov the absurdist , although his pedagogy on sissyphus I don't quite agree with , I think he is smart nonetheless...Rosa Tingles the orator and girls activist...and I know you...your pedagogy , I agree with in all ramifications and you are smart."
She blushed at this , he had a way of making her smile.
"Wow! look at the time , I have to start going Joan , see you later and it's a good thing we are neighbours , I will check up on you- I stay at Saint Laurent Boulevard "
"That's great!" she exclaimed , but she was sad inside of her , as he made to leave, she was forced to speak up "Do come back. Please." she said.
" No problem Joan. I will".
She watched him move slowly along the road side through her window , it was getting cold than ever , she had to write a letter to her father , she knew calling was futile , he wasn't a fan of phone calls but the "letter ways". She drank a little coffee , and sat to write , pen in hand , paper in front - she felt mechanical , she had alot to pour out and thinking of Jason made her smile to herself. She stopped. What was this thing that she was feeling ? surely it wasn't love , she just had some fondness for him that was all , she assured herself. Dropping her pen , she promised to write the letter first thing tommorow as she felt sleepy at present. She clambered her bed holding her Teddy in hand , she let it fragrance swoop her to a world of dreams , and slowly , came the doze.