by Magali Favre
“It sure takes a lot of pencil-pushers to deal with the bandits,” Gaétan says sarcastically.
“It seems like these days they’re more interested in the poor than the criminals. I guess they have to get their money’s worth and show that it’s being put to good use…”
In front of the entrance, a dozen soldiers pace up and down, machine guns in hand. The neighbourhood kids observe them from across the street, impressed by their combat clothing and weapons. They stand frozen between brazenness and fear.
Luc’s mother walks up to the front gate. Two soldiers bar her path with their guns. She explains to them that her son has been arrested. That there’s been a mistake. That she wants to see their superior. Nothing works—the soldiers don’t budge. Mme Maheu runs out of patience and raises her voice.
“Is my son here? I want to know! You’ve got no right to keep him!”
The two guards remain impassive. Several policemen leave the building. Gaétan doesn’t want the situation to get out of hand. He tugs her by the sleeve.
“Come on, Madame Maheu. We can’t do anything here; they won’t tell us anything. Let’s go.”
“I’ve got a right to know where my son is,” she insists.
“No, ma’am,” one of the policemen snaps back. “It’s the War Measures Act. We can keep whoever we want for as long as the investigation takes. There’ll be no contact with the prisoners.”
“But my son is innocent.”
“Says you. If he was arrested, there’s a reason. Now go.”
“Where’s my son?”
“Ma’am, this is the last time I’m telling you. If I take you inside, it won’t be to see your son.”
His voice is hard and his gaze unyielding. Madame Maheu can see that all is lost, but she continues to protest.
“Damned mongrels! You heartless bastards!”
The guard is no longer concerned with her. He walks over to the gathering group of children.
“Clear out! Go away! There’s nothing to see here.”
The soldiers threaten a move towards them, and panicked, the children scatter like a flock of sparrows taking to the air.
The police walk back inside the building. Mme Maheu tries to regain her composure, and Gaétan takes her by the hand.
“Come, I’ll walk you back. We can’t do anything else here.”
The woman says nothing. But her anger growls, waiting to explode at the first turn.
Gaétan thinks of Luc and how the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
It’s almost five o’clock in the afternoon when Gaétan finally gets back home. The living room is packed to the rafters—it looks as if the whole neighbourhood has shown up to watch television at the Simards’.
Gaétan’s father is fiddling with the notorious rabbit ears he’s cobbled together for the TV, trying to chase the static from the screen.
“That’s good, Pierre! Don’t move!” says one of the neighbours.
“Hey! I’m not staying like this!”
“If you let go, it goes fuzzy.”
Finally, his father gently places the antenna on the windowsill. The black and white picture suddenly clears up.
“Bravo, Pop!”
“Be quiet, it’s going to start! Shh!”
The screen registers the stiff expression of Robert Bourassa, Premier of Québec. Everyone quiets down.
“Over these past few days, events in Québec have proven beyond a doubt that there must be limits to exercising our fundamental rights, at least on some occasions, to ensure the normal functioning of democracy.
“I waited until this limit was reached before calling on Ottawa to invoke emergency powers, but just as the risk of anarchy seemed to take on a new dimension, I decided to act quickly and firmly. It was with a heavy heart that I resorted to extraordinary measures. I had no choice. The FLQ is preparing for a massacre, their fourth step in a predetermined plan.”
A journalist asks how long the measures will be enforced.
“Naturally, it all depends on the results of the intervention, but I hope that the measures will be as short-lived as possible.”
“Unbelievable…our own premier calls up the Canadian army because three nut jobs screwed around. If we get our independence, what then?” his father grumbles.
“Your three nut jobs did just kidnap a diplomat and a minister,” replies a neighbour.
“A dirty scoundrel working with the mafia.”
“Whoa, Pop, you with the FLQ? Careful, or they’ll come after you,” laughs Gaétan.
“Watch what you say,” his mother murmurs, distressed.
The press conference is over, and now they are showing soldiers on duty in front of government buildings.
“That’s City Hall! They’re scared that we’ll come after Drapeau,” sneers his father. “They’re smart to protect him!”
“I say he should be scared, the bastard! I won’t cry for his lot. He destroys our neighbourhood and we’re supposed to make nice? At any rate, he won’t get my vote, that guy,” says another neighbour.
“Kidnapping people, it’s ridiculous,” mutters his mother.
“And what for? We’re just a bunch of cowards. Look at Bourassa, he went crying to Trudeau for help. Can’t even take care of his own business himself.”
“Pierre, don’t be ridiculous! We’re talking about two men’s lives. Imagine their families.”
“And us, our families, when we’re out of work and run out of our neighbourhood, who cares then?”
The tension rises and Gaétan knows it’ll end badly once again. That’s why he doesn’t get involved in politics. Gaétan’s father has a short fuse and there’s always an argument on the other end. Since he lost his job at the port, he blames the whole world.
The room begins to clear out. Gaétan’s father and three neighbours decide to move the discussion to the tavern, much to the relief of his wife. The children go back to playing in the lane.
“I’m going to bed,” Gaétan tells his mother. “I’m beat.”
He’s decided not to say anything about Luc’s arrest. There’s been enough bickering for one day.
3
Saturday, October 17
Gaétan is woken violently by his father’s shouting. The two bunk beds are empty. His brothers are nowhere to be seen. He didn’t hear them go to bed or get up. It’s light outside. He’s definitely slept around the clock.
He can hear a nasal voice coming from the television.
The kidnappers could have abducted anyone: you, me, or even a child…
Who is saying such things? The boy pulls on a t-shirt and jeans and makes his way into the living room. His father is already on the couch, a beer resting between his knees.
“Can you believe this? The idiot that’s supposed to be governing us decided to frighten everyone. He’s saying we might have an uprising on our hands.”
Gaétan recognizes Trudeau in the centre of the small screen. In his cold and cutting voice, the Prime Minister of Canada is defending his decision to invoke the War Measures Act.
“Tomorrow, the victim might be a bank manager, a farmer, a child…”
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about! The FLQ is going after the politicians, not just anyone.”
“You know them, Pop?”
“No, but I know a bunch of guys who’re damned worked up. They’re frustrated by the lack of progress. Last election, the PQ won hardly any seats compared to the votes they had. It’s just like Lévesque said; we’re in a madhouse and they’re laughing at us. We’re sick of always having to go crawling to Ottawa.”
Gaétan can’t handle his father’s tantrums. But the haughty, arrogant, insensitive man who’s speaking on the television irks him even more. He has the look of a snake, and Gaétan has no idea where he gets all those well-turned sentences—certainly not from the Faubourg à m’lasse.
“Feels good to sleep?” his mother calls from the kitchen. “There’s some coffee left, want some?”
Gaétan joins her.
“Yeah, and I’ll take some bacon and eggs too. I’m hungry. Are the boys already in the back lane?”
“Yeah, lucky kids. I need some air, too. I can’t listen to the news any longer. Your father hasn’t moved from his damned TV since the kidnappings. The sooner they find them, the better. This is all just ridiculous.”
Gaétan doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to get caught in the middle of his parents’ argument. Lately there’s been an explosion at every turn.
His father has been part of a neighbourhood association since last spring. There have been so many demolitions in the Faubourg that it seems the residents are living in a war zone or going through their own Acadian Deportation. Businesses are dropping like flies. Monsieur Pintal’s grocery, at the corner of Sainte-Catherine and de la Visitation, is also on the verge of closing. Countless families are having to move. Even Delorimier Stadium, where the neighbourhood used to go watch the Royals play baseball, has been torn down.
His father often recalls how during Expo ’67 Mayor Drapeau had billboards put up to hide the slums from the tourists, just waiting to have them destroyed and sell the land off to developers. It’s the same old story: the working-class neighbourhoods get no consideration.
“They’re ashamed of us!” he says over and over.
Since he’s been unemployed, he spends all his time working to bring down the mayor in the upcoming elections, which are to be held in a few days. Now with the recent events, he’s always on edge.
But all this energy spent campaigning doesn’t put bread on the table. And for Gaétan’s mother, times are tough.
“My man does nothing but build castles in the sky,” she often sighs.
As soon as he downs his breakfast, Gaétan heads to Luc’s mother’s house to see if she has heard anything new. A note is stuck to the door: Luc still isn’t home. I’m going back to Parthenais.
Knowing Mme Maheu, Gaétan has a feeling that she’ll be going back every day. Until she has news of her son, they haven’t seen the last of her.
The boy walks down Sainte-Catherine, the neighbourhood’s most commercial street. The shop windows are decorated with pumpkins, witches, and skeletons stuck to cobwebs. In two weeks, it will be Halloween. Gaétan hasn’t worn a costume in two years—he’s too old—but he wouldn’t miss this night for the world. So he helps his two brothers prepare their costumes and takes them around from door to door. It’s Gaétan’s favourite holiday of the year. He’s already drooling, thinking of the mountain of Kisses he’ll devour.
In front of the Beaudry metro station, four soldiers stand guard. “It looks like they’ve already found their costumes,” he says to himself. “Candy will have a funny taste this year.”
At the newsstand in front of the metro, the headlines of the Journal de Montréal catch his eye: “250 Arrests in One Day!” and “Pauline Julien Jailed Too.”
“A singer! They’ve gone mad!” he thinks.
Until Luc’s arrest, Gaétan hadn’t paid attention to what was going on. Suddenly, it all seems crazy to him. He had just started working when the first kidnapping occurred—the British diplomat, James Cross—and he hadn’t fully realized what was happening. And since he works nights and sleeps during the day, the opposite of everyone else, he hasn’t seen things getting worse.
For the first time in his life, he decides to buy a newspaper.
“Ten cents to try to understand what’s going on won’t break me.”
The CSN building stands at the corner of Saint-Denis and Viger. That’s where Paul works, Luc’s friend that he was told to warn. But it’s Saturday and the receptionist isn’t there. Gaétan walks over to the elevator.
A list of the officers is posted, but Gaétan realizes he doesn’t even know Paul’s last name. At any rate, there is no Paul on the list.
Recently Gaétan ran into Paul at his friend’s house. Luc told him that he had met the union leader on a picket line. Paul was distributing leaflets demanding the right to work in French, so Luc got it into his head to switch unions from the FTQ to the CSN. But since it wouldn’t be so easy to convince the other workers, Paul asked Luc to come along to the union training sessions to get a better grip on the labour laws.
“It’s normal to want to work in your language,” Luc often argued.
Two men suddenly walk out of the elevator, whose doors stand open in front of him. He enters without thinking, but where should he go? Which office on what floor? Gaétan turns around and runs after the two men.
‘“Scuse me, do you know someone named Paul?”
“There are loads of Pauls, kid.”
“I don’t know his last name, but he has red hair.”
“Ah, that one! I haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks.”
“I think he’s gone to Abitibi to organize some workers,” his colleague explains.
Disappointed, Gaétan leaves the building and goes across the street to sit on the steps of the Saint-Sauveur church. He opens his newspaper.
He is so absorbed in his reading that he doesn’t notice the young woman who sits down behind him. She cranes her neck to read over his shoulder.
“So, what’s your newspaper say?”
Gaétan whips around and blushes when he sees that the girl is so close to him. Big black eyes, short, cropped hair and a cape that swallows her whole. She looks ripped from a picture book.
“Cat got your tongue? Québec’s finally moving! You don’t think it’s too much, do you?”
“Soldiers in the streets and all, does that excite you?”
“That’s just to scare us. Me and the other students, we’re striking to show our support for the political prisoners.”
“Political prisoners?”
“Where have you been?”
“I live in the Faubourg à m’lasse and I work at Dominion Textile. That ok with you?”
“I didn’t mean to give you a hard time!”
“Yeah well, too late!”
Gaétan folds his paper and continues up Saint-Denis.
“She might be cute, but she thinks she’s hot stuff,” he grumbles to himself, walking.
He turns around at the corner of Sainte-Catherine and Berri, just in time to glimpse a piece of black cape slipping through the door of the metro.
4
Sunday, October 18
Still half asleep, Gaétan pushes open the door of the convenience store. He was barely out of bed when his father sent him to buy a 24-pack. The boy drags his feet, his mind blank.
The radio spits out an aggressive advertisement for Kik Cola. Then comes the news report.
“CKAC reporting, with the latest developments on the kidnappings. The body of Labour Minister Pierre Laporte was discovered yesterday around midnight in the trunk of a car on the Saint-Hubert military base. CKAC received an anonymous call in the evening revealing that a statement had been left in the lobby of the Port-Royal Room in Montréal’s Place des Arts. Our reporter Michel Saint-Louis was sent to the area and found the statement confirming the execution of the minister and indicating the place where his body could be found. The document was immediately delivered to the Sûreté du Québec. At precisely 11:45 p.m., Sûreté explosives experts opened the trunk of a green Chevrolet. A body identified as Laporte was found inside. The car had been abandoned on the Saint-Hubert military base, on the South Shore. A special program honouring Minister Pierre Laporte will follow this report. Stay tuned to CKAC, your number one news station.”
Behind his counter, Mr. Pintal, the owner of the grocery store, remains unruffled, surrounded by the colourful boxes of penny candy. He’s already had time to digest the news: the report has been running all night.
A group of dishevelled youths enters the store rowdily, one of them carrying a stack of leaflets. He hands one to the grocer and puts the others on the counter. Mr. Pintal is shaken from his silence.
“Take that garbage off my counter. You’ve come to the wrong place.”
“You supp
ort the War Measures Act? A government that denies democracy? Mass arrests? You don’t support freedom of expression?”
“That’s enough! Get out of here, you rotten kids. I’ll have you know that I don’t support people who murder ministers.”
The young man doesn’t argue the point, and the group leaves to hand out their leaflets elsewhere. Gaétan watches them walk away through the window. They slip their papers in each mailbox along Rue de la Visitation.
The boy discreetly picks up a leaflet that has fallen on the floor. It advertises a public meeting Monday evening at the Cégep du Vieux-Montréal theatre. While he reads, the old radio starts broadcasting a special report:
“In the interest of public information for our listeners, CKAC has decided to broadcast the content of the statement found last night at Place des Arts: ‘In light of the arrogance of the federal government and its servant Bourassa and due to their blatant hypocrisy, the FLQ decided to take action. Pierre Laporte, Minister of Unemployment and Assimilation, was executed at 6:16 this evening by the Dieppe cell (Royal 22nd). You will find the body in the trunk of a green Chevrolet (9J-2420) at the Saint-Hubert military base. We shall overcome! FLQ.’
“The authors of the statement added a postscript, declaring ‘Those who exploit the people of Québec had better watch out.’
“To clarify, we wish to point out that the authorities still have no word about Mr. James Richard Cross, the kidnapped British diplomat.”
Still red with anger, Mr. Pintal gives Gaétan his change.
“At least you work. You’re not like those snot-nosed students who let their hair and beards grow long. A bunch of bums, trying to tell us what to do! They support terrorists, they want a revolution. Luckily the police and the army are doing their job. I’d send them all to jail, if it was up to me!”
The boy takes the case of beer with both hands and leaves without a word.
Suddenly, doubt creeps into his mind. Could Luc, his best friend, be mixed up in this business? Why did the police arrest him? He thinks back to the rare political discussions they had together. Luc, outraged by the exploitation of French Canadian workers, had explained why an independent Québec was so important.
