in #creativecoinlast year (edited)

Translation from my short Novel C.C


After a hectic Montreal-Boston-Louisville flight, a taxi dropped Cameron at the Brown Hotel on West Broadway. He was still thinking of the letter. It brought back bitter memories. Several of them surfaced as he walked through the lobby. This one was majestic, decorated with tapestries and paintings pastichant the luxury taste of the Ritz guests. There was something wrong behind all these artifices, and Cameron did not put his finger on it until he heard the receptionist's chewed accent. He signed his card and a bellhop pointed to the elevator. The magnetic key on the minibar, the luggage in the closet, Cameron collapsed immediately on his huge Queen bed. He was exhausted, but his mind was working on him. He picked up the handset ...

Later, two small bottles of empty vodka slipped from his hands as he fell asleep and an escort sped discreetly to the exit.

The next morning, Cameron, a cigarette for lunch, rented a car and went to the Highlands District. The family that had been slaughtered lived in what was called here the "Cherokee Triangle" - a neighborhood made up of 96% of whites, belonging to the middle class. The family consisted of Carl, the father, his wife Louise and their only nineteen son, Denis. They lived peacefully in a beautiful, large single-family home at 910 Bardstown Road ... well before Claude Cyriltochter arrived.

The City police had established a wide security perimeter, presumably for the purpose of keeping all tv cameras at bay. Journalists huddled around the yellow ribbon ahead of the five-hour newscast.

Feeling sick for his profession, Cameron thought he might have to go elsewhere. He went up the street before falling on the Avallon: Fresh American Cuisine. Probably crowded at night by the people of the neighborhood, but at this hour of the morning was attended only by a stranger leaning on the bar.

An employee, with red hair cut short and whose frail limbs barely overflowed with an aubergine waistcoat, stood ready to take control of the journalist, leaning on the other side of the counter. Cameron hesitated for a moment, he stared intently, looking as if it was too early to drink. The waitress gave a shy smile before giving her a coffee.

  • Are you a journalist? asked the waitress, placing the cup in front of him.

Cameron smiled while letting his gaze wander over the lapel pin where the employee's name was drawn in felt pencil under the gleaming arch of Avallon.

  • Yes ... Charlie?

"Charlie Cooper," she replied.

  • I do not look like i’m from the hood, do I? Cameron asked.

"Yeah," she said, "but you're the first to go to Avallon.

"Oh, I thought Arthur had preceded me," he said, laughing.

  • Oh, a friend of yours?

Cameron stopped short when he saw that his joke was not understood. Embarrassed, he took a sip of coffee. It was hot, but pleasant in the mouth, bringing with it the memory of the university and difficult mornings.

  • Did you know the family? Cameron asked.

  • Sure, everyone knew Carl. He was the pastor of St. Peter's Episcopal Church. He came to dinner every Saturday at Avallon. I was also going to the same school as Denis before ... well before working here.
    " A pastor ! Thought Cameron, who had not done any research on this story yet. He could well imagine all sorts of scenarios justifying the murder of the pastor, but none that could explain that of his family. An anticlerical or fundamentalist gesture perhaps? Did Cyriltochter believe in God? He did not care: "Anyway, I do not have a long time in this bled." The journalist took a sip of coffee.


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