Character Interview - Mamzell (Manon) and Jean-Louis

I am sitting at the long wooden bar at the Black Cat Tavern - better known as "Mamzell's." The place has been here for well over 90 years. Established in 1921 as a "restaurant," its real reason d'etre at first was to serve as a speak-easy, complete with the stereotypical locked door, sliding peephole and oversized, scary doorman. It never made quite as much money after prohibition as it did during, but has managed to survive all these years by catering to the local population of Hunter's Corners - those few for whom the in-town bars and restaurants are a little too close to home - plus the travelling salesmen, wanderers and itinerants who float through on occasion. Those last few types are rarely seen here twice. There is also a small but (mostly) well-behaved group of bikers who call Mamzell's a meeting place of sorts.

I have with me Manon Thibodeau and her partner in life and in business, Jean-Louis Renaud. Manon and Jean-Louis came to Hunter's Corners 15 years ago after several years of life on the road, exploring the country from the back of an old Honda Goldwing...piloted by Manon. They bought the Black Cat for a song after it went bankrupt in the late 80s and have been fixtures there ever since.

Many years ago, Manon got fed up with all the damn Anglos pronouncing her name wrong and now, after a particularly memorable screaming fit about 10 years ago, everyone just calls her Mamzelle...or Mam. She's a tiny fireball who seems to create a vortex of energy around her, even when she's sitting still. She's 51, but looks 60, and she's wiry thin, almost emaciated, with straw-like yellow-blonde streaked hair that hasn't seen its natural colour in at least 20 years. She wears it like a 20-year-old too -- long and loose, falling to just below her shoulders, with just the bangs pulled back with an unending assortment of gaudy hair clips to keep them out of her face. She has a pugnatious look to her face, permanent deep scowl lines form two vertical bars between her eyes, her lips are thin, her mouth firm and stubborn, and her nose, slightly bulbous, makes her look like a fighter... which she is. But her smiles are quick to come. She wears too much makeup, but somehow, on her, it works. Bright red lipstick that she's constantly refreshing in the mirror behind the bar. Her hands are somewhat oversized for such a petite woman, and in the left hand is an ever-present cigarette, pinched between the index and middle fingers like a sixth digit. She has smoked since she was 9 years old. Her voice is as abrasive as pumice stone and her frequent loud and exuberant cackles sound like they must hurt her throat. She favours tight sweaters and tighter bluejeans that would be sexy on someone with more meat on their bones, but on her it just make one wonder if they really do manufacture clothing in size minus-3. A tiny apron saves modest onlookers from seeing the inevitable result of too-tight jeans on a woman, though one must wonder if she has enough meat on her bones for that. It is a source of constant debate among the bikers who frequent the bar, but none of them have ever been brave enough to try and solve the mystery.

In stark contrast to Mamzelle, her long-time partner in life, Jean-Louis, 57, is as demure as a schoolgirl. Also thin and small, he is as quiet and reserved as Mam is loud and brash. He rarely speaks, preferring to let Mam do the talking for both of them. Almost as an excuse not to speak, he keeps a cigarette of his own dangling almost precipitously from the corner of his mouth at all times. His constant uniform is a white dress shirt and black suit pants...with work boots. He dropped a case of beer on his foot once and couldn't walk on it for a week. Now he knows better. Jean-Louis...he discourages shortforming of his name like "JL" has short, very short, white hair so fine it's almost invisible. Do not be fooled by his retiring nature though -- I am told that once, when a drunken salesman insulted Mamzelle, five feet and 6 inches of Jean-Louis suddenly came shooting out of a back room swinging a two by four and screaming French curse words that curled the hair of everyone within earshot - even though none of them even understood French.

PM: Thanks for inviting me out here, Manon and Jean-Louis. This is a wonderful place you have here.

Mam: Allo, cheri! Bienvenue...welcome!

JL: Salut.

PM: So, I'm just interviewing a bunch of people around town for this book I'm writing, and I really appreciate your giving me the time to talk with you.

Mam: Une plaisir, mon ami! It's quiet now, so take your time.

PM: Thank you. Well, first, when did you and Jean-Louis meet, and how long have you been married?

Mam: Oh...we're not marry. We know each odder since tirty-five year...since children. But Jean-Louis (she says this so fast it sounds like "jalui"), he ask me many time but I say non. He divorce his firs' wife, so I say dat enough marrying for 'im, la.

PM: Well, maybe you'll change your mind someday.

Mam: (breaks out in the first of many rambunctious fits of scraping laughter)

PM: Do you live together? Are you a couple?

Mam: Mais, oui! Of course! We got a nice 'ouse close to 'ere an we got a big garden an a satellite dish. Jean-Louis like dat show Oprah so he go 'ome every afternoon for he's nap and watch de show, la, an den he come back an 'elp till we close.

PM: What's it like working here? Running this bar?

Mam: Ohhh, c'est bon...c'est tres, tres bon. (Jean-Louis nods in agreement). We come 'ere maybe 14...15 year an work very, very 'ard to make dis place nice. We spen lots of our money on de renovations (sounds like a french word the way she says it) an' we make ads in da paper in 'unter's Corner every week, la. Dis place was ...mmm...comment je dir...a flop? (I laughed and nodded). It was flop when we first come 'ere. Now we busy every night. We make a good life 'ere. Eh, Jean-Luis! (she swats him on the arm with the back of her hand and he sways good-naturedly and sucks on his cigarette through his smile.)

PM: What kind of people come in here?

Mam: Ohhh...(she cackles and starts talking to Jean-Louis in rapid-fire French. It seems like one long, unbroken word with not a single pause for breath in an impossibly long sentence. It goes on so long I start feeling breathless myself and become fixated on when she'll finally pause to take a breath. Jean- Louis answers in a slow, measured rhythm that sounds like story-telling. I'm fascinated by the sound of it. Every syllable is as clear as a bell, and his mouth forms each word with such relish, it's as if every word he speaks is sweet to his mouth. The sounds are rich, round and savoury).

PM: What did he say?

Mam: He say we need to order some whiskey.

PM: Oh. (laughing)

Mam: All kind of people come 'ere. We 'ave a nice place. Dose church people don' like us. Dey say we make bad business an 'ave gamble in da back room. We never 'ave gamble. People wan gamble dey go somewhere else. Not here.

PM: I've heard some rumours about that bog a few miles back towards town. Is there anything you can tell me about that?

Jean-Louis: (utters a few stern-sounding words and then gets up and disappears into the back room)

Mam: (watches Jean-Louis go with a frown deepening the already-deep lines between her eyebrows).

PM: Is everything okay?

Mam: Ah oui, tres bien. He jus' has someting to do. An' so do I now. Lunchtime soon an I need go an watch dat cook or he just sit an do nudding.

PM: Okay...well...maybe I can come back and we can talk some more sometime.

Mam: Sure, sure...oui. Ahh...wait...une moment. (She hurries into the kitchen for a couple of minutes and when she returns she presses a small foil-wrapped bundle into my hands. It turns out to be the best roast beef sandwich I ever had in my life.) Bonjour, mon nouvelle ami...tank you, merci. (and then she bustles off in a whirlwind of activity that signifies the end of our interview).