Real Girls, Don't Cry

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Description

A wealthy family and a group of select guests find themselves at the mercy of an ice storm assailing the ancestral Quebecois country home. The situation soon becomes dire; it is a crucial time in the lives of these people who no longer love each other, as personal problems start taking their toll on already tense relationships.
Burdened by cruel memories of the past and forced to hide their true feelings from one another, each of them tries to remain calm under the mounting pressure of the stressful atmosphere. But an unexpected development soon triggers an unpredictable reaction, one which will result in murder.
Somewhere in this vast residence located in a remote area lurks a killer. But ice and sleet have made the roads impassable, and now, no one can escape.

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Publié par
Date de parution 03 février 2016
Nombre de visites sur la page 3
EAN13 9782924187555
Langue English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0075 €. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Translation from French to English: Mathieu Daigneault
Cover photo: Claude Daigneault
Back cover photo: Diane Létourneau
Infographics: Raymond Gallant
Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec and Library and Archives Canada cataloguing in publication
Daigneault, Claude, 1942-
[Fille, ça ne pleure pas. English]
Real girls don't cry
Translation of : Une fille, ça ne pleure pas.
ISBN 978-2-924187-55-5
I. Title. II. Title : Fille, ça ne pleure pas. English.
PS8557.A445F5413 2016 C843'.54 C2016-940016-6
PS9557.A445F5413 2016
Blog :http://lanoraye.42blog.com
cdaigneault@ilavaltrie.com
Éditions La Caboche, 2016
All rights reserved for all countries
Mosaïques
Also by the same author
Collective anthology of doems
(Out of drint)
At Éditions Logiques
Ne riez pas, ça pourrait être votre voisin
Humorous reflections 1993
Ne riez pas, votre voisin est devenu fou
Humorous reflections 1993
Ne riez pas, votre voisin a le SPM*
(*Le synbrome bu detit minus)
Humorous reflections 1994
Les Frincekanoks
Futuristic novel 1994
Noëls, autos et cantiques
Short stories 1995
La Grande Encyclopédie de la bêtise, de l’ânerie, d e la bizarrerie,
de l’ineptie, de l’absurdité, de l’insanité et de l a sottise
Humorous reflections 1996
L’enfant qui rêvait d’être un arbre / The child who dreamt of becoming a tree
Novel 1998 / 2013
Nominateb for the « Discovering QuéBec » literary c ontest helb By
the Salon bu Livre be Paris, March 1999
Ébitions be la Noraye
Petite vengeance deviendra grande
Humorous short stories 2006
IGénie 2008 Awarb finalist for Best self-duBlisheb novel
Le culte des déesses
Novel 2009
At Éditions La Caboche
La detite caBoche collection
The Adventures of Pyro and Glucosina
Chilbren’s Books
An explosive friendship
The big project
Pyro runs away
The visitor
At Éditions Marcel Broquet
À travers les branches
Dialogues Between two trees
Novel 2014
Acknowledgements
Micheline Bouchard,
Lise Lessard & Pierre Lévesque
for their revisions and advice
1
The humid, glacial air of the disused warehouse ree ked of diesel fuel and rotten cardboard.
From the shadowy recess of a brick wall, a man emerged, clad only in embroidered teddy bear pyjamas.
Wearing ankle-length boots, he took a few faltering steps towards an old wooden door that had been laid down flat across large tres tles. Near this improvised table glowed the reddish coil of an electric radiator.
On the table rested a blow up doll, outfitted with rudimentary black lingerie. Its legs had been positioned spread-eagled so as to welcome a male sex organ inside its clumsy imitation of a vagina.
As if in a trance, the man stared intently at the d oll. Highlighted by the fluttering flames of a dozen prayer candles perched atop two e mpty barrels behind the head of the doll, his eyes burned with intense longing.
All around him, the interior of the darkened wareho use was outlined by the glow of the gray sky peering in through crazed window panes that years of neglect had covered with an abundant layer of dust.
A feminine voice rose up behind him.
“What are you waiting for? You’re the one who says she’s always belittling you…”
The man jerked in surprise, then took a few hesitan t steps towards the table. He had the demeanor of a visitor uncomfortable with hi s surroundings, as if standing in the presence of a loved one’s remains at a funeral parlor. He froze. In his limp right hand, he held an imitation cat o’ nine tails made u p of nine black ribbons studded with tiny beads of blue glass at the tips.
“Look at her face, always smiling. She’s mocking yo u, you know. She’s a bitch. A filthy whore who doesn’t deserve to live.”
The man took two small steps, then froze again; the blow up doll was within reach. A slender hand suddenly materialized from the darkn ess to place a picture down on the vulgar doll’s face. Cut out from a magazine, the color photograph represented a once famous French actress flaunting a rather contemptuous smile.
Agile hands slid the paper tapes across the limp fa ce. The man’s fascination was absolute.
Slowly, the cat o’ nine tails moved about, making the ribbons flutter. A small battery-powered cassette player started up and Luci enne Boyer’s static-filled tart voice rose up around him in the abandoned warehouse :
“Talk to me of love,
And speak of tender things…
Your pretty talk, my heart
Never tires of hearing…”
A shiver spread across the man’s face. Timidly, he took a shot at the doll with the cat o’ nine tails, producing a quirky tambourine so und.
Then, three or four sharper hits, soon followed by a volley of increasingly more violent strikes against the rudimentary breasts and vulva.
In the throes of a frenzy that made him huff and pa nt, the man soon focused his frustrations on the paper picture, shredding it within seconds.
The feminine hand pressed down against his left sho ulder.
“Conserve your strength…”
His gasps for air started sounding like moans of pl easure.
Lucienne Boyer’s voice became supplicating.
“As long as forever,
You repeat these words supreme:
I Lo-oo-oove youuu…”
The two feminine hands took down his pyjama bottoms .
The man’s eyes were now bulging under the strain.
Clumsily, he climbed on top of the doll. The woman had to help him slide his erect penis inside the crudely simulated vulva, feeling for all intents and purposes as if she were helping a horse ejaculate inside an artifi cial insemi-nation receptacle. The man had barely begun that he had already achieved o rgasm.
His entire body shaking, he got back to his feet, m oaning a moment, before letting out a ferocious cry. After a few more repeated whac ks of his martinet, the doll finally burst, whistling away like a deflating ball oon. Trying to cover the long ironic fart, the woman’s voice calmly intervened.
“Enough… She’s earned her lesson. Go get dressed.”
Out of breath, the man compliantly followed the esc ort back to a dilapidated sofa where his clothes had been thrown pell-mell.
Vicky watched him get dressed. He caught her starin g and turned his back to her. Keeping her tone neutral, she said:
“You know, for the same price, you can also have me if you’d like…”
The man nodded without commenting, tightened his be lt around his waist and
fumbled inside one of his pant pockets before takin g out a small wrinkled envelope and handing it over to her.
Vicky peered inside, counted the bills, whistled so ftly, then smiled at him.
“Thanks for the little bonus there. That should help cover the price of a new doll. Same time, same channel next week?”
By way of reply, the man placed his hand against hi s ear, index and little fingers extended, indicating he would call her.
“All right.”
The visitor left without saying goodbye.
Once alone, she nodded slowly, a tired smile dawnin g on her heavily lacquered lips.
“Brave heart, Vicky… In a few months, all of this will be a thing of the past.”
With little regard for Lucienne Boyer’s husky reprisal of “I Lo-oo-oove youuu…,” she stopped the cassette player, took off her work clothes and promptly stuffed them inside a beige canvas bag before slipping into a mo re mundane outfit of matching pants and shirt. After stowing away her paraphernalia inside a dusty stock room, she locked up and left the abandoned warehouse. Gla ncing at her watch, she winced and started running towards her tiny rust-in fested car.
Sitting in a classroom at the university, Vicky lis tened attentively as her favorite teacher expounded André Gide’s conception of human fervor in his work entitled ‘The Fruits of the Earth.’
The aging intellectual seemed oblivious to the empty chairs and the occasional yawning of some of his students. He seemed content just to be able to wax on about Gide’s evocative style, his homosexuality, hi s candidness, his honesty, as well as his passion for being true to oneself. Thes e notions reached out to Vicky on a personal level.
“There’s something I’d like you to listen to,” anno unced the professor, revealing a portable record player that must have dated back at least forty years.
From his briefcase, he pulled out a faded brown sle eve from which he produced a record. A few of the students smiled out of shared commiseration. But when, amidst the pop and hiss of a scratched record that had seen too many hours of play, the voice of the immortal Gérard Philippe sta rted rising, silence fell.
Vicky became so entranced, she only realized the cl ass was ending when she noticed other students getting up from their seats.
“This week,” said the teacher as his pupils were ab out to leave, “I recommend you make good use of Gide’s writings and try to formula te your own opinion concerning his philosophy, be it favorable or not. In other wo rds, try and prove he was wrong. That should introduce you to proper reasoning.”