“Tala, Prez, dessert is on the table.” It was Marianne. “What a gorgeous night for lovers, eh, Prez?” She looked at him. “You look like your allergies are acting up. Or is it something else? What did you do to him, Tala? Did you tell him someone died or did you just propose marriage?”
She laughed. Tala smiled nervously. Marianne hooked her arm around Tala’s and led her to her seat at the table. “Would you like some more wine with your dessert?”
“So, you two are great friends now?” asked Prez.
The two women laughed. Marianne went to the kitchen and came back with a tray of pastries. An unlit cigarette dangled between her lips. She sat down, lit it, took a long drag, threw her head back and blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.”
“Smoking again,” said Jamie. “You don’t have any discipline.”
“You smoke, toke and booze yourself into stupors far too often to be criticizing me. Just be quiet.”
Flustered, Jamie said, “You’re the one who makes grand announcements of quitting and not. It makes you look like a hypocrite.”
“I can do what I want when I want, Jamie. I have my reasons.” She looked at Prez while clucking her tongue to the roof of her mouth and behind her front teeth as if she was trying to dislodge food particles. She stuck her baby finger nail between her two front teeth and picked at something. She took another long drag, looked at Prez again and blew smoke rings. Then she looked at Tala.
“What do you think are the differences between us, Tala? I mean, not you and I personally but our respective women’s movements?”
“That’s a very sensitive question. I think the answer is not straightforward. The reality is that you come from a place of privilege and relative comfort. Afro American women don’t.
“That’s not an analytical comparison,” interjected Prez.
“Shut up, Prez,” said Tala. “Marianne and I are having a conversation.”
“Harriet Tubman versus Susan B. Anthony,” said Prez.
“Ignore him.”
“Fannie Lou Hamer versus Gloria Steinem.”
“I know of Gloria Steinem, but not the others,” said Marianne. “Who are they?”
“You think you know Gloria Steinem, but you don’t,” said Prez.
“You’re starting to sound a bit chauvinistic. Watch it,” said Tala.
“Ah, you don’t know either, Tala. Before you start accusing me of male chauvinism you should read the article in Ramparts magazine that exposes Gloria Steinem as a CIA agent.”
Just then Céleste walks in with a large serving bowl covered with a heavy white kitchen towel. “Bonjour everyone. I made something special for your little dinner party. Voila.” She lifted the towel to reveal her dish.
“Oh, lucky us!” said Jamie sarcastically. “Poutine!”
“It’s so easy to imagine that you’re not here, Jamie.” Céleste placed the platter on the table. “And you girls are talking about what?”
Marianne rolled her eyes.
“Comparing, or rather contrasting the differences in priorities between black women and white women,” said Marianne.
“Oh,” said Celeste as she poured herself some wine. “And what are they?”
Tala said, “White women seem not to want to start families. Black women are family nurturers. And, take health care issues. It’s a real struggle for black women. White women have greater access, easier access to vital health services, for example, abortion, than black women. It affects everything from male-female first interactions right up to contributing to the sociological malaise caused by unwed mothers.”
“Abortion, eh?”
“I just used that as an example, Céleste.”
“Should the father know if his girl is pregnant. Should he contribute to decisions regarding abortion?”
“No, it’s my body and it’s not even moot for me because I always use protection. Besides, I don’t want to have any children.”
Prez stopped chewing and looked at her. Céleste looked at him.
“What about you Marianne?” asked Tala.
“Should the man know if I’m pregnant? No. Not necessarily.”
Prez winced. Celeste continued staring at him and he wished she would stop. “Excuse me,” he said, as he got up from the table.
He walked down the hall to the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He looked at himself in the mirror for a few clarifying moments before flushing the toilet. He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water into his eyes. He could hear them still talking fervently as he shut the door to her flat and went up to his own. He left his bedroom light off as he changed into a black tee-shirt and pair of surplus store-bought US Army cargo pants. He put on his Vibram-soled jungle combat boots that he ran in. He grabbed his parka rolled it up and put it in a small canvas duffle bag along with his wallet, aviator glasses and a small leather pouch stuffed with money. When he passed through his kitchen he snatched his apron and oven mitts off their wall pegs. He closed the kitchen door gently behind him and descended the back stairs to the bare-dirt yard. He threw the apron and mitts in a garbage can and went over to the little yellow Citroën. He rolled back the roof and hopped in. He took great care in adjusting his rear-view mirror before driving off.
END
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AND FROM QC FICTION
Songs for the Cold of Heart by Eric Dupont (translated by Peter McCambridge) 2018 Giller Finalist
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PRAISE FOR EXILE BLUES
“Once all monarchies and then-or-now fascistic states, the European-Caucasian-majority duchies claim to be God’s chosen, egalitarian democracies. Yet, to be born black (or Turtle Island Indigenous) in any of these republics or constitutional monarchies is to be born, exiled from true citizenship. That’s the thesis of this gripping, true-to-life novel. Detailing genocidal police warfare against black youths and men in Washington, D.C. (a.k.a. “Dixie”), and Chicago, Exile Blues is also the coming-of-age story of Preston Downs, Jr., “Prez,” whose nickname highlights his slick, executive-privilege style of analysis, fisticuffs, and romance. Prez “out-clevers” the paleface, ghoulish, guns-always-drawn racism of the U.S. capital, and slips the homicidal grasp of Chicago’s KKK-like cops, to escape to Montréal (“P.Q.”—back then, not yet “QC”). But 1969 Montréal is in revolutionary ferment, and Prez finds himself navigating a maze of Black Panthers, Algerian nationalists, and FLQ radicals, all while trying to stabilize his love-life. Exile Blues is as cinematic, fast-paced, and action-packed as a classic, Blaxploitation flick. It’s the novel Malcolm X might have written had he not suffered martyrdom.”
—George Elliott Clarke, author of George & Rue, 7th Parliamentary Poet Laureate (2016 & 2017)
“Exile Blues is fictionalized autobiography at its best. It is a novel but the central facts detail the author’s actual experi
ences of police racism in Washington D.C. and Chicago in the 1950’s and the 1960’s and his flight to Montreal to avoid prosecution. Freeman (“Prez” in the book) utilizes the freedom of a novel to re-create scenes that provide deeper understanding and have greater impact than would be possible in an autobiography. Exile Blues is a very engrossing book that gives fascinating insights into life in black ghettos in the United States.”
—Peter Rosenthal, Professor Emeritus of Mathematics and Adjunct Professor of Law at the University of Toronto and retired lawyer.
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