La Mer

On Saturday mornings we played badminton.

At first it was a bit weird for me. I didn’t know Edmond too well. I had been dating his daughter for less than a year and had just moved to Montreal when he invited me to join his shuttlecock coterie. The group included a rotation of half a dozen of Edmond’s friends. All were about 30 years my senior. All were Francophone. All were characters. Still, I stuck out. But they welcomed me into their weekly tradition of doubles badminton followed by breakfast in the sports complex lounge.

This is where I got to know Edmond. It’s also where I learned all sorts of new French swear words. As I came to understand it, “Tabarnac” or “Câlisse” are standard responses to losing a point in badminton. Edmond wasn’t much for cursing but his pals would have sent a Catholic priest to the fainting couch if he had watched any of our matches. Sans vulgarity, Edmond was fiercely competitive on the court, chasing down “le moineau” with the agility of a young member of the Swiss Guard. He celebrated each point with gusto and often contested cries of “OUT!” made by his friend Michel who was notorious for Mr. Magoo-caliber perception when making line calls.

Fifteen minutes after the final overhand smash, we would be sitting in the sportsplex lounge having already forgotten who won or even whose team we were on. We devoured platefuls of eggs and bacon while discussing the topics of the day. Sometimes I think the post-match conversation was Edmond’s primary motivation for weekly badminton meetups. He loved to debate. I often didn’t have a sweet clue what they were talking about in French, but I could get a sense of the rhythm of the conversation. Edmond liked to play devil’s advocate. You could tell he often didn’t believe in a particular side of a debate but he would offer it as a counterpoint to further stimulate the conversation. So long as you didn’t agree on everything, he could converse for hours.

His passion for tête-à-têtes was evident anytime he would visit us in Nova Scotia. After supper, he and Anne Sophie would inevitably fall deep into conversation that would extend into the wee hours. I would hear them talking about politics, education, family, arts, culture. At least that’s what I think they were talking about. Maybe they were actually talking about whether or not St. Bernards did, in fact, carry around neck casks filled with Swiss kirsch (Wikipedia says it’s a myth but I’m willing to bet there has been at least one stranded skier in the Alps rescued by a large pooch with some cherry brandy).

Edmond lived a life that anyone should be envious of. He saw the world. He was adored by those who had the good fortune to meet him. He raised the single best human I have ever known.

Edmond didn’t want for much. He enjoyed simple pleasures. He would politely decline a hoppy IPA from a local craft brewer in favour of a commercial lager. And if you were to ever give him the option of a regular or light beer, he would gladly choose the regular beer with the witty addendum, “Light beer – it’s against my religion.”

As a proud Swiss, Edmond made the best cheese fondue. He introduced me to the wonders of Magi sauce. He loved to drive. No seriously, he really loved to drive. His tolerance for driving long distances was legendary. It’s an example of how Edmond had a knack for being present. One time we went to Cape Breton and he was driving. Anne Sophie and Ginette were asleep in the back seat. Edmond stared straight ahead at the road in front of us. The radio was off. It was driving me bananas. When I’m sitting in a car I need continuous auditory stimulation. I need a CD or a podcast or the radio or a book-on-tape or SOMETHING! Anything to kill the monotony – maybe it would feel like we would get there faster. Edmond did not need any of those things. And I wouldn’t say he was “lost in thought.” He just looked like he was enjoying himself. Driving. Nothing but scenery. As I steeped in frustration at the silence, I was missing it all. Edmond didn’t miss a thing. He was absorbed in the moment.

As we approached the Canso Causeway and the sea came into view, Edmond ended the unbearable silence when he spontaneously broke into song: “La mer / qu’on voit danser / le long des golfes clairs / A des reflets d’argent.” For the next couple of hours, we traversed the oceanside highway towards Cheticamp and Edmond sang “La Mer”…acapella…on repeat…the entire time. I went from annoyed, to infuriated, to amused, to perfectly tranquil. It took a while to sink in. It’s not all about the destination. Sometimes the end of the road isn’t what you hoped for. It’s how you got there that matters. Edmond had that figured out.

When I think of Edmond, I see him driving down a coastal highway. And as he travels towards n’importe où, the lyrics of Monsieur Charles Trenet come alive – “the sea, dancing along clear gulfs with reflections of silver.” And Edmond sings out, enjoying the journey.

La mer
Au ciel d’été
Confond ses blancs moutons
Avec les anges si purs
La mer
Bergère d’azur, infinie