by Magali Favre
“Hunting is the best school,” his father had said, justifying his absence.
But this year, with all that’s going on, he didn’t even bring up the possibility. Gaétan would have gladly gone back, though. His father is a good hunter, and he almost always brings back a deer. He’s never missed a season before; this is the first year.
He usually goes with his friends from the port. They all save their holiday weeks for the fall. The trip out to the woods with his old work buddies is always sacred.
Last fall, Gaétan had gone up north with them. They’d driven five hours in a clunker that was so old that, from where he was sitting on the backseat, the boy could see the road whizzing by under his feet.
After bumping over dirt roads through La Vérendrye park, they had finally reached a lake. There, a round wood cabin was waiting for them.
“Here, we live like woodsmen. Like descendants of the coureurs des bois who discovered America and walked all across the continent. Here, we can get away from the city, our women, our bosses, and the English. I give you paradise!” his father had declared upon arrival.
The boy would never forget those hours spent in the icy cold of the early morning, eagerly awaiting a flash of deer antlers through the black spruce. He could never forget the silence of the night buzzing with a thousand rustles and whispers that had filled his head with imaginary beasts.
It was also during this trip that he had tasted his first Molson, had experienced his first hangover. His father had kept the rite of passage secret.
The last night they’d made a huge campfire down by the lake to cook pork and beans. They had buried the cast iron pot in the sand, in the fire’s ashes. The next day, they were ready for breakfast. The best pork and beans he had ever eaten. Just thinking about it made his mouth water.
And of course his father had brought back a deer, tied to the roof of the car. A trophy that, like every year, attracted the admiration of the whole street.
That unforgettable week had been one of the rare times Gaétan had left the city.
His forest was Parc La Fontaine more often than not. He liked to walk around, especially during this time of the year when the park wasn’t crowded. The ducks had been put away for the winter, the Jardin des Merveilles was closed, and the squirrels had made themselves scarce. Only the eternal pigeons were left. They were indestructible; not even the coldest weather bothered them.
But since he’s seen the real forest, the park seems sparse. Just a sad little garden to someone who’s experienced the wild and boundless forest of the North.
Gaétan leaves the park, glum.
Over by the library, a bunch of young men with scruffy beards sit on the steps, smoking and talking loudly.
Gaétan thinks about Louise.
8
Thursday, October 22
“You buy the newspaper now?”
His mother hands him his plate, eyebrows raised. Her son isn’t going to get into politics now too, is he?
Gaétan devours his peanut butter toast while reading an article in the Journal de Montréal with a catchy title: “There Will Be Blood If Montréal Elects the FRAP.”
Another article reports that Jean Marchand, the federal minister, stated in a Vancouver interview that the FRAP or Front d’action politique is just a front for the FLQ.
Gaétan pushes the newspaper away, sick of these outrageous comments. Just because the FRAP is made up of trade unionists and working-class citizens doesn’t mean it’s linked to the FLQ. He and the politicians clearly don’t live in the same world. Elections for a new mayor are in three days, and it seems that they’re going to stop at nothing to scare the public.
“It’s disgusting!”
“You sound like your father.”
“Well he’s right—Drapeau’s destroying our neighbourhood. He’s angry because he’s out of work. Being resentful doesn’t make him a terrorist.”
His mother looks at him, bewildered. It’s the first time that Gaétan has stuck up for his father. She sits down heavily on her chair. She has always tried to protect him from her husband’s ideas.
“You’re going to end up like him!”
“So what? Pop’s still fighting. He could just as easily drown his life away in his beer and spend his days at the tavern, like the rest of them.”
“It’s always the same damned thing. Those guys think they’re such hot stuff, and then we have to pick up the pieces. It’s a waste of time.”
Gaétan gets up with a start, knocking over his chair, and leaves the room. He’s had enough of his mother’s whining. He needs some fresh air.
Gaétan has a few hours to kill before returning to work. He wants to use them to take his mind off things.
He finds himself in front of the Cégep du Vieux-Montréal. Classes are back in session, and he can see students walking in and out of the building. He watches their comings and goings from across Sherbrooke Street. Three students, their arms full of leaflets, sit down outside the main entrance. A girl wearing a black cape comes to join them. Gaétan has trouble admitting that she’s the one he’s been waiting for.
He crosses the street and pretends to walk in like any other student. She hands him a leaflet and he takes it without hesitation. Suddenly, she recognizes him.
“I thought you worked at the factory.”
“I work nights.”
“That can’t be easy! You left so quickly, the other day.”
Gaétan glances at the paper. He can’t really understand the words on the page: working class, capitalism, imperialism, revolution… it’s all gibberish to him.
Louise reacts to his sceptical expression.
“I can explain.”
“It’s ok, I know how to read!”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Clearly, they have a hard time understanding each other. She suggests they grab a coffee together inside.
“The guys can finish handing them out without me. Coming?”
Gaétan, still wary, accepts. He’s curious to know more about this strange girl. He follows her in.
“This is our spot,” she says, proudly indicating a small room lined with posters.
A banner hangs against the back wall: Continuons le combat! Contre les mesures de guerre! Québec libre!
Piles of leaflets are heaped on desks, nearly covering several textbooks. A Gestetner duplicating machine sits on a desk next to a typewriter.
“Is this how you study at Cégep?”
“It’s not just the classes that count. We have to pay attention to politics when we learn, too. You’re not one of Trudeau’s federalists, I hope?”
The boy looks at her mocking face, and wonders who she thinks she is, a student explaining to the layperson just what is good for him? As if there weren’t enough priests already.
He’d like to give her a piece of his mind, but thinks better of it. Now isn’t the time, if he wants to grab that coffee with her.
She keeps talking, using the same words that were in the leaflet. He watches her closely, but he isn’t really listening. She’s making no sense, speaking in a different language, but she’s so pretty in her fit of passion that he doesn’t say anything. He’d even be willing to agree with her to keep hearing her talk. Gaétan’s silence encourages the girl.
Suddenly, the three boys barge into the room for more leaflets.
“Are you coming, Louise?”
“One second, I’m finishing up explaining what we’re doing.”
“Lucky guy, getting private lessons!” one of them says sarcastically to Gaétan. “If he’s bothering you, I can take over, Louise.”
“It’s ok, Jacques. He’s not from Cégep.”
“Where’s he from? Not a spy, I hope,” says the second boy. “We need to be ready for anything from the police right now. You know that the administration’ll ban our group at the slightest provocation.”
Louise shrugs.
“You’re paranoid! I told him to come. He works at Dominion Textile
.”
Gaétan is uneasy being the centre of attention and wonders if he should just leave as soon as possible.
The third boy, who has turned on the radio and is listening to the news, calls for their attention.
“Hey, guys! The three big unions have come together to call for the War Measures Act to be revoked. They condemn the FLQ’s actions, but they’re calling for all people being arbitrarily detained to be released.”
“Yeah! Bravo! Great!”
Gaétan’s thoughts go immediately to Luc, hoping he’ll be released soon. He gets up.
“I have to go.”
“Wait up, I’ll walk with you.”
Louise seems relieved to leave the room and find herself alone with him.
“Are you coming back tomorrow?”
“I don’t think so,” he replies, feeling like he doesn’t belong here among all these students.
“Tomorrow’s Friday, and I have the afternoon off. Come meet me, we can go for a walk. Do you know the Chat Noir? It’s a café not far from here, on Sherbrooke. I’ll be there at one. Come by if you want.”
“Maybe…”
9
Friday, October 23
Today, the temperature has fallen below zero. The sun is shining and the sky is a bright blue. There isn’t a drop of moisture in the air. The horizon is sharp, as if carved out by a knife. But the city spreading from underneath Gaétan’s feet isn’t the one that he knows.
Of course he can recognize Dominion’s chimneys off in the distance, dominating Saint-Henri, further still is the river, and on the horizon he can see the mountains of the Eastern Townships. But to get to where he is standing, he has crossed through a part of the city he never knew existed.
Gaétan couldn’t wait to see Louise again. After his shift and a few short hours of sleep, he went to meet her at the Chat Noir, where she was waiting. It was early afternoon and the café was almost empty. She was sitting alone tucked away in a corner, her nose buried in a thick book with a green cover. When he arrived, she placed the book on the table and he could read the title: Les nègres blancs d’Amérique (White Niggers of America).
“What are white niggers?”
“It’s you and me; it’s all of us! Here, French Canadians always have the worst jobs. We live in the most miserable neighbourhoods, and the bosses are always English.”
“You need a book to tell you that? I bet you’re just another revolutionary!”
Louise ignored his remark and changed the subject.
“Do you want to go see the bird park?”
“Where’s that? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s in Westmount.”
“I’ve never been to that part of the city.”
“There’s a park up there that no one knows about. Well… almost. The view of Montréal is incredible. It’s a nice change from the top of Mount Royal. It’s just behind Saint Joseph’s Oratory.”
“I know that one. My old Aunt Rose used to take us there; she wanted to show all the kids Brother André’s heart. I’ve even seen people going up the steps on their knees. We’d already seen everything by the time they got to the top.”
The young pair had taken the 144 Bus on Avenue des Pins, skirting the base of Mount Royal. They had passed by rich-looking houses. One of them had caught their attention; a battalion of soldiers was standing guard in front of it.
“Some bigwig must live there,” Gaétan remarked.
“No kidding: that’s the Prime Minister’s house.”
“Boubou?”
“No, not Robert Bourassa. The other one, the big decision-maker, Pierre Elliott Trudeau.”
“The guy who threw Luc in jail?”
“Who’s Luc?”
Gaétan spent the rest of the trip detailing his friend’s arrest and how worried he was.
“Listen, some of my friends are defending the political prisoners. Maybe they could get you some information.”
“Luc, a political prisoner?”
“No, but maybe they could at least be able to tell you where he’s locked up. And maybe get in touch with him.”
They got off at the corner of Cedar Avenue.
“Here all the street names are in English. We’re in Westmount,” Louise explained.
“Geez, the English are hiding up in the hills! They don’t want us to see their money and wonder where they’re getting it from?”
“You’re going to see places you didn’t even know existed.”
Leaning against the lookout’s cement wall, Gaétan admires a house below: an immense building with a greenish copper roof is joined to a tower and a large veranda that serves as a greenhouse. The yard is framed by a stone wall protecting the lush, green garden. Below, a gleaming Jaguar waits patiently in front of a two-door garage.
“Three or four families from the Faubourg à m’lasse could fit into that castle. All my neighbours have to come see this. What a house!”
They take a small path that leads towards the centre of the park. The trees are bare and the wet earth smells like dead leaves.
Everything is still; there isn’t a person in sight. In the middle of a small clearing, a bench underneath a beautiful bare maple tree seems to call to them.
From here, they can no longer hear the heartbeat of the city. Here, they forget everything from the factory’s siren to the soldiers on patrol and the arrests at five in the morning. It’s only them and the birds.
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”
Louise and Gaétan jump with surprise and whirl around. Two policemen, whom they didn’t see approach, repeat the question in English.
“What is your name?”
“I’m Louise, and this is Gaétan,” she answers in French.
“Where do you live?”
“We’re not from here,” Louise answers. “We live at the bottom of the mountain, further down.”
“They don’t speak French?” Gaétan asks naively.
“This is Westmount. You cannot loiter here. This park is restricted to residents. For security reasons.”
“What are they saying? They can’t speak French like everyone else?” he grumbles.
“They’re saying that we can’t stay here. The park is reserved for residents only.”
“Please, you must leave!”
“Nature isn’t for everyone?”
Gaétan lets out a low “Fuck!” under his breath, the only English word that he knows.
“Please, return to your district.”
Not having a choice, they get up. One policeman leads the way and the other follows them, escorting them to the park’s exit.
It’s the first time that Gaétan has been thrown out of a place like this, and he can’t believe it. But he keeps a lid on his anger, unlike Louise, who is visibly upset.
“You’d think we were in a South African township or on an Indian reserve. Better not step on their stupid grass with our shoes covered in poverty and filth. ’Cause it’s so civilized here an’ all!” she exclaims, putting on a working-class accent.
“Watch it, you!” the smaller of the two policemen, a redhead, barks roughly at her in French with a strong English accent. “I’m from down the mountain.”
“It’s funny how they understand us when we raise our voices!”
“That one must be one of the Irish from Verdun,” Gaétan snorts.
“He’s from the British side, the strongest side!” Louise adds scathingly.
When they get to the end of the path they leave the park, relieved but furious.
10
Saturday, October 24
Y flottait dans son pantalon
De là lui venait son surnom
Bozo-les-culottes
Y’avait qu’une cinquième année
Y savait à peine compter
Bozo-les-culottes
Comme il baragouinait l’anglais
Comme gardien de nuit il travaillait
Bozo-les-culottes
Même s’il était un peu dingue
<
br /> Y’avait compris qu’faut être bilingue
Bozo-les-culottes
Raymond Lévesque, Bozo-les-culottes, 1967 *
For the first time in his life, Gaétan understands the song that Luc used to play on the patched-up turntable he had rescued from the street. He’d never really paid attention to the words before. But they sunk in yesterday in that neighbourhood full of hypocrites. He had felt the conqueror’s deep contempt of his language when the police officers spoke to him in English. Gaétan recognizes the working-class man who had never held a pen: it’s his father.
Pauline Julien’s passionate voice seems to nearly explode the small transistor perched on the kitchen shelf.
CKAC has just announced the singer’s release from prison. At the end of the song, the announcer explains that despite her release, police officers have raided her house again and arrested her fifteen-year-old son, eighteen-year-old daughter, and the cook.
“They’re all crazy!” Gaétan exclaims.
“Don’t forget that the police are still looking for James Cross,” his mother replies. “I heard those terrorists have enough explosives to blow up the whole city. The mayor said they’re looking to seize power.”
“But Pauline Julien is a singer, not a terrorist.”
“Yes, but she’s spreading her bad ideas to the public. Doesn’t she talk about dynamite in her song?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You should stop listening to Frenchie Jarraud’s gossip on CKVL. That’s all just to scare us. The Parti Québécois and even Claude Ryan, publisher of Le Devoir, is calling for the municipal elections to be postponed because of all the insane rumours going around. And they aren’t extremists.”
“Either way, it’s because of the stupid FLQ bums that the army is everywhere.”
Gaétan sighs. There’s no point arguing with his mother.
“You got two cents, Ma? I want to make a call.”
“Who to?” she asks, smiling.
“Someone’s curious!”
She tosses him a coin, laughing.
