by John Farrow
Which surprised them all. Astonished them all.
In committing a violent act, they discovered themselves to be peaceful. That irony was almost overpowering for C.T. He was sad, too.
They had made history, in a way. They’d stirred the pot. He worried that they were now celebrities after a fashion, that books would be written, documentaries filmed, and he would probably be identified as the stutterer, the young one who tripped over his own words. People might laugh at how he was portrayed. He’d been through a lot, though, more than anyone knew, including those who went through it with him, even Louise. He helped keep her together, as she was wired pretty tightly. He supported Jacques against Marc and helped Yves from getting too depressed, from bolting, as Yves was inclined that way. He kept Marc feeling that he looked up to him, because Marc needed that, having thrown away so much to do this action, not least of all his wife and family. So C.T. knew he had contributed, and as the youngest among them he was not finishing this episode as the weakest, or the least valuable. In the end, he was stronger than when he began. Throughout the two months, he continued to read the same books that so influenced his life, so opened his mind to injustice in the world and to change. He again read Che, Mao, Pierre Vallières, sometimes out loud to Cross, but increasingly his analysis was different, the context altered. He began picking holes in the philosophy. Mao maintained that violence created a necessary repression by the government. Repression instigated an uprising among the people. And C.T., having hours to kill during which he merely watched over Cross and mused about things, thought, The role of the revolutionary is to make the people suffer so that they will rise up. We did that. People are suffering under the War Measures Act, and we brought that on. But when you break it down, doesn’t that mean that the role of the revolutionary is to be an enemy of the people? If the revolutionary is to be an enemy of the people … then I’m an enemy to my own people. When did I sign up for that?
Life was more complex, he was discovering, than he previously believed.
Starting out with this, he had been young. He was still young. His heart, and a small voice, told him that that was his gravest sin. This conclusion made him sad, yet made him strong, as well. He and the other Jacques did not speak of these matters, but he could tell, he just knew, that the other Jacques also felt and experienced similar changes. Despite his unending love for the spotlight, to be on TV, the other Jacques had grown as he had grown. When Marc said to them, “Nous vaincrons,” they didn’t repeat it back to him anymore. The words sounded hollow now. Even a little silly. They were not defeated—he still believed that they might conquer, but not in any way that Marc intended. He’d rather be useful somehow.
Cuba.
Exile.
Forever?
As they touched down on the tarmac in Havana and shuffled off the aircraft to commence their new, ungainly lives, far away, in Montreal, Jasper Cross was released from Cuban custody to resume his old life again, although to a posting perhaps more secure than Canada.
They began their new lives in Cuba. No sooner were they settled than they sold their TV. Their faces weren’t on it anymore.
CHAPTER 28
1970–71
ON A QUIET SUNDAY EVENING, TWO WEEKS PRIOR TO CHRISTMAS, as Constable Émile Cinq-Mars arrived at the prime minister’s residence at 24 Sussex Drive in Ottawa, snow alighted gently upon the grounds, pleasantly decorating trees and shrubbery. Lamplight sparkled on the large, moist flakes, and each vista conveyed a wintry enchantment worthy of the season. Dressed in spiffy, casual attire—a cream jacket, an ascot, dark blue shirt and blue serge trousers—Pierre Elliott Trudeau welcomed him warmly, as though they were old friends. A fire crackled in the hearth.
“Promise me, Émile,” he requested after they were settled before the blaze, “that the dagger will not fall—directly or indirectly—into the rapacious hands of René Lévesque.” The whimsy in his tone suggested that he was trying to make light. “Or those of his ilk,” he added.
“Actually,” Cinq-Mars began. Then hesitated.
“Don’t tell me.”
“I don’t think it will,” the policeman, equally spiffy in his dress uniform, tendered. “Rumour has it that they’re lovers, though.” “Lovers! Who?”
“The woman who’ll be receiving the knife, and our Mr. Lévesque. Which is regrettable, on I can’t tell you how many levels.” Unable to restrain himself, Cinq-Mars sighed. “That said, she expects the two of you to duke it out as men. Neither of you will possess the advantage of the knife.”
“If it is an advantage,” Trudeau scoffed. He had offered his guest cognac, coffee and coffee cake, and the policeman, having driven two hundred kilometres up from Montreal, with plans to return that night, consented. The prime minister quipped, “I’m happy to proceed on my own. I’m tired of the dagger taking credit for my success, at least in some circles.”
Cinq-Mars appreciated the man’s humour about this transaction. Although it helped put him more at ease, he still had to give himself a swift boot in the rump—heel to arse. Here he was, a country boy from Saint-Jacques-le-Majeur-de-Wolfestown, Quebec, and a mere patrolman, kibitzing with the prime minister of Canada. In his home. As if he were a visiting dignitary himself.
“She’s a stone thrower, our mystery girl. A tosser of rocks,” the prime minister recalled. “That’s helped me to rationalize this transaction.”
At moments, Émile felt a trifle dumb in the prime minister’s presence.
“She strikes me as someone opposed to the Order of Jacques Cartier, those windbag neo-fascists.”
“For sure,” Cinq-Mars happily piped up. “No doubts there.”
“Then I’m content,” Trudeau added pensively. “We shall see what designs fortune has upon our dagger.”
“Actually, sir,” Cinq-Mars contradicted him, “I doubt it. Time will tell, but what happens next will remain secret, I suspect. Beyond our purview.”
Trudeau chose to soften the young man’s defences. “You’re an educated man, Émile? You don’t talk like an average street cop.”
“I have a degree in, ah, animal husbandry.”
Trudeau seemed to be enjoying a private laugh. “So that’s why.”
Cinq-Mars was stumped. “Sir?”
“Your boss. Captain Touton. He asked me to inquire about your education.”
“He likes to embarrass me, sir. It amuses him. I think he’ll have to get used to educated cops. It’s the future trend, in my opinion. But he can’t get over my choice of subject. He equates the phrase with fornication. Sheep, in particular. Husbandry, you see. He’s even more amused that I was once headed for the priesthood—which, come to think of it, he also may equate with fornication.”
Trudeau honoured Émile’s humour with a laugh, but also offered a small, dismissive gesture of his chin. “Why be embarrassed? You’re an intelligent, small-town boy from the countryside, although not a farmer yourself. You went through the most logical progression there can be in Quebec. Priest, until that didn’t hold, then veterinarian. Then you found your true vocation, a Montreal cop. That’s different, but it tells me you’re on your proper course.”
“Thank you, sir. I believe I am.”
Sagely, the prime minister administered a light rub to the bridge of his nose, as if to sharpen an astute thought. He was unaware that individuals often touched their noses in the presence of Émile Cinq-Mars, as though they felt a need to be thankful for their own modest beaks in the shadow of his monstrosity. Trudeau’s was eminent and decisive, yet well proportioned and no match for the policeman’s. Cinq-Mars noticed this, as he usually examined other men’s noses. He characterized the prime minister’s as intelligent, and the nose of a physically active man.
“I’ll be sad to have the knife gone from my hands, but I’m also glad that you have come to retrieve it.”
“Why’s that, Mr. Prime Minister?” In crossing his ankles, he realized that he had emulated the posture of his host, and quickly uncrossed them again.
“Mainly,” Trudeau attested, “I welcome the chance to thank you for your work on the FLQ file. The country owes you—and your colleagues—a tremendous debt. In recent days, I’ve been advised that your contribution must never be publicly acknowledged. Yours or Armand’s.”
Cinq-Mars sipped his coffee. “You’ve been talking to my captain.”
“Do you possess remarkable powers of deduction to surmise that instantly? A worthy attribute in a detective, I’d say.”
The younger man blushed slightly. “Given that I stormed in here that day, raving, demanding to strike a deal for a valuable relic, I assumed that you’d call Captain Touton.”
“We had you investigated. But I didn’t talk to Armand back then. Only a few days ago, now that matters have calmed down.”
Something about that statement struck the policeman as odd, and he jotted a mental note. “I don’t mean to be falsely modest, sir. I hope to get better at figuring things out. I think I have a knack, but whenever I stumble across what I believe is a clever deduction—or walk blindly into some lucky ray of comprehension—usually I feel like punching a wall that I didn’t think of it sooner. I’m working on my abilities though. I haven’t given up.” He smiled more broadly then, somewhat embarrassed to have said so much. “So you agree with him, then?”
The query was issued out of context, yet the young man had no need to pretend that he did not trace the connection. “I do, sir. We’re linked to our informant. To associate either of us with solving the case will implicate her. It’s imperative that we never be acknowledged or thanked.”
“Except privately. Tonight. Here. With my words.”
Cinq-Mars lowered his head. He could feel his face burning. “That’s a fine exception, sir,” he said quietly. “I was only doing my job. But I thank you.”
Raising his right hand near his ear, the prime minister drew a few circles in the air, as if stirring a memory. “Last time we met, Émile, you were a detective.” As the hand lowered, his forefinger began to shake at him. “Since then, you’ve helped break the most grievous case in our history.” Cinq-Mars followed the hand down to the armrest. “For your troubles, it appears that you’ve been demoted. You’re in uniform. Explain this to me.”
Cinq-Mars smiled again. “Sir, I was temporarily upgraded to help with the case. Now that it’s solved—it’s back to the beat for me.”
The prime minister did not appear mollified. “The mayor owes me a favour. After all, I invoked the War Measures Act at his behest.”
“I’m willing to earn my rank as I go, sir,” Cinq-Mars assured him.
“I’m convinced that you’ve already earned a promotion.”
They finished their cakes and coffee with talk of the debacle in the Montreal Police Department and discussion of the climate on the streets and in the taverns. The prime minister poured another glass of cognac. Perhaps as a prelude to returning them to the business at hand, he displayed a few prized treasures. “I didn’t buy these on the black market,” he quipped. “I didn’t steal them. In my youth, I was wandering through the ancient land of Ur—Iraq, today—and I picked up these tiles, right off the desert floor. I’ve had them assayed. The inscriptions are Sumerian. They date to the time of Abraham.”
The young man dared not touch them, but examined them closely while standing and sipping his cognac, and permitted himself to feel the presence of that ancient time reflected in the artifacts. He acknowledged the allure of antiquated objects. To imagine a figure from Abraham’s time—or the great patriarch himself—inscribing a tile, not knowing that one day it would be present in the home of a leader of a foreign country unknown, upon a continent as yet undiscovered to that people—his mind boggled.
The reflective moment was interrupted by a ring at the door, in coded sequence. “Security,” the prime minister stated. He moved to the foyer and Cinq-Mars trailed behind. An officer admitted himself.
“Our silent alarms have been triggered, Prime Minister,” the snow-covered man informed him, already dripping on the carpet as he removed his cap. “We believe by a dog, but we are investigating. Is everything in order here, sir?”
“We’re fine, thank you. We’ve had no interruptions. Give Lassie my regards.”
The excitement over, they returned to the hearth, where Trudeau tossed a log on the fire. “Last month it was a family of raccoons.” He remained standing, and stated, with evident solemnity, “I can bring out the Cartier Dagger now, Émile. As you may recall, I had requested a final courtesy.”
Cinq-Mars promptly put down his snifter. “Sir, I’m hoping that you will entertain a reasonable condition. The young lady in question will honour your request. She’ll reveal what was said on Houde’s deathbed. First, she must receive the dagger. She may be turning your condition from the last time back around, by asking for delivery in advance. At least, that’s my assessment.”
The prime minister put up his hands, as though to brush away his concern. “No problem. I hope you’ll forgive my momentary indiscretion.”
“Sir?” This time, the sly, older man did have him confused.
Trudeau directed him back into his chair and sat opposite him again. He knitted his hands together and leaned well forward as his voice went lower and became more directed. “I was curious, Émile, to know what the girl in the closet overheard as Houde lay at death’s door. Who wouldn’t be? He struck quite the figure, Houde did. He lived through astonishing times. In retrospect, I realize that I was requesting highly confidential information—an account, really, of a communication between a dying man and his priest. Initially, I was overcome by curiosity, but I’ve since reprimanded myself. I no longer seek to hear a word.” He brushed his hands together, as if dusting them of crumbs. “I’ve been paid sufficiently. Overpaid, by the outcome of our difficulties.” He resumed his upright posture. “So I want to thank you, Émile, and shall do so by bringing out the knife. No further restitution is required. Our deal is done. Our arrangements concluded.”
“Thank you, sir. I have to tell you, although I realize that the stakes were high, you’ve been a good sport about this. You are losing a valuable possession.” He had to remind himself that he was talking—so casually—with the prime minister.
“Mmm.” Trudeau touched a finger to his lips, and something in his manner suggested that he required a meditative moment to pull a thought together. Then he said, “It worked out well.” The finger rhythmically tapped his lower lip, before he continued. “Émile, you know that I purchased the knife. A mercantile act. So it was never really mine to possess, not in any proper sense. The idea was to remove it from the control of potential fascists, that was one fear, or foreign collectors, that was another. My role, it seems, has been to act as its guardian through a transitional phase. The high road, certainly the legal path, would have been to restore the knife to its rightful owner, the Sun Life company, and to their designated hero, Clarence Campbell. But he was never accepted as the most worthy of recipients, and when you look at the history, really, at a moment in time, Sun Life itself stole the knife. Theirs had been a legal scam—the knife in exchange for an insurance policy—but its value could have insured a man’s family for a thousand generations. So, is Sun Life the rightful owner? Legally, perhaps. Morally, it’s questionable.”
Cinq-Mars weighed in. “The legal is paramount in our society, as a rule.”
“I’m a lawyer. I should know, and, I ought to know better than to disagree. We’re Catholics, Émile. We both know that, at times, the moral and the legal, if not in opposition, arrive at a place of mutual agitation. I’m not trying to rationalize anything here. I admit that I’m in possession of stolen property. You, on the other hand, you’re young, your hands are clean, but you will take the knife from me and, rather than return it to its legal owners, bequeath it to a young woman who mourns her father’s death. You don’t have a legal leg to stand on, do you?”
“I suppose not, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“And yet, not only will you
not lose sleep over this, but your conscience probably shines.”
Cinq-Mars wound his hands together, and conceded a smile. “I’d say that as a moralist, sir, you make a compelling jurist.”
Which made the prime minister chuckle. “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment, even if it wasn’t intended as such. But I still have a point to make, about why surrendering the knife is all right with me. Why it is that I’m comforted by this transaction.”
“Comforted?” He wished that he could drop every last residue of self-consciousness and self-awareness and boundless amazement that he was here, in the prime minister’s home on a snowy night in December, and just fall utterly into the conversation. He was perpetually outside the talk, seeing himself in it, which was an aspect he just had to endure. An affliction of youth. He knew, though, that he did not want this night to end.
“Sir Herbert Holt determined that the knife should be imparted from war hero to war hero, in perpetuity. Apart from the fact that that meant we’d have to keep going to war, forever, it was a grand design. One that I support. But wait, Émile, have we not recently emerged from a major battle? I had to invoke the War Measures Act, did I not? Did Roger Clément’s daughter not commit herself to a heroic undertaking, one with a measure of self-sacrifice? Her effort helped our country resolve its crisis.”
“That’s true.” He felt humbled by the direction the talk had taken, privileged to be the only one to hear this posit.
“She had to experience loss of life. I’m not referring to Pierre Laporte, though there’s that. So the knife is being bequeathed to a true patriot. In this case, a heroine. And so, I was a temporary caretaker. With a measure of satisfaction, my stewardship ends, and a proper heroine now receives the relic.”
