by Magali Favre
Gaétan racks his memory for a clue that might connect his friend to the FLQ. But he doesn’t find any. Luc is just a victim of the many arbitrary arrests. “If they’re arresting singers, they wouldn’t stop at a factory worker,” the boy tries to reason.
Gaétan deposits the case at his father’s feet.
“Here are some reserves, Pop! Hear what they did?”
His father shoots him a dirty look.
“It’s barbaric,” he continues.
“Talk to me when you’ve had thirty years in the factory behind you and they give you the boot.”
“That’s no excuse!”
“No, but it’s an explanation.”
“But kidnapping people doesn’t make sense!”
As Gaétan turns to leave the room, his father holds him back.
“Stay!”
Looking his son right in his eyes, he speaks to him in a strangely calm voice.
“You know, I have a different way of taking care of you than your mother. I’ve felt rebellion creeping all through me ever since I haven’t been able to feed my family right. I’m not heartless, you know. But when you’re forced to swallow your pride and scrimp and scrape the bottom of the barrel to get by, it gets to you. I’ve had odd jobs. What I want is a real job. I’m a worker, not a beggar. So I fight my way through. When I see you heading to the factory, following in my footsteps, it hurts. I don’t know what’ll come next. To me, a guy planting bombs is just a guy who’s been workin’ in the shop for twenty years and who’s just been given the boot. He’s just had enough!”
He stops. Gaétan is speechless. It’s the first time his father has spoken to him like this. For the past two days, the boy has been feeling as if he’s being forced to grow up too quickly. His childhood is disappearing, and he’s not too sure where that leaves him.
Gaétan runs into his mother as he leaves the house to head to the factory. She has just come from the courthouse, where the body of Pierre Laporte is exposed in the chapel. She’s brought along his brothers.
“It was so moving! Me and the kids prayed for the poor man. He didn’t deserve that. I hope the little ones will learn a lesson. Violence brings nothing but tragedy. Like Trudeau said, the FLQ is a cancer we must destroy.”
Gaétan feels like a slice of baloney stuck between two pieces of bread. And it’s getting more and more uncomfortable.
5
Monday, October 19
A large grey-stone building towers over Sherbrooke Street. Gaétan hangs back before entering. This place doesn’t feel like it is meant for someone like him, someone who never even finished high school. The building he walks into every day is red brick with big chimneys.
He is still holding the leaflet that he picked up from the grocery store. He has decided to get a closer look at the wild-haired students who have been flocking in greater numbers to his neighbourhood.
A group of young people arrive. They all look like the gang of toughs at the grocery store. They speak loudly and wave their arms. Gaétan follows the crowd towards the room where the meeting is being held. It’s already packed. All of the comfortable red-velvet seats are already occupied. Some people sit on the floor in front of the stage, others remain standing, spilling out into the aisles. Even the balconies with the wrought-iron railings are jammed. Gaétan takes a moment to admire his surroundings. There are big, ornate iron girders supporting the ceiling. A thick red curtain frames the stage where the speakers are seated, looking over their speeches behind a table. Behind them hangs a faded backdrop of an exotic landscape, no doubt left there from the last student performance. The room is noisy, with plumes of smoke rising to the ceiling.
The first speaker stands and a hush falls over the crowd.
“Friends, we’re making history. Unprecedented events have been unfolding before our eyes for some time. Kidnappings, politically motivated assassinations, mass arrests, the army’s invasion of our city…”
A unanimous cry of protest makes its way around the room.
“We, the students of the Cégep du Vieux-Montréal, must decide how to best respond to these events. To make an informed decision, we have invited various political players to come speak. Unfortunately, several of our guests weren’t able to make it today because they were arrested last Friday at dawn…”
Another cry of protest goes up. Many students shake their fists in the air.
“I want you to know that nearly a hundred Québec students in Paris decided to occupy Canada House in order to show their support for the FLQ manifesto and denounce the state of emergency called for by the War Measures Act. Our struggle has now gone international…”
But Gaétan is no longer listening. He has just glimpsed a large black cape hidden among a group at the back of the room. Without thinking, he edges his way closer.
It’s her all right, the girl he met Saturday on the church steps. She stands out from the crowd with her short hair and enormous earrings. She still hasn’t noticed him, and he sneaks glances at her from a distance. She listens to the speeches attentively, nodding in agreement or shaking her head in disapproval, alternately applauding or booing the speaker. Her eyes sparkle.
Gaétan wants to approach her, but he can sense that it’s not the right time. The speaker ends his speech to thunderous applause.
“Vive le Québec libre!”
“Le Québec aux Québécois!”
“Le FLQ vaincra!”
At these last words, the crowd’s single focus is shattered. Some begin to chant the FLQ slogan while others whistle. Many stand up to show their disapproval. There are shouts:
“We can’t support murderers!”
It’s complete chaos.
A young man with curly hair takes the stage and tries to restore the calm.
“I’d just like to explain the position the Parti Québécois has taken regarding these tragic events.”
“Collaborator!”
“Be quiet, he’s got the right to speak! This is a democracy!”
“Independence!”
Microphone in hand, he walks towards the front of the stage and begins to speak. Little by little, the crowd calms down.
Gaétan approves of his moderate remarks, reminding the audience that René Lévesque publicly condemned all acts of violence during his latest press conference. He attacked those responsible for the cold, deliberate execution of Mr. Laporte, an act that has sullied the reputation of all Quebecers.
The crowd quiets down; all ears turn attentively towards the speaker. The respected politician’s words seem to reach the audience. He concludes:
“Never let the cause, whatever it be, lead to murder, so long as we are free to move forward democratically.”
An ovation. The crowd is unanimous once again. Gaétan applauds wildly. He shoots a glance over at the girl, who doesn’t seem to quite share his enthusiasm. Her eyes sweep the crowd, and she meets his gaze. She stares at him for a moment. He gives a small wave with his hand.
She flashes a magnificent smile.
“Louise, look who’s here,” says one of her friends, taking her arm.
She turns and throws herself into the arms of the young man who has just arrived. They seem happy to see each other.
Gaétan looks at his watch, slightly disappointed.
“I’d better leave anyway if I want to make it to the shop on time,” he says to himself. “I’ve heard enough.”
As he makes his way out, he thinks that at least now he knows her name. She must study here, but did she recognize him? Something tells him the answer is yes.
He finds himself alone in the cold. It’s dark. It takes all his courage to walk down Sanguinet to the Berri-de-Montigny station. The metro seems sinister tonight.
6
Tuesday, October 20
”Have you gone back over there?” Mme Maheu asks him.
“No, not since they took him in,” Gaétan answers, surprised by the question.
“Last night, I wanted to go clean up his apartmen
t but I saw some lights on,” she says. “I didn’t dare go up. At first, I thought he’d come back. But there were two of ’em, a guy and a girl. I didn’t want it to look like I was a snoop, so I left right away.”
“That’s strange… Who could be living at Luc’s?” Gaétan wonders.
Every day after his shift, the boy stops by to see Mme Maheu and ask about his friend. But she still hasn’t heard anything, despite all the time she spends outside of Parthenais.
“The man I saw was shorter and stockier than Luc. And he was smokin’ a pipe. Who d’you think he could be? I’m worried. Do you know if Luc has a girlfriend?”
“I don’t think so.”
Gaétan can sense the concern in his friend’s mother’s voice, but he also detects a bit of curiosity. Mme Maheu had a difficult time accepting her son’s departure and is always eager to learn more about his life away from her. But the more questions she asks, the less he answers.
All the same, all this talk of unknown visitors intrigues Gaétan.
“I’ll pass by tonight to see if there’s still someone there.”
“You’re real helpful, thank you. You never know, maybe it’s just some rubby crashing in an empty apartment. In any case, I’ll be waiting to hear from you. I’m going to the Laviolette Baths, do you want to walk partway with me?”
“Ok.”
Since Luc moved out and left Mme Maheu alone, she has a hard time filling up her days. When she has company, she doesn’t let it go easily. She recounts her life story, explaining how she raised her son all on her own. It’s her greatest source of pride.
Because he knows all of her stories by heart, Luc can’t stand listening to her go on and on. But this is all new to Gaétan. He listens attentively, thinking she has a gift for storytelling, and she enjoys it.
“You know, Gaétan, I can’t believe that Luc’s done anything wrong. He was always a good boy. I brought him up right, even if he never knew his father. Poor man, there was an accident unloading a ship—a crate fell on ’im, killed ’im. I didn’t even know I was pregnant. We were to get married in the spring.”
Gaétan has known this for a while, but he lets her continue.
“We didn’t have it easy at the end of each month. But even when I didn’t have a cent to my name, I had my tricks. Luc never lacked anything. When a shipment of molasses arrived at the port, I used to get up early and go down Notre-Dame to the reservoirs. I lived on Panet back then, but now it’s all been demolished. It was a long walk to Frontenac. I’d bring lotsa small containers, we all did. You had to come at the right time and sneak through the fence to the dock. When they were finished unloading, the crane operator would drop a barrel, like it was an accident. All us women would rush to fill our containers. You had to do it quickly, because they kept an eye on those docks. We weren’t supposed to be there. Sometimes we returned empty-handed ’cause the operator had forgotten us. Or maybe he was being watched. We never found out who it was, but that man put a smile on so many young faces in the neighbourhood.”
They arrive in front of the Laviolette Baths on De Lorimier, where Mme Maheu comes once a week to wash since she doesn’t have a bathroom. The boy leaves her, promising to return with a full report the next day.
But Gaétan wants to get to the bottom of it right away. He goes directly to Luc’s and rings the doorbell. No answer. He looks through the door pane: everything is quiet.
He decides to go through the back lane. He carefully peeks through the kitchen windows. The apartment is empty. He enters.
The remnants of a breakfast are lying on the kitchen counter. The bed is unmade. Yet he had cleaned up before leaving on Friday. The furnace is on. He leaves without touching anything. Mme Maheu wasn’t making it up. Someone has definitely spent the night here, and it appears that whoever it is will return. Gaétan decides to come back in the evening to find out more.
A few hours later, he’s back. An icy drizzle makes him shiver. It’s dark. “What a terrible night to play James Bond,” he mutters to himself.
From down in the lane, he can see a light coming from Luc’s apartment. He climbs furtively up the spiral staircase and sneaks onto the porch. He’s stunned by what he sees inside.
A tall redhead is cooking: it’s Paul, Luc’s friend from the union. Paralyzed by his discovery, Gaétan remains crouched in the shadows.
Paul sets the table, and a young woman whom Gaétan doesn’t recognize comes over to join him. She wears a terrycloth bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her head. She has clearly just gotten out of the bath. They sit down to eat.
“They’re making themselves right at home!” Gaétan murmurs, surprised.
The couple is listening to the radio as they eat their spaghetti. Through the open window, Gaétan can hear the report of Pierre Laporte’s funeral, which had taken place that afternoon. The funeral music drowns out what is being said at the table.
Clips of newspaper articles are strewn about the counter. On a scrap of paper the boy can see a sketch of a Patriote with his hat, pipe, and gun. It’s the same one that he saw yesterday on television, on the FLQ manifesto.
“FLQ members. And they’re hiding out at Luc’s.”
Gaétan remembers Robert Bourassa’s every word, explaining at a press conference that they would press charges against anyone aiding members of the FLQ.
Does Luc know what’s going on in his house?
7
Wednesday, October 21
“I can’t wait for the first snowstorm. At least it’ll really be winter,” thinks Gaétan as he walks through the morning fog.
Each year, the period between the last leaves falling and the first snowfall seems endless. He hates this time between seasons. With the weather, as with life, it’s better to just pick a side. At the moment, his thoughts are wavering as much as the thermometer.
Throughout his shift, he couldn’t shake the image of the Patriote that he saw on Luc’s table last night. Gaétan is torn between wanting to know and being afraid of what he might find out. Should he head back to Luc’s for an explanation from Paul or go warn Mme Maheu?
When he manages to forget about this for a moment, an image of Louise pops into his head. Her smile is etched in his mind, confusing him even further.
He finally decides to go home and get some rest, putting off any decisions for the moment.
“I might see things more clearly after a few hours of sleep,” he tries to convince himself.
He walks home with the resolute air of someone who has solved a difficult problem. The apartment is empty and silent: no radio coming from the kitchen, no television in the living room. Neither his father nor his mother is there. Not stopping to wonder why, he heads blissfully to his room.
He’s about to slip between the sheets when the doorbell rings. He goes to open it, grumbling, and finds himself face to face with Mme Maheu.
“You never came to see me, so I came to get the news.”
Gaétan feels caught with his pants down.
“Hang on, I’m coming!”
The last thing he wants is for his parents to run into her if they happen to come home soon. He throws on some clothes with a weary sigh, thinking of his bed, and pulls the door closed behind him.
“We’ll go to your place. Sorry, I’m just so beat, I wanted to sleep a little before coming to see you.”
Gaétan tries to buy himself some time, not knowing if he should tell her the truth.
“I made you some muffins and coffee.” She seems annoyed.
Gaétan feels sheepish. Why is he always trying to help people? After all, it never ends, and it always comes back to bite you!
Sitting in front of a steaming cup of coffee, his mouth full with a delicious raisin bran muffin, he finally explains what he saw at Luc’s. He tells her what he knows about Paul, but is careful not to mention the young woman.
“He’s a friend of Luc’s, a union guy who works for the CSN unions. Luc wants to change Dominion’s affiliation. He thinks the American
unions don’t do enough to help French Canadians. Their representatives don’t even speak French. They don’t understand our problems. Paul told him he could help.”
To his surprise, Mme Maheu nods her approval.
“And he’s right. I stopped working because of that. I worked in English all my life and nearly cracked afterwards. I was an accountant for a small company that made bike parts. I prepared the payslips. We were mostly French Canadians, a couple of Italians. And everything was in English! It’s not right to spend your whole life in English working for peanuts. By the end, I was even dreaming in English. I would have nightmares where I couldn’t speak at all. I just kept mumbling things half in English, half in French. It was awful; I was so mixed up. When Luc was old enough to work, I gave it all up. I prefer to live poor but speak my own language. I haven’t spoken a single word of English since, and I won’t speak another damned word until I die. I spoke enough at work.”
Dumbfounded, Gaétan listens to her attentively. He can see that when it comes to this topic, both mother and son agree.
“Maybe Paul needs somewhere to sleep,” she concludes, “and Luc gave him permission to stay at his place. We shouldn’t worry if it’s a friend.”
As he walks away, Gaétan thinks Mme Maheu is smart to trust her son. They shouldn’t be getting involved.
The icy mist has cleared and the sun is shining in a cloudless sky. Gaétan no longer wants to go back to bed. He decides to take a walk. He climbs the Cartier hill and heads into Parc La Fontaine. He gulps in the smell of wet fallen leaves and grass. There are patches of ice here and there. A squirrel approaches him, begging for crumbs. But his pockets are empty.
This time of year, his father usually goes out hunting. Last year, Gaétan went with him for the first time. He even had to miss a few days of school.
