the cassandra pages: Far Away

Groupe Doueh at the Montreal jazz festival, last night.

After many days of rain, yesterday was beautiful, and so we decided to head down to the jazz festival for the evening. At eight pm, when we arrived at the world music stage, it was still light, and Groupe Doueh, from the western Sahara, had just begun their set. A tall thin guitarist stood in the center of the stage, barely moving; to his left was a keyboardist, and at his right three large Muslim women sang, played percussion, and danced in slow graceful movements. I usually love all the world music performances, but this particular concert seemed lackluster, except for the presence of the woman in pink - she was older, perhaps 60, and connected with the audience. I had heard the group online and liked their music, so I wonderef if they were tired, or even if something unpleasant had happened before they played. After a while we and others drifted away, looking for other venues.

As the sun went down, J. and I sat on a curb in back of the big stage in the plaza of Place des Arts, listening in comfort and spaciousness to Galactic, playing to a huge crowd that stretched from the stage all the way back to Maisonneuve. Behind us, people came and went along the barricades across Jeanne-Mance, beneath the large banner strung up across the street, "Au Revoir!" Watching the visitors to the jazz fest is almost as entertaining as listening to the music: the very young couples in their skimpy summer outfits, elaborate tattoos, or teetering attempts at elegance; the businessmen in dark suits, briefcases tucked between their feet as they stand listening to a few songs before heading home on the metro; the obvious tourists; the jaded concert-goers with their folding chairs, cigarettes and ever-present glasses of beer. So I noticed the woman with the three boys, unlike any other family passing by. The children, skinny versions of each other differing mostly by height, wore white caps and dark clothing; the youngest one clung to his mother's hand and the older two carried large white duffle bags over their shoulders. The mother was completely robed in dark brown cotton, head to toe, a large woman who would normally float along the street with a serene presence, but instead she moved uncertainly, looking around, tracing zig-zags along the sidewalk, pulling the littlest boy along with her. Like a small group of shorebirds alternately chasing and fleeing the tide, they crossed Jeanne-Mance and headed for the center of the city, but in fifteen minutes came back in the opposite direction. Were they family members of the musicians we'd just seen? Perhaps. It seemed clear that they had gotten turned around somehow, or missed a previously-agreed meeting place. As we left to pick up our bikes and go home we saw them again, seated in a cluster on a curb, while two teenage girls, wearing flimsy skirts, turned cartwheels down the middle of the street.