For years now I’ve been out of the habit of going out at night. When I see a movie it’s in the afternoon, most of the time the first screening. I like to settle in with my bag of chips and my Coke at the empty Loew's, the Saint-Denis or the Palace, lose myself in the darkness in the vast picture box, enter the lives of other people – foreigners, usually, French, Americans, sometimes Italians, and never midgets – which are presented to me readymade, improved, easily understood, colourful and soon forgotten. I suffer with them for two hours or else I laugh like a loon at their unlikely adventures, then go home sated. Nights, I work. On my days off I take care of myself. And my three roommates.

I felt very strange then as I made my way with Gilbert to the Théâtre de Quat’Sous. A real night out. At a real theatre. With a real boyfriend on my arm. It wasn’t afternoon, I wasn’t alone and, for once, I was going to the theatre and not a movie.

I should have been happy. I was anxious.

The sky, towards what we call the north in Montréal but which is actually west, since the island sits lopsided in the St. Lawrence River, had taken on the nearly violent pink colour that we see after sunset in May. The colour would turn violet before we got to the Quat’Sous, then disappear, forgotten until morning as the sky always is in big cities. No stars therefore, save on streets that are very dark; the moon sometimes, when it’s full or almost. It was mild, nearly hot, the people we met looked cheerful, I sensed less mockery or irony in their eyes. Or else my usual paranoia being focussed elsewhere, I didn’t see it.

I was keeping an eye on Gilbert, I was afraid that he’d notice and be hurt. Instead of enjoying the present moment, I was analyzing every move he made, every word he said, trying to interpret them, to see if he was over-excited or showing the beginnings of gloom or depression, I was still trying to find a meaning in the bouquet of flowers, in the weird conversation we’d had before leaving my apartment, I was doing everything I could, in fact, to check and see whether he was showing signs of the beginning of an episode.

Talkative and, I have to admit, calmer since we’d turned north onto St. Denis, he was gradually becoming my Gilbert again, thoughtful and funny. All at once he seemed glad to be there, talking about the colours of the sky and how peaceful St. Denis Street was at this time of day, and I decided that I’d try to be like him. As we walked past the Sélect, I waved to Madeleine and Janine, who waved back appreciatively. About how I was dressed of course, not about whom I was with, because they still thought that he didn’t deserve me. Feeling even prettier I straightened up proudly in my already high heels and hung onto my boyfriend’s arm. Out of pure bravado, but also because I felt like it. It was the first time I’d taken the initiative and Gilbert covered my hand with his to show his gratitude. Who knows, maybe the evening would unfold better than I’d predicted.

A small line had formed outside the theatre, the stone steps leading to the basement were crowded with chic, excited people who were talking loudly and laughing for no reason. Gilbert showed his first signs of impatience.

“I hate waiting in line … I can’t stand it …”

“It’ll move quickly, Gilbert, there aren’t that many people …”

“I don’t care, I still hate it …”

He’d stuffed his hands in his pockets and was jingling his change, something I can’t bear because it reminds me too much of the men in my family, uncles and cousins who to make themselves look important would shake their change while shamelessly making stupid remarks.

But I didn’t mention it for fear of offending him by comparing him with some uncle or other. This was not the time or the place.

By chance, as the Quat’Sous was a small theatre, the wait wasn’t long and after a few moments of fidgeting and muttering, Gilbert was able to pick up our tickets.

The lobby was packed, it was hot, there was a strong smell of expensive perfume, and I took a deep breath before wading into it. My head was level with the behinds of most of the crowd and all I could see were well-cut trousers, new designer jeans and the backs of elegant dresses. But there too Gilbert had no intention of taking his place in line and he grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the head of the line.

“Come on, we’re going to the front …”

He elbowed his way, with excuse me’s and sorry’s under the protests of those who’d been standing in line for a while at the foot of the wooden stairs going up to the theatre.

A red velvet rope blocked the way. The theatre wasn’t open yet. Gilbert, more and more nervous, tried to persuade the usher to let us in, I think he even used me as if I were a child who had to be seated right away, but she refused, saying that the theatre wasn’t ready to let us in, that the pre-set wasn’t finished.

And that was when I saw just how badly disturbed Gilbert was: he’d started to hop up and down like a little boy with an urgent need to pee. Until then I had been hoping that everything would go well, I imagine, I had blinded myself to what must have been perfectly obvious, but I was starting to dread the crisis that had been threatening to explode ever since he’d appeared at my house. It was too late to turn around and go back, a hundred people or so were pushing me from behind, excited and noisy, and with my small size I would have a terrible time clearing a path to the exit.

“I can’t wait to see it! I can’t wait!”

Gilbert was starting to explain to the usher, talking a little too loudly so that everyone in the small lobby could hear him, that he was supposed to be in the show as guitarist but that his health had made it impossible, when someone at the top of the stairs advised the young usher that the theatre was finally ready to receive the audience.

As soon as the velvet rope was removed, Gilbert raced to the stairs without bothering to finish his sentence. An animal released from his cage.

“Follow me, Céline, I want us to be the first ones in our seats …”

I’ve explained before that I’ve always had trouble climbing stairs, which are rarely adapted to my needs, so I wasn’t able to follow him. Holding onto the wooden banister with my right hand, I climbed as quickly as I could but people were overtaking me, some of them laughing, thinking that we were part of the show: the impatient spectator who makes a fool of himself and the midget who’s with them and tries to hold onto a semblance of dignity under the circumstances. If they’d known what I was living through – what Gilbert was living through as well – no doubt they wouldn’t have laughed so hard and would have let me pass. I suppose it was easier for them to think that what they were witnessing wasn’t serious: it was the première and, understandably, they didn’t feel like witnessing a couple’s squabbling or an episode of mental illness.

Once my ticket was torn at the top of the stairs, I raced into the theatre.

Gilbert was standing in the left-hand aisle, arms outstretched, while the other spectators looked for their seats. They were beginning to give him funny looks. They weren’t so sure now that they understood what was going on.

“Look at that, Céline, isn’t it fantastic! Look how fantastic it is!”

Some women had put their hands on the forearms of their companions, who were doing what they could to reassure them.

I positioned myself behind Gilbert and, as tactfully as I could, pulled on the hem of his new jacket.

“If you don’t feel well, Gilbert, we could leave …”

What not to do.

He turned around, obviously stunned at what I’d just said.

“What are you talking about – if I don’t feel well! I feel great, Céline, great! Better than ever! I can do anything!”

Before I realized it, he had straddled the space between him and the stage, climbed the little staircase that led up to it and was standing right in the middle of the musical instruments, arms still outstretched.

“This is where I belong, Céline! Right here! Onstage! Not on my ass with people who just want to watch – on my feet in front of them all, with my guitar! Here’s where I want to be tonight! And every night to come!”

As my head barely reached the floor of the stage, he crouched down to talk to me.

“Understand, my love?”

I brought my hand up, stroked his face. The worst was that I understood very well. His tremendous suffering in the face of such injustice.

“Yes, I understand. But think about the others. It’s their première. Don’t spoil it for them, Gilbert. Let’s go now.”

He pulled himself up.

“They can’t even hear me!”

He delivered some kicks to the floor.

“The wings are under the stage! They’re probably thinking it’s the audience that’s noisy! Anyway, they don’t give a shit about me! They’re too busy focussing on the show they’re putting on to think about a poor pathetic guitar player they kicked out because they couldn’t count on him.”

I could see from his eyes that he wasn’t in his right mind. Everything he would say and everything he would do for as long as the episode lasted would be irrational, probably unconscious, and most of all, uncontrollable. I didn’t know what to do now to get him off the stage. The theatre was gradually filling up and a few people had started to protest. But not too loudly, in case this painful, zany scene was part of the show and they were being taken for a ride. A fake melodrama while waiting for the real Osstidcho. A little provocation before the big one. They were thrown off, didn’t know what to do – and they enjoyed it.

A well-built young man came up to me when I was starting up the steps to get Gilbert.

“Do you need help, Mademoiselle? Do you want us to get him down from there?”

Gilbert had heard him. He leaned over, picked me up and held me against his heart.

“I thought you’d understand me, Céline!”

Then he started to shake me up and down like a rag doll.

“I thought that you’d understand me! That you were the only person who could understand me!”

He was shaking me harder and harder, I was having trouble breathing, I could barely hear the clamour coming from the audience.

The young man was climbing onto the stage to help me out when my nose started to bleed. A fountain of blood gushed from my nostrils, onto my dress and Gilbert’s new jacket. And all I could think of was that, for once, Gilbert was wearing a white shirt and it was being spattered with indelible blood. I couldn’t cry out though, I was too shocked to react.

As soon as he saw the blood, Gilbert froze as if he’d been shot in the forehead. The horror I could see in his eyes was indescribable.

“I didn’t want to hurt you! Forgive me! I didn’t want to hurt you!”

He held me tightly. I bled onto his neck and his shirt collar.

“You’re holding me too tight, Gilbert … You’re suffocating me …”

He set me down on the stage, all signs indicating that he was horrified at what he’d just done.

“Forgive me, Céline! For God’s sake, forgive me!”

He jumped down into the house and cleared a path for himself, again using his elbows. He knocked over the young man who’d come to my rescue and a few chic ladies who made little cries like frightened birds. A few people were laughing, others protesting, all were on their feet. Some in the balcony were leaning over the guard-rail, those behind them were craning their necks.

I’d taken a Kleenex out of my purse and wiped my nose. I’d never had a nosebleed before, even as a child. And it had to happen in public, on a stage, in front of people who had no idea what was going on. It’s stupid but I thought about my mother, who claimed that if you put a key on your neck the bleeding stops right away and I almost asked for one … Peace was coming back to the theatre but the audience was still looking at me, still undecided about what had just happened before their eyes. Real blood? Stage blood? A legitimate couple, mismatched as it was, that was coming apart in front of them, or excellent actors paid to pass the time while they waited for the show to begin?

To reassure them I made what could be seen as a curtsey and a few people applauded.

Then I climbed down from the stage as best I could, pushing away anyone who tried to help me.

“It’s not serious, it’s not serious, let me through …”

Was she still in her role? Had she really bled and was she trying to save face? They would never know. As for me, I just hoped that those responsible for the show that was about to begin didn’t know what was going on. I was sure that such an incident couldn’t help the stage fright that must be stifling them. No more than two minutes had passed since we’d entered the theatre and I prayed that they’d been spared all of it – Gilbert’s crisis, my nosebleed.

Going down a staircase against the traffic is not all that easy, especially if you’re a midget with a nosebleed and the rest of the crowd is all worked up because something that’s about to happen. Now it was my turn to use my elbows and I must have left bloodstains on a few hands and several dresses as I charged down the stairs.

Gilbert was waiting for me on the sidewalk in front of the theatre, or rather, he had collapsed on the top step of the old stone staircase and was sobbing into his hands. He knew of course that I would leave the theatre, but I’m not convinced that I was the one he was waiting for. His strength had left him as he exited the theatre and he’d collapsed there and waited for someone – me or some other person – to come and pick him up. A few spectators who were no doubt afraid of being late, walked past him, scowling. They must have been wondering who was this hysterical man crying at the door to the Théâtre de Quat’Sous just before showtime. Someone who’d been turned away because he didn’t have a ticket? No, surely not … A passing drunk who’d taken refuge on the steps to sleep it off? But he was clean and didn’t smell of booze … They didn’t have time to see the red patches on his neck or else it was too dark and they walked around him, cursing because he was slowing them down.

I plunked myself in front of him and put my hands on his knees. He wiped his eyes, raised his head, looked at me. He was more than desolate, he was devastated. I wished I were at the other end of the world or in his arms, more nearby, on St. Rose Street, doing things that are said to be forbidden because they’re too wonderful, but I was there at the Théâtre de Quat’Sous and I had no choice: the scene that was getting underway was inescapable and it had to unfold right here, right now, an improvised ceremony we hadn’t had time to prepare but that had become necessary and that we could throw ourselves into as if into water that was cold and dark and threatening and maybe deadly. I talked to him very gently but also very firmly. Circular madness or not, severe or mild episode, I had to talk now or else I would again wait, stall, repress what I had to say and it would stay forever caught in my throat. And once again I would emerge as the loser. And so I had to think first about myself, about what would be good for me, about my safety.

“I’m very patient, Gilbert. I can take it. For a long time. I’m used to it. But you have to understand, there’s one thing I’ll never accept. Violence. No, don’t say anything, I know what you’re going to say. You didn’t mean to be violent, you didn’t mean to hurt me, I know all that … But if you lost control once, Gilbert, you can lose it again, any time, and that, I refuse, I refuse to play the part of a willing and understanding victim. Too many women before me have put up with that. I’d rather live with self-imposed loneliness than with violence that involves us both but has me as the only target!”

It was my turn to make a scene and it was long, impassioned, lyrical almost, outside the Théâtre de Quat’Sous, and while inside the show was starting – what we could hear was shapeless but highly rhythmical and very happy – I was finally able to express all my doubts, my questions, my hesitations, I freed myself in one go, as he’d done a few days earlier, of something I’d held in for too long that had been suffocating me. He interrupted me now and then to protest, to swear once again that he loved me or to reassure me about one specific point, but I told him to be quiet, to let me have my say, as I’d done in this same spot on the night when he was fired. Now I was the one who was crying. Because I knew that what I was doing was final, that the outcome of this monologue was inevitable and that killed me as much as it did him.

He felt it too because he began to punctuate everything I said with just one reply that he repeated almost non-stop and louder and louder, “You’re going to leave me! You’re going to leave me! Céline! Please don’t do that! Don’t leave me all alone!”

I took my time, not to be mean but because I wanted everything to be very clear, my reproaches and rebukes, my anxiety and my helplessness as much as my irrevocable and entirely improvised decision that I was making as I was expressing it, perhaps even to explain to myself what I was doing while I was doing it. Half an hour earlier there’d been no question of breaking up with Gilbert and here I was doing just that, breaking up with the first great love of my life with no preparation and more important, without the slightest wish to do so.

I cried as much as he did, I think I even tried to console him with stroking and kisses that came more from despair at having to leave him than from a need to touch him.

“I’m going up these steps, Gilbert, I’m going to find a taxi and I’m going to disappear from your life … I don’t want to see you any more. I have to save my own skin, do you understand? If you love me the way you say you love me, let me go … Later on, we’ll see … maybe.”

My last image of him is of a man collapsed on a stone staircase, seen from behind. And the last sound is a dagger thrust into my heart, “You’re abandoning me too, just like the others!”

Manipulation or desperation? How could I know?