E A S T O F T H E B I G
Q
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Through the scrim of the falling
snow, I could make out the fuzzy outline of the big letter Q with its
lightning-bolt tail on the Hydro-Québec building. That’s when I knew for sure I
was in the east side of Montreal. The French-speaking east side, where my
mother told me never to go, with its winding outdoor staircases, rich-tasting
coffee, the smell of natural gas—maybe even a harpsichord or viola da gamba—and
black-haired men who know how to make love with their bodies and souls.
From Vers lEst du Gros Queue |
The creation of this collection of short stories was made possible by
The Canada Council Explorations Program

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