Claude Thibault

The Acadian Claude Thibault

Montreal 1947, Central Station, in the middle of the crowd, a tall burly 19-year-old man has suddenly stopped walking. He is standing still. People are bumping into him giving a mean look, what a jerk, stopping in full swing. But the boy stands still, unaware of the commotion behind him. He's stunned by what he is sees. Having left his little village in New Brunswick 12 hours earlier, fresh out of his forest, he is scared. "There are more people here than in all of Kent County. This hall could contain the church of St. Ignatius and its entire cemetery. What am I doing here?" He looks up at the ceiling, at the newsstands, at the crowd, he's never seen anything like it. A few dollars in his pocket and an address are his only asset. He's in deep trouble. If he could afford it, he would turn around, get back on the train and go back home. He could surely find a job in his own world. But the trip has emptied his wallet, he's afraid. Is it too much? Was it a mistake to leave? How is he going to succeed in the jungle that is post-war Montreal? All these unanswered questions. And as he steps outside, the cathedral with its statues on the roof, he couldn't believe his eyes. He bumped so hard into a lady in front that her hat flew off her head.-Excuse me," he said, and she looked at him as if he were a bum. Instinctively and unconsciously he had spoken English. Already he felt uncomfortable. He wanted to be somewhere else, far away, in the forest with Buck, his horse. This town is going to choke him, he was sure of it.