The Supreme Orchestra. David Turgeon

a crowd whose density had swollen tenfold.

      Pierre-Luc swivelled around on his stool again. Faya was gone. What was going on? The background music ceased, the hum of conversation lulled, all eyes turned stageward. A woman whose features led us to infer she had not been born thus had taken to the stage. After introducing herself as MC Blais, she freestyled for a good forty minutes over noise-heavy beats she handled herself. The audience became a crowd; Faya was still nowhere to be seen; the empty bar stools soon filled up, which didn’t bother Pierre-Luc, whose sole concern was keeping alive some shred of the elusive Célestine’s memory, though he sensed that any hope of reciprocal concern on her part would be foolhardy conjecture. Still, he spent a good part of MC Blais’s set lost in dreams of Célestine, and opted for another (dangerously inexpensive) gin and tonic. If Pierre-Luc remained glued to his seat at the bar he would have every chance of crossing paths with Célestine whenever she felt the need for a fresh drink. And indeed a young woman came in his direction and recognized him before he did her.

      ‘Didn’t expect to see you here!’ exclaimed Sarah-Jeanne Loubier.

      ‘Some friends dragged me,’ was the best Pierre-Luc could come up with, pointing vaguely at a hypothetical place in the room.

      ‘Sorry,’ Pierre-Luc’s student yelled over the din, ‘I couldn’t make it to the gallery. I had some work to finish. But then I felt like going out. I like this place. Do you know the bands?’

      ‘No,’ Pierre-Luc admitted. ‘Just checking them out.’

      ‘I came to see Poupée Sincère,’ said Sarah-Jeanne, who seemed to glow, as if invigorated by the venue and Pierre-Luc’s presence there. ‘I heard they have a new singer.’

      Pierre-Luc hailed the barkeep, who was becoming quite familiar with her new client. The student, thus solicited, ordered a pint and disappeared.

      This night was taking an unusual turn, decided Pierre-Luc, already tormented by feelings of a nature difficult to explain.

      As MC Blais’s final number ramped up in intensity, finally delivering the long-promised catharsis, the crowd thinned slightly in anticipation of the next act. Faya and The Bear reappeared. Faya looked like she’d been crying.

      ‘Want to sit?’ asked Pierre-Luc, perturbed.

      ‘They got in a fight. A bad one,’ The Bear explained to Pierre-Luc while Faya made her way toward an empty stool where, once seated, she assertively hailed the bartender.

      ‘I don’t understand,’ said Pierre-Luc. ‘Is Simone gone?’

      ‘I tried to stop her,’ said The Bear apologetically. ‘She wouldn’t listen. She jumped in a taxi and made me promise to look after Faya until tomorrow. It’s complicated,’ he added.

      ‘I don’t get it,’ Pierre-Luc said inanely.

      ‘Go, go, go!’ said Faya, counting the shooters of tequila she handed out. ‘Cheers!’ she screeched like a banshee.

      The two others did the same. Pierre-Luc choked a little.

      ‘Another round!’ said Faya, her hand already raised above the bar.

      ‘What are you going to do?’ Pierre-Luc asked The Bear.

      ‘Honestly,’ said The Bear, ‘I have no idea. My place is tiny. And I don’t know, it’s really … you know how Faya is.’

      ‘How Faya is,’ Pierre-Luc acknowledged.

      ‘One more!’ Faya said, returning with two more glasses.

      ‘Damn,’ Pierre-Luc assessed, after round two.

      ‘Party!’ observed The Bear.

      ‘Not sure how that happened,’ Pierre-Luc admitted.

      ‘And how’s your wrist?’

      ‘My wrist,’ Pierre-Luc continued, contemplating his hand without identifying any cause for concern.

      ‘Ooh la la,’ sighed The Bear, who had also moved on to other cares.

      ‘You’ve got to admit,’ said Pierre-Luc, giving his new friend a gentle elbow to the ribs. ‘Faya’s funny. A great girl.’

      ‘One of a kind,’ said The Bear.

      ‘She’s got a certain … grace,’ said Pierre-Luc.

      ‘Round three!’ said Faya, appearing with new drinks for all.

      Pierre-Luc choked again.

      ‘Want something else instead?’ asked Faya, refreshed.

      ‘Not quite yet,’ Pierre-Luc gasped.

      ‘Whatever you want,’ said Faya. ‘You’ve got a tab going.’

      The crowd was set in motion again and the three friends leaned up against the bar as best they could. On the stage the musicians were assuming their positions: drum, bass guitar, electric guitar. Two Casios stood within reach, stage left. The guitarist hit a couple chords, twiddled a knob on his amp, struck a few more chords. The drummer started in on a basic beat, accenting the offbeat, which the bassist was also hitting, after which it was the turn of the guitarist who, apparently satisfied with the sound, jumped into the mix. At this point the new singer took to the stage and threw Pierre-Luc for a loop. This night was granting no emotional quarter.

      ‘Célestine,’ he uttered.

      ‘Gorgeous,’ chimed in Faya, startled.

      Under ardent spotlights, Célestine soon removed her leather jacket, leaving only a grey hoodie that half-covered a long white Tshirt whose bottom draped over pink cigarette-cut jeans above a pair of white half-leather and half-canvas high-tops. She clenched the mic in a manly grip and started singing in a high-pitched, aspirated voice, a flow winnowed to a vaporous stream her tightening larynx would periodically cause to crack, erupting into a keen wail that, just when it seemed poised to slip her control, would come back into key, a sinewy sigh freshly exhaled from a private reservoir of oxygen normally inaccessible, save perhaps for creatures from another world.