by Magali Favre
As soon as he had set foot in his house yesterday, after seeing Louise, his mother couldn’t stop talking about the girl. She had asked him hardly any questions about his stay at Parthenais. By contrast, she still could not believe that the girl had come and spent Halloween with his brothers, “like a lovely lady.” Gaétan feels that this impresses her more than his two days spent in prison. Instead of welcoming him with open arms, she had been hoping that his arrest would teach him a thing or two, complaining about his father’s bad influence.
“I’m not raising my boys to end up on welfare or at Parthenais.”
And today, the moment Gaétan steps into the kitchen, she’s back at it.
“She’s pretty smart, that girlfriend of yours,” she says, serving him a pancake.
“Ma, let it go. It’s not what you think.”
“I don’t think anything. I’m just observing. Cute and nice, too. She didn’t have to take care of your brothers.”
“She might be nice, but I don’t want my son hanging around those hippies,” his father declares as he enters the room.
“Just what I need,” the boy mumbles under his breath.
But Gaétan doesn’t want to talk about it. He wants to go sleep.
“She’s not a hippie. She’s studying at Cégep,” he can’t help retorting, annoyed.
“Exactly. She doesn’t come from our world. You might be in for a disappointment.”
“Disappointed with what? She’s just a friend.”
“Your mother told me she lives in a commune. I don’t want you goin’ back there. I don’t want my son hangin’ around a bunch of bums who smoke dope and don’t work. They’re all living off their rich parents. Believe me, they’re gonna end up back with mommy and daddy in Outremont in a few years. Bohemian life’s easy for them now.”
“Just leave me alone!”
Furious, Gaétan gets up and goes into his room. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Anyway, it’s his business and his father should stay out of it. He works, he’s earned his freedom. He can see whomever he wants.
As he slips into bed, he can still hear his father griping. The boy can’t help smiling since, after all, he agrees with most of his opinions. Except for one: Louise is different.
Gaétan rummages through a display of LPs. He has come into a music store to look for a gift for Louise. He wants to thank her for taking care of his brothers by giving her a record. It’s hard to choose since he knows that she already has so many.
He can at least eliminate the English singers. He doesn’t know anything about them, and on principle, he doesn’t want to encourage artists that are already playing everywhere. They make enough money, so they don’t need his.
His eyes are drawn to a black sleeve with the title written as if it were graffiti scrawled on a wall: Amour, Anarchie. He turns the sleeve over and recognizes the singer, Léo Ferré. He’s never heard his music, but he’s seen one of his albums among Louise’s collection. It would be hard to forget this face.
The sales clerk praises the album’s music and lyrics, saying that it has just come out. The boy is certain that Louise doesn’t own it, but he takes a moment to decide. It’s more expensive than the others because it is a double album. Too bad! He can allow himself to splurge on a first gift.
Radiant and proud of himself, Gaétan leaves the store and decides to go drop by Mme Maheu’s for a visit.
“Hello! I’ve got good news for you.”
“You haven’t come to see me in a while.”
“I was pretty busy,” the boy replies, not very happy with his lie.
He decided that he wouldn’t tell her he was arrested, and especially not that it happened at her son’s house. He doesn’t want to worry her more. Better to stick to good news.
“A friend told me that under the War Measures Act the police can’t hold anyone for more than twenty-one days.”
“That means he’ll be out soon.”
“He should be, unless he’s charged.”
“Charged with what?”
“Of having ties to the FLQ.”
“So it’s just a matter of days.” After a few moments, she adds, “But this Paul who was living over there, maybe he has ties to the FLQ.”
Gaétan thinks that she might be right. Nothing is less certain than Luc’s release. Indeed, his apartment had been watched. The police know that Paul had been living there; now he is on the list of suspects. Paul’s flight the other night confirmed Gaétan’s suspicions that he probably went into hiding for one reason or another. If the police are convinced that Paul is tied to the FLQ, they will definitely charge his friend with helping a terrorist.
But he keeps his thoughts to himself.
“Still, it’s strange,” she reasons, “that they’ve kept him for so long. The radio says that they’ve already released the majority of the people who were arrested on October 16.”
“Until they find where they’re keeping Cross, I don’t think the arrests will stop,” the boy tries to reassure her.
20
Tuesday, November 3
Gaétan paces back and forth outside of the college. He’s already been waiting for Louise for thirty minutes.
It is cold and grey outside, perfect for snow. But the clouds seem to want to hold back the flakes until the very last moment.
Ten o’clock in the morning. Students are rushing into the large building.
“There’s only one missing, and she’s the one I’m waiting for,” thinks the boy impatiently.
The flood of students turns to a trickle. She still hasn’t arrived. He waits for what seems like forever. A wave of fatigue passes over the boy. He hasn’t slept at all. His eyelids are heavy.
Suddenly, a hand grabs his own, tugging him towards the Cégep entrance.
“Hurry up, I’m late for class!”
“You told me that you were free.”
“My schedule changed. I couldn’t let you know. Our literature professor invited a poet to come talk to us about French. I can’t miss that.”
“Stop pulling me. I can’t go to your class with you. We can see each other another day,” the boy mumbles, deeply disappointed.
She stops, looking resolved.
“Come on! It’s not a problem, our prof is cool, he’ll let you in. I’m sure you’ll like it. It’s Gaston Miron, and he’s written such beautiful poems. He was arrested, too.”
Gaétan gives in. Because of the girl’s sparkling black eyes, her soft hand, the force of her convictions … and to be with her a while longer.
“Hurry up!”
They fly up the stairs and down a corridor whose magnificent floor creaks under their feet. They pass in front of a series of closed doors; classes have started.
What is he getting himself into? The only thing he knows about poetry are La Fontaine’s fables, which he never liked all that much. He fears that the next two hours will be interminable.
The last door of the corridor is the right one.
“It’s too late,” he tries for the last time. “It’s already started.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Louise opens the door and pushes him into the classroom.
Thirty pairs of eyes stare at them. Gaétan can feel himself blush all the way to the roots of his hair. Louise drags him to the back row. The speaker seems not to have noticed and continues his speech. He has a loud voice and makes sweeping gestures, completely absorbed in his subject. The man sitting next to him, undoubtedly the professor, nods a welcome to Louise.
Gaétan tries to make himself as small as possible. Being once again behind a desk in a classroom seems strange. He doesn’t have such fond memories of school, yet he wasn’t a bad student. He did well enough, in fact. But deep down, he had always known that school wasn’t for him. So why listen?
However, he finds himself riveted to the man gesticulating in front of him. Behind his horn-rimmed glasses, his gaze is bright and persuasive. To his great surprise, not only is the speech easy to understand, but he
is also expressing ideas that seem just and fair.
When Louise spoke about poetry and literature, Gaétan hadn’t been so enthralled. But now he feels like this man is expressing something essential. He focuses all of his energy on the words.
“It’s true that there is a language problem here in Québec. But it’s not the problem that you think. The problem is not in terms of French. The problem is English!
“The problem is that our language is being assimilated by English.
“The language of the French Canadian people is French. It is spoken in variations, sometimes it borrows from English vocabulary, but it is essentially French. Cheval or joual, it’s still French.
“But too often, especially with the elites, our language is a language of translation. And as long as one needs to know English to earn a healthy living, the problem will not be resolved.
“Take, for example, a pharmacie à prix réduits. It seems like French, there isn’t a word of English, but it’s just a calque. It’s what I call ‘translated from.’ The structure is English. This language is even more dangerous than the one that simply borrows English words.
“To say pharmacie à prix réduits is far worse than saying passe-moi le wrench.
“There is no more meaning to the language. I could walk into this pharmacy and ask the pharmacist, ‘Are you looking to sell your store? I am interested.’ What the pharmacist means is that his drugs sont à vendre à prix réduits, that they’re on sale.
“French appears to remain in this expression. That is alienation. It means you are becoming a stranger to yourself.
“As long as a language evolves on its own, it’s fantastic; when it evolves in relation to another, it becomes a passive language. It becomes simply the imitation of the other.
“In Québec, we live in stereo. We always have the translation: pont-bridge, pull-tirer, welcome-bienvenue. We are unilingual bilinguals.
“The French Canadian people speak French. They use English words, of course, but the structure of the language is French.
“Our elites, on the other hand, speak French using an English syntax. I hear it every day. Listen carefully to the ministers and politicians. It seems like French because there isn’t a word of English, yet still it’s English. We have one language on top of another. By seeing ourselves as others, we become the others. Our language is a dependent language. It evolves in line with the other. The other is embedded in our language.
“Unless you decide to change that.
“So, to restore the French in our speech, we must tear the English out of our mouths.
“Our language must be sovereign.
“So we can return to our roots.
“We can recover.
“We can repossess.”
There is a moment of silence. The class is frozen, stunned by the speech. Then, thunderous applause.
Gaétan has tears in his eyes.
He thinks of Mme Maheu.
He finds that being able to put words to suffering already eases the pain. It means that the rebuilding has already begun.
21
Wednesday, November 4
Gaétan slept poorly. He wakes up a bit groggy. What has he been battling in his sleep? He hadn’t dreamed; no image comes to mind. But a feeling of powerlessness torments him, like one of those nightmares where you just keep on falling.
He doesn’t even feel like getting up to go see Louise. Why should he go see her for a few hours and change the world, only to go back to the factory at night?
How much longer will he keep doing this?
For the first time, he feels as if he’s throwing away his life at the factory.
He is beginning to understand his father’s rages and his mother’s bitterness. He can feel their pain made through disillusionment and surrender. They’ve gone through the wringer of life.
Today is his birthday. He is sixteen. Perhaps the weight he feels on his shoulders comes from that. He doesn’t know if he should be happy or sad. What is the point if he is only going through the motions? He feels as if he is sinking.
He thinks back to the poet who was gesticulating in front of him yesterday, using angry words to express the pain of a people who are dominated even in their own language. It was a man who had chosen to stand up.
A door slams and feet race up the stairs. As always, his two brothers tumble into his room. They scream:
“Happy birthday!”
“Come on! Get up!”
They tickle him. He struggles, but they know all of his sensitive spots too well. He gives it right back to them. All three writhe with laughter.
“Leave me alone if you want me to get up!”
This is all he needs to sweep away his dark thoughts. You shouldn’t be too serious when you’re sixteen.
His mother and father are waiting for him in the kitchen. A birthday cake sits on the table. He counts: all sixteen candles are there. He blows them out with one breath. His family launches into: “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”
His brothers hug him. His parents hold him tightly in their arms. They seem happy. Deep down, they are proud of their son who has begun his life as a factory worker.
His mother gives him her gift: a sweater that she has knit for him. His father gives him a hunting jacket.
“We’ll get back out there next year.”
His two brothers hand him an envelope. Inside he finds a ticket to a Charlebois concert.
“I love you guys! I’ve been wanting to see him live for so long! Thank you!”
His mother explains that the two boys had saved up their money from the deliveries they make each weekend for the neighbourhood grocer and they had been collecting empty bottles.
Moved, Gaétan doesn’t know what to say. In his family they aren’t given to sharing their emotions. Feelings are generally kept inside. But being so warmly surrounded is comforting; he realizes that his family is still his best sanctuary.
After supper, everyone gathers around the small screen to watch the show Moi et l’autre. They wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world. But Gaétan has better things to do; he takes this moment to slip out.
“Where’s he goin’?” his father worries.
“He’s going to see his girlfriend.”
“The one who lives in the commune? It might not last that long. But now that he’s working and goin’ out and meetin’ girls, he won’t hang around here too much longer.”
“I’d like to keep him a bit more.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. The bird’s gonna leave the nest soon.”
“Hey, be quiet! We can’t hear Dominique and Denise’s jokes.”
Gaétan knocks. No answer. He enters. The apartment is dark, but Louise had told him to come by her apartment to celebrate his birthday. He goes as far as the dining room.
Suddenly, rock music bursts from a thousand places and light splashes everywhere, dazzling him. Louise jumps into his arms and kisses him.
“Happy birthday! I made them all leave for tonight. I didn’t feel like having them around. Happy to be sixteen?”
“I dunno. I’ve been all mixed up since this morning.”
“You feel sick?”
“No, it’s in my head. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
“Here, I have a present for you.”
She hands him a small, flat package. He opens it, touched.
A book.
It’s the first time someone’s ever given him a book for a present. He’s a bit overwhelmed.
“Look at the title and author.”
L’Homme rapaillé by Gaston Miron.
“There are some terrific poems in a really distinctive style. His language is sovereign, just like he said. He reinvents the way to talk about love. He expresses the pain and longing of someone who wants to build an entire country.”
Swept up in her enthusiasm, she opens the book and begins to read at random. Gaétan isn’t used to these words. He doesn’t really understand what
they mean, but their rhythm and sound are strong enough to blow him away. He could listen to this forever.
Unfortunately, he has to break the spell.
“I have to go. You know, every day I feel less like going to the shop. I’m not lazy, but—it sounds strange to say—I feel like I’m wasting my time, like there’s just a dead end ahead. Sometimes I wonder if I should go back to school. Ever since I spent those two days locked up, nothing’s the same. I’m all confused and I feel like life is all off track!”
“You know, you can get your diploma by going to night school. And after, at Cégep, you can apply for a scholarship. You’d finish in two years instead of one. It might be worth it to try. I could help you.”
“I don’t know if I could work and study at the same time.”
Gaétan is silent for a moment, thinking. Then, almost sheepishly, he adds, “And I don’t really want to leave my neighbourhood. I love it there. It feels alive, all the colours and the smells. I just want the people in my neighbourhood to be respected so they can live properly and earn a living in their own language.”
“Maybe you should consider going into politics!”
22
Thursday, November 5
Le Journal de Montréal is lying on the kitchen table. On the front page are pictures of the members of the FLQ who have just been arrested. The headline declares that the police have just broken up an FLQ information cell known as the “Viger Cell.” The members are mainly eighteen to twenty-five-year-olds. Among them Gaétan recognizes Paul.
He sinks into his chair.
He was right; Paul has ties to the FLQ.
Gaétan keeps reading. The article explains that for the past few weeks police have been searching for this labourer who has been involved in the trade union struggles. According to them, he went into hiding in early September. He already had a police record and spent several months in jail for planting bombs in Westmount mailboxes. His cell, the Viger Cell, had been created to distribute FLQ reports.
