Monday Mourning

At de la Commune, we entered a futuristic gray stone building, all corners and angles. High up, a banner draped one tower. ICI NAQUIT MONTRÉAL. “Where Montreal Was Born.”

“What is this place?” Anne stomped snow onto the green tile floor.

“Pointe-à-Callière, Montreal’s Museum of Archaeology and History.”

A man’s face rose from below a circular desk at the far end of the lobby. It was gaunt and pale, and needed a shave.

“Sorry.” Rising, the man pointed to a sign. He was wearing an army surplus overcoat, and holding a boot in one hand.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Mousseau.”

Surprise. “Your name, please?”

“Tempe Brennan.”

The man punched a number, spoke a few words, then cradled the receiver.

“Dr. Mousseau is in the crypt. Do you know the way?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Crossing the lobby, I led Anne past a small theater, down a set of iron stairs, and into a long, narrow, softly lit hall, its walls and floor made completely of stone.

“I feel like Alice tunnel-chasing the hatter,” said Anne.

“This point of land was the site of Montreal’s first settlement. The exhibit demonstrates how the city has grown and changed over the past three centuries.”

Anne flapped her gloves at a truncated wall rising from the floor. “The original foundations?”

“No, but old.” I pointed to the far end of the hall. “That walkway lies directly below place d’Youville, near where we parked. What’s now street was once a sewage dump, before that a river.”

“Tempe?” The voice rang hollowly off rock and mortar.

“C’est moi.”

“Ici.” Over here.

“Who’s Mousseau?” Anne whispered.

“The staff archaeologist.”

“I’ll bet the woman’s got buttons.”

“More buttons than a political primary.”

Monique Mousseau was working at one of several dozen glass cases lining the corridors spidering off from the main chamber. At her side, a metal cart held a camera, a magnifying glass, a laptop, a loose-leaf binder, and several books.

Seeing us, Mousseau reshelved an object, closed and locked the cabinet, dropped Harry Potter glasses to her chest, and hurried toward us.

“Bonjour, Tempe. Comment ça va?”

Mousseau kissed each of my cheeks, then stepped back and beamed up at me, hands still clasping my upper arms.

“You’re good, my friend?”

“I’m good,” I replied in English, then introduced Anne.

“A very great pleasure to meet you.” Mousseau cranked Anne’s arm as one would a pump handle.

“Likewise.