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Discover here a
few of Carte Blanche's colorful characters - figuratively speaking, that
is.
Edgar,
the freshman
Edgar is Carte Blanche’s young hero. Eager to enter the world of
wage earning, he’ll end up in a job for Real Men. A job in which hope is a
poison, good manners a weakness and academic knowledge a liability. In
this new reality, Edgar is less than a beginner: he’s a wannabe neophyte,
the Little Red Riding Hood of the urban jungle.
From
now on, there will be no more easy shots. Say goodbye to mommy’s
reassuring skirts, and hello to women of questionable virtue - with a
topping of smallpox. Kiss goodbye to the enjoyment of a hot chocolate
beside the hearth. Here, your fuel has forty degrees proof.
This is real life starting. Here, you wash only when you stink. Here, you
drink to forget. Here, you sometimes look for a shoulder to lay your head
upon, but don’t find any. Ever. Here, you sometimes sneeze, and then you
blow your nose.
Gaspard Lemaître, private
detective
 Fine
connoisseur of the human kind, intuitive, sharp, early fifties, he will be
Edgar’s guide in entering the adult world. Very secretive, never speaks of
his past, doesn’t seem to make plans for the future. Thinks man is
fundamentally vile and is willing to exploit this to the fullest. Believes
that God did not create man in his own image, but instead in his pet’s. In
fact, considers the Bible simply a long encrypted message giving
directions to the first Christians’ gold cache. Where he got the idea they
even had gold in the first place, nobody knows for sure.
Jeannine,
secretary
 Has
no definite age, has almost no gender, has no known passion, has never
known love, has almost nothing for herself except for the cold
intelligence of an Amazonian head shrinker. Smokes. Loves her reptile like
her own child. Smokes. Steel hand in a barbwires glove, governs all life
between the four walls of the private detective agency – that which dare
breathe in her presence, that is. Feeds her child with cigarette butts… I
mean: feeds her reptile with cigarette butts. Is probably lighting one
right now. Will smoke until the end of times. Was maybe never born, will
perhaps never die. Scares me.
Télésphore
Doucet, antique dealer
 Hides
his age, hides is sexual orientation, hides a good portion of his revenue
from the tax collectors, hides his past, hides his taste for opium, hides
extremely rare works of art, hides his weight surplus, hides his yellow
teeth nearly as well as his political and religious opinions. Demonstrates
great confidence, a sure sense of aesthetics, a manly carelessness, sharp
theoretical knowledge, and a noble arrogance. Precisely obsequious, he
hides well his game and plays off the good cards.
Strozzi brothers,
low-grade gangsters
 Very
close to each other, the Strozzi brothers part only in the absolute
necessity to urinate or copulate. In the intelligence department, it would
seem each one only has half a brain, and the horrible dialect they use to
communicate serves as synapses between the two. Occupation: freelance
criminals - their earnings barely last them a week, which is convenient
since their long term memory doesn’t go beyond that. In the end, they
would be a very negligible value in Montreal’s shady fresco if their
destiny wasn’t linked to Edgar’s. In his way up the social ladder, he’ll
have to step on their heads to get to the next level.
Mme Malaki, landlord
 Perpetually
mourning her long dead husband, Mrs Malaki laments over her sad widow
condition, over her native Greece that she will never get to see again,
over the ingratitude of her tenants who know absolutely nothing of genuine
suffering. Disconcerts day after day our poor Edgar who will have to deal
with the atmosphere of forced contrition she spreads around everywhere in
the building, like handfuls of dirt on a coffin. Listens at doors, knows
everything about her little world, sometimes spontaneously enter a trance
state for no apparent reasons.
Dr Freeman,
 Medical
sovereign of the municipal morgue. “Doctor of the dead”, that’s certainly
what he would write on his business card - if only the living were more
open minded. According to him, life is nothing but a slow manufacturing
process. He believes he spends his nights working on the finished product.
Has reduced to a strict minimum his relationships with the living. Likes
cold buffets, doesn’t mind the freshness of food. Likes to write in
official registries with Indian ink. Is by his own standards a
“bon-vivant”.
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