8. CANADA 20th Century #2
The intermittent shaking of the craft, which the stewardess referred to as turbulence and assured everyone was perfectly normal, did not sit well with the Romani witch.
He told the ever-smiling woman, clad in a military-style navy jacket fastened with brass buttons, a gored skirt, an overseas cap, and white gloves, that he would stick to the ground if this were a normal aircraft experience.
If he thought sea sickness was unsettling, like the kind he experienced the first time he crossed the Celtic Sea, airsickness was double the discomfort.
The Romani witch finally concluded during the flight that this exasperating inability of his to remain uneventfully off the ground in motion, whether via a man-made contraption or an animal, without eventually getting sick, had to be mystical in origin.
He reasoned he may never know the reason why; it was a vexing conundrum.
Levitating under his own willpower or by spell was easy and free of motion sickness, but the range and speed were limited, certainly not enough to cross an ocean. He still could not fly like Gian could. And he had no plans to enchant a mortar and pestle through dark magic.
While crossing the vast expanse of the ocean at an altitude of 10,000 meters, thoughts of crashing into a fathomless watery grave had stirred up the Romani witch’s thalassophobia, which he believed he had conquered ages ago.
Or at least suppressed deep within his psyche enough never to inconvenience him.
After all, he had travelled to what he now knew as Great Britain and Ireland several times by boat, enduring the discomfort each time. Still, he always avoided the deck and the sight of the ocean until it was time to dock.
Apparently, like his magic, the Romani witch supposed the condition travelled with his spirit into each new body, merely waiting for the right trigger to activate it.
Aided by some miracle—and the whisky that settled his nerves during the six-and-a-half-hour flight—he managed to keep it together.
And when the airplane finally touched down with a soft thud on the tarmac in Montréal, the Romani witch, with a determined furrow upon his brow, chose to forgo the connecting flight to Québec City, scheduled to depart in an hour.
Despite the stewardess’ calm reassurance that the flight would last only 45 minutes, the Romani witch nonetheless felt an overwhelming sense of anxiety.
Thinking about the hum of the engines as they lifted the craft off the ground, the subsequent rocking and jostling, and the confinement of the cabin only intensified his dread.
No, he had had quite enough of airplane travel to last this and several other lifetimes.
He had found an alternative means of getting to Québec City, which essentially involved mesmerizing a cab driver, knowing that Marshall and the rest of the cast and crew of the Hitchcock movie were already there.
His gleaning of information at Heathrow airport when he psychically read the thoughts of the film crew members who boarded after Marshall had revealed that some of I Confess would be shot at the iconic Chateau Frontenac.
Trusting his intuition and the pull of Aeneas’ soul, the Romani witch had decided to begin his search for him there.
And now, standing in front of the hotel, this was the true beginning of his inevitable reunion with Aeneas.
Québec City, a captivating fortress, a walled city steeped in over four hundred years of history, enveloped the Romani witch in its rich tapestry of vintage European charm.
The cobblestone streets and centuries-old architecture radiated a sense of wistful sentimentality, transporting the traveller to a bygone era frozen in time.
The city’s walls, imbued with stories of the past, towered majestically, inviting exploration and discovery at every turn.
However, the only exploration and story the Romani witch wished to engage in featured him and Aeneas alone, preferably in a firm bed, embraced by soft, luxurious sheets.
First, he would head to the vibrant Saint-Roch district, having overheard fellow airplane passengers talking about its fashionable boutiques.
He needed new clothes, something more impressive, something that would help him stand out.
Afterward, he planned to check into the elegant Chateau, take a moment to freshen up, and then begin his search for Marshall Collingsworth in earnest.
Marshall sat alone at the sturdy mahogany bar in the main lounge of the Chateau Frontenac, nursing a beer before noon and lost in thought. He had taken only a small sip of the dark amber drink; he hated beer and had no idea why he ordered it.
He lifted his head once more, his gaze drawn to the lofty ceilings that seemed to stretch to the heavens, adorned with intricate mouldings and breathtaking crystal chandeliers.
The opulence of the hotel beguiled him; each detail, from the rich fabrics draping the elegant furniture to the ornately framed oil paintings, amplified the lavish yet welcoming atmosphere.
He simply could not get enough of the exquisite grandeur that surrounded him.
As England had no cohesive mythology, only folklore, Marshall thanked the good fairies and witches for getting the day off.
Hitch had taken his lead stars somewhere in the Québec countryside—or perhaps to the other side of the Canadian city.
To be honest, Marshall was not entirely sure where they were, nor did he really care.
He wanted to be by himself; he quite enjoyed his own company. Still, he sometimes felt lonely. He was human, after all. This was why he had come to the bar: to be alone but still surrounded by the energy of others.
The pervasive thought in his mind since the previous day was that something about this shoot felt off to him. As if he were missing something or something was missing. He could not put his finger on it. It felt like something was about to happen.
Generally, he loved travelling across the globe as part of Hitch’s or any director’s film-making crew, enjoying the Hollywood glam and excitement of meeting movie stars, especially devastatingly handsome queers like Montgomery Clift, John Dall, and Farley Granger.
While Marshall had never been intimate with any of those men, he did have a brief fling with former silent film star Tonio Rodrigo; however, that ultimately went nowhere due to the actor’s obsessive anxieties over his sexuality and his Roman Catholic upbringing.
Not long after the two men went their separate ways, Marshall came to realize it was more than just Tonio’s issues that broke them up; he had struggled to connect with the gorgeous, older Spanish man on an emotional level.
Marshall knew he was attracted to men, and he was okay with his homosexuality, even if society was not.
He liked himself, and it made him sad that so many of his fellow confirmed bachelors struggled with their sense of identity.
And he had liked Tonio well enough, but there was no spark between them, at least not on his end.
There had been no chemistry , a relatively new term he overheard a starlet use once on a set when discussing her single date with Marlon Brando.
Marshall longed to meet a man with whom he could connect on every level, not just sexually.
He believed with all his heart and soul that such a man existed somewhere in the world, someone unafraid of a society that often looked down on them, labelling them as “moral risks,” “sexual misfits,” or “undesirables.”
After Tonio, Marshall had decided to call it quits on dating; he chose to invest his emotional energy in fate, trusting that, in time, serendipity would align in his favour.
If only I could meet someone like that guy I made eyes with back at Heathrow.
It had only been a moment of connection across a crowded room, but Marshall had felt something special. The man’s good looks had stirred something within him, definitely inside his pants. But it was the stranger’s dark eyes that truly captivated him.
Stop it, you’re being ridiculous. He was simply being friendly. It was just a glance and a smile in return, nothing more.
Marshall wished it could have been more, but the man who had captured his attention was not on his flight. He left that fantasy behind in London.
Suddenly, a stout glass was placed in front of him, filled with a vibrant red liquid.
A Negroni? What in the—?
This was Marshall’s favourite drink, a classic Italian cocktail known for its balanced blend of bitter, sweet, and botanical flavours, crafted with equal parts gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth.
This concoction was typically garnished with an orange peel; it had been.
It was perfectly made. He had not ordered one when he first sat down, worrying it was too early in the day for hard liquor; it would make him look sad and pathetic, especially when drinking alone.
Again, the reason for choosing a beer as a substitute imbibement continued to elude him.
“From the gentleman sitting over there,” the bartender stated in English, yet with a sexy French-Canadian accent.
Grinning, he pointed towards the large window next to an oversized framed picture of Maurice Duplessis, the former Premier of Québec.
In the photo, Duplessis was standing next to his friend Bertrand Bergé, a prominent French-Canadian businessman whose family owned the Chateau Bergé in Fairporte, Ontario.
While the Chateau Bergé was an impressive architectural wonder, the older and larger Chateau Frontenac remained the true jewel in Canada’s crown.