She could not tell whether this was caused by the industrial cleaner used to clean the carpet or because she felt a rising urge to cry. As soon as she sat down she noticed the cold draft on the back of her neck. Finally, the manager had rushed over to her with a big smile that had appeared so suddenly it looked like he had slipped on a mask, and had offered her a table by the windows, gesturing as he pulled out a chair for her, being careful not to touch the seat. She had been on her feet all day wearing new shoes, first at her bank teller counter and then in the metro, and her little toe was hurting. The maitre d’ had looked upset for a few seconds, then went to find the manager both of them had held a long discussion during which they had turned around to examine her, alone in the middle of the dining room, shifting from one foot to the other.
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She had frowned, then pointed to another smaller and mostly empty room that was separated from the main dining area by a set of steps it looked like a glass sunroom lined with large windows through which shone the last shimmers of daylight. Only a handful of seats had been occupied when she arrived the maître d’ had first showed her to the center of the main dining room to a table where a little laminated paper sign read “Reserve” in printed characters to which had been added the letter D in blue pen. She had come early once again for fear of being late, even though this had not happened in years. An air-conditioning vent installed right behind her spewed cold air, and she regretted having left her coat at the bank. She checked her watch again (5:23 p.m.) and rubbed the back of her neck. The skyscrapers were now empty but the still-lit windows studded their gray surface with a multitude of small dim rectangles. On the other side of the window, Maisonneuve Boulevard, traffic slowly oozed by as rush hour lingered. The Perrier was barely tepid but she gave up on the idea of calling the waiter again and studied her neighbors-two Asians, a man and a woman in their early twenties silently sharing a colourful sushi platter that looked like an assortment of candies.
Of course, in a hotel such as this, there were hardly any children. The smell of chlorine filled her nostrils she raised her hand to order a bottle of Perrier.Īround her, in the half-filled dining room, businessmen eating alone, a few couples, and some tourists, who were easy to identify from the combination of elation and slight bewilderment on their faces and, for some, the sunburn on their nose. There was a small stain on the cuff of his white shirt that could have been soy sauce. She looked at her watch (5:15 p.m.), then brought to her lips the glass of water the waiter had just set in front of her. On July 16, 2009, a young woman who was dining out with her husband in a Japanese restaurant in downtown Montreal died instantly when a concrete block fell from the front of the building and landed exactly where she was seated.
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