My friends and I have spent the day before whizzing around on Lake St. Louis, near Pointe Claire, Quebec on ice of mirror-like quality, and I’m hungry for more.
I walk up to the captain, who looks at me unsympathetically and says: “Oui?”
“I’ve come to pick up my iceboat” I say, pointing to my craft on the ice. What’s all this about?”
He leans over conspiratorially and says solemnly: “ C’est un suicide.”
“But that ice is over a foot thick. And how do you know it’s a suicide?”
“Well, you see, there was a funeral this morning, and the pallbearers saw this guy out there on the ice, digging, digging… and…”
Omygod I think, as I start to put the pieces of the puzzle together.
“..and when they came back out after the mass, he wasn’t there, so they called us.”
Moments later, he’s barking orders at the firefighters and other policemen, and they all retreat towards their respective vehicles, pack up their gear and leave. I try to look sympathetic and not burst out laughing as the captain gets into his car, slams the door and drives off.