Not for the Faint-Hearted

(if you are one of the faint-hearted through and through cynics, read at your own risk)

PART 1

The day in question is October 30 (Friday) but the whole thing started the evening before -- October 29 (Thursday), around 21:30 at Jarry metro station. Feather-light and mind-dispersed after an evening swim, on the way out of the metro, I stopped by the recharging OPUS-card machine. To perform the recharging operation involving two cards and a sizeable amount of typing in two places, I had to free both my hands so I left my frayed but faithful read-on-the-metro novel (Hesse's Le Jeu des perles de verre) on top of the machine. A few minutes later, satisfied with my urban-living savvy, I placed all the cards and receits into relevant pockets, turned around unhurriedly, and slid onto the escalator suavely -- leaving the book behind. (I can just imagine the book's utter horror when it realized that I was walking away, oblivious of its plight). It was only the next day that I missed the book as I was packing my work things, and this immediately translated into a horrified panic on my part since travelling on the metro without it was unimaginable, with the additional annoyance of knowing that that particular book held all my notes, markings, effort. The guy in the ticket booth at the metro station was nice enough not to comment on my frenzied concern, and simply said that he had only started his shift, and that the lost&found objects had already been sent away to the Berri-Uqam station collection point. I thanked him, ran and caught the downtown-bound train, and when I changed the lines at Berri-Uqam, had to force myself not to run up the stairs and inquire about my book since this would certainly mean being late for work. From my office, though, I found the metro Lost&Found department phone number and called. A calm voice on the other end asked for the specifications of the lost object, told me to wait, and a minute later came back with a tone of professional reassurance: "Madame, je l'ai dans mes mains." I could have kissed her, I felt so inordinately happy. Yes, plain happy. Because I would have my book back, because the STM was taking this miniscule loss seriously and was keeping the book for me, because someone had seen my book on the recharging machine and decided to devote a few minutes to this, even though no possible outcome could have any impact on him or her. And because there are days when I am not a cynic, I guess.

Thanks, on behalf of me and my book.

PART 2

Later the same day I was on the metro again -- going to pick up my book -- and was flipping through the daily Metro, when I came across an article about this girl, Stephanie. She was turning 25 in two days, and had a great idea about celebrating her birthday: she was going to get 25 people (including herself) to give blood. She already had 15, and was hoping the get 10 more by Sunday. Her inspiration was the case of a friend's father, whose life was prolonged by a few months thanks to blood transfusions. (... think of it: a few months is perhaps around 100 days, each one of which you can spend with the person who is about to go; you can decide to play and share one new, remarkable piece of music each of the remaining days, you can read to each other from your favourite or unfavourite books, explain the big misunderstandings and bones of contention, remember all the awkward funny moments worth living for, have tea and different kinds of chocolate each of those 100 days, write letters, and poems, and little notes to the world, really feel the physical body of time, play with it while it's slipping through the fingers -- all the things that should and could have been done before, but probably weren't; and now somebody else's blood is making it possible)

Stephanie's birthday was going to be the birthday of someone who is truly making a difference by having been born (this sentence might be a cliché, but Stephanie isn't) . Remarkable, and not something you see every day. Certainly enough to sit in the metro and feel humbled but happy.

PART 3

When I got home, a small pile of mail waited on the floor just inside the entrance door. Mostly bills or municipal propaganda material, some ads. (How the nature of "mail" or "post" has changed dramatically within a few decades. Sometimes I pick up this soulless garbage from the floor and try to remember what it felt like to receive and send letters; when the postman's arrival was an event corresponding to some emotions; when one almost felt like any of Jane Austen characters, always on the lookout for the mail, to make or break her day...). From underneath the bland envelopes bearing no real news, however, there peeped an unexpected sheet which immediately claimed my attention because it conspicuously lacked an official feel. Reading it made me smile wide, wider than the end of the day, encircling the whole neighbourhood, including the neighbours who slipped this note through the door, to wish us a Happy Halloween and let us know they'll be having a little party.

A small act of kindness and good cheer, stitching together this whole day into a cynic-proof pattern.

The goodness will out, sometimes.