by John Brooke
“Exactly,” said the caller as Marcel paused to sip again.
“But,” he continued, “here in Montreal, where the balance hangs, it is an altogether different matter. Here, we too are distracted by many things. We have soul-killing weather in winter and overzealous parking cops. We have a mayor with the brain of a tulip, police with itchy trigger fingers, an underachieving hockey team, and the chief executive of our baseball franchise is clearly sado-masochistic and hopes to convert us all. We have hookers and homeless kids with drug problems, and biker gangs with drugs and bombs. We have giant holes in our roads and people driving around them at uncivilized speeds. We have libraries that are shut on those days when people are most free to use them and a casino that never closes. We find less health care services and more video gambling machines. We have out-of-this-world restaurants, and food banks with line-ups they are unable to serve. We have festivals in the streets from June till September, and probably the largest critical mass of beautiful, exquisitely dressed women in the world. It is probably the same for men, if that happens to be your point of view. These are our problems and pleasures — our distractions, as we move toward our collective fate. But in Montreal, flags are never a distraction! No, no, no… In Montreal, flags are a measure of our lifeblood, our energy, and I for one would like to see many, many more fleurs-de-lis!”
Marcel sipped yet more coffee. Then he said, “Last October the face of Montreal was blooming. The streets seemed tied together by blue and white, a passageway leading to the future. And you saw this, monsieur? Eh? Did you see it?”
The caller mumbled, “Yes, but — ”
“And it was transcendent, no? Yes! We all saw it. We all felt it. Well, now that bloom in blue and white has scattered, and I fear it is dwindling, that beautiful force of will that took us to the edge of destiny. I can see it as I drive the streets. The flags are disappearing. Why? How could this be? Because of a little winter? Are we only fair-weather patriots? And while Madame la Ministre in Ottawa cooks up her scheme! No, monsieur, take my word: this is a move, an aggression, clearly an integral part of this Plan B we have been hearing about. And I say to you, watch out. Don’t laugh at it. Be vigilant! And fly your flag!…I thank you for calling. Au revoir.”
In fact the light on Marcel’s board had already gone out, indicating that the caller, unable to get a word in, had hung up before Marcel’s au revoir. But his listeners didn’t know that and it was best to give an impression that each call was a personal object lesson. One of radio’s many illusions, and very necessary. He pushed the next button.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Beaulé.”
“Bonjour, madame.”
“You know, I don’t understand this big issue about flags. Flags are for parades and boats. I would never fly a flag and I know in my heart I’m as staunch a supporter of the cause as you or — ”
“No, madame, you are not,” groaned Marcel, and cut the line.
Split-second radio artistry such as this would keep the flags issue foremost in the minds of Montreal’s largest listening audience for three weeks running…
And that day, on the way home in the early afternoon, after the usual production meeting with Sylvain and the team after signing off at 10:00, Marcel succeeded in finding the same corner in Greenfield Park. There it was, as foreseen: the fleur-de-lis, come to life in the sun and breeze when Marcel went passing by.
Mais oui. You really do have to dream it if you want to see the dream come true.
Free flags. Bruce cut the 1-800 number from the Gazette and took it to the office. He was about to make the call to Ottawa to order his, when he saw an opening. Lately, after nearly seven years of bearish drought and global adjustment, Bruce and lots of others had been stumbling across some undeniable bright spots. He seized the chance, worked flat out for four weeks, and actually made some decent money.
But he forgot to call for his flag.
He lost track of the clipping. He did not search for another.
He worried that someone in his English Rights group would remember his speech and ask if he’d put up his flag. But no one did; and the flags offer quietly faded…Whew! Because it was becoming clearer and clearer to Bruce that a flag was not the right idea for a man in his particular situation.
The group was now into serious discussions concerning partition. This was exciting, and, practically speaking, quite workable in an age of electronically based economics. After all, citizenship is mainly about money in banks and taxes to governments; a well-known newspaper magnate had been using his own pedestal to lay out the logistics and the group had been using his writings as inspirational texts. Bruce remained quiet. His thoughts were not in line. Yes, there was logic to the newspaper magnate’s argument; even more so to the notion that if Canada was divisible then so was Quebec. But this logic depended upon a critical mass. That would be no problem in a district like NDG. Where he lived it was mostly French; no way anyone was going to partition rue Godbout.
And if NDG and other mainly Anglo enclaves went ahead and did that to Montreal…
The more they talked, the more Bruce found himself having a very disturbing dream wherein “they” came hunting, vigilante style, through the streets of the remaining districts, such as his, looking for Anglos, like himself. But he did not sense the group was interested in hearing about his dream, much less his fear. Everyone was saying, “It’s a time to stand up for our rights. No more submission to blackmail! No more appeasement!” In light of these sentiments, there could be no flag for Bruce.
But the edgy spring turned into a tranquil summer. The new Premier claimed there was little chance of an election in the autumn, and proved it by going to California to sit on a beach with his in-laws. It was resolved that the group reconvene in mid-September. Bruce and Geneviève spent their vacation at her mother’s, in a village in the south of France.
No one there cared about Canada or Quebec.
The Drug Dealer’s Son
A wet and chilly morning in early spring. Miko sits on the bench in the slushy park and replays it in his mind. The way she never budges. The way she’s so damn tough about it. The way he always tries to appeal to her heart, and fails. “So soon, Ma…it happens so soon.”
“I can’t help with that. It costs money, you know.”
How she never even looks up; just keeps rolling her pastry dough, rolling it so thin.
“Ah, Ma, you talk about money.”
“We have to eat, Miko.”
Or sets another bowl of soup in front of his face.
Miko always tells her what it’s like. “My body gets so empty…all the worst things come to fill it. Why can’t you listen?” Like right now: he’s shivering; his body is crawling all over his bones, squeezing itself into holes inside him.
She only smiles — but sadly. “Miko, your little body was always my greatest delight, in the bath or in the bed with your Pa and me, it was the one bright spot in this dirty life. Now look at you. You should eat something.”
He can’t eat. Why can’t she believe it? He says, “I love you, Ma. I gave my body to the family business.”
She says, “Don’t be crude.”
“You could’ve stopped me.” This is Miko’s excuse. And his plea.
What does she tell him? “You’re a man, Miko. I couldn’t stop you.”
God, it hurts! And he’s cold…“You’re my mother. You had to stop me. Look. My hands’re going already.” Miko will hold them above the table. Warm kitchen, windy park, doesn’t matter — they twitch. It’s like in one of those movies where there’s an alien inside. But Ma sips her coffee. It doesn’t matter to her either. He could be some hooker. Or one of those Haitian cab drivers who comes at two in the morning. Business is business.
She says, “I love you, Miko…I want you to be a man.”
He says, “I love you, Ma. Just one more?”
“How can you do this to me?”
“How can you do this to me?”
“I’m your mother.”
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br /> “You’re my mother…my own damn mother!”
“I’m not listening to this.” She goes back to her pastry. Rolling, rolling, rolling…
“It’s so grey, Ma.”
“No, Miko.”
“Just grey.”
And this will go on for the better part of three hours, until the last echo disappears behind the ache. He’s in the park watching the dogs. Miko, the drug dealer’s son. Everyone knows him. Everyone knows Ma, Pa, and what they do. To hell with all of them! He curls forward, cradling his gut, warming it with the pressure of his arms, pushing, rocking, trying to send some warmth through… Ah, Ma! Why?
Because he’s her son: His excuse, his plea…and the reason.
Today there’s one of those boot-sized collies yapping, a shepherd leaving a steaming mound of shit by the slide, and a slobbering retriever jumping up at everyone’s chest. Miko wonders: if he had Pa’s gun, with only one bullet, which would it be? “Hey kid,” he asks of the twelve-year-old girl, “how much you give me to drown your dog there?”
She stares at him. “Comprends pas.”
“Pretty fucking stupid girl.”
The girl goes to the slide and collects the shepherd’s waste in a plastic bag, reattaches the leash to its collar and leaves, hurrying away down Chateaubriand without a glance back.
Brings it down to two, thinks Miko, taking a quarter from his pocket and testing its weight with some trial flips. Heads, the collie, tails that asinine retriever. But then a poodle comes trotting out of the lane behind the maison de retraite and into the park. Straightaway the thing pees on five different bushes. Miko sees piss dripping. He smells it…tastes it. Miko tastes poodle piss as if it were mixing in his heart. He puts the coin away and reconsiders the problem of the worst damn dog.
Then there’s that legless geek again, in the electric wheelchair with his sign: Last Days of Montreal… The guy’s been passing through the park a lot lately, looking like he lost something. The sight of him bugs the hell out of Miko’s eyes. And Vic from across the street — walks around like he owns the goddamn world, makes Miko mad because really he doesn’t own dick. Miko thinks he should kill them both. Yeah, Vic and the geek, blow ’em away. Then Miko remembers: just one bullet…
Jesus! The tightening in Miko’s chest makes him choose the geek. Hmm, yeah, his damn body’s even worse than mine. I should put the guy out of his pain. Because, sitting in the park, a kid’s kind of place where people are supposed to be relaxing, Miko would rather remember something like his father pushing him on a swing. And his grandfather, Marko: brown hands, lines like coffee icing spreading round his chocolate eyes, and the grey cap...brought it with him all the way from the old country, covering his silver hair. But Miko’s body won’t let him keep an image like that one. No way. It’s the body that’s in control.
The body makes everything suck.
Two hours to go. Sweat on the palms. He stands. Better get back and go to bed.
Coming up the lane, Miko meets Marcellin, a downers freak who’s been coming to his mother for years. Marcellin’s eyes are lost somewhere under the rim of his greasy Expos cap. Ugly; never takes it off, not even when he comes into the kitchen. The bills Marcellin lays on the table are crumpled and grubby. Skinny coke hookers are five times better than Marcellin. Speed cabbies are shining priests compared with Marcellin. As someone who has watched them all come and go, Miko can state categorically that Marcellin doesn’t know the first thing about pain. Just a jerk-off.
“Man,” he sneers as Marcellin slinks past, “you got a brain like a tired goldfish.”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Marcellin.
“Yeah, yeah…shit!” Because now it’s in his stomach again, twisting like a dried-out rag. And with each twist he hears the word “Ma!”
Miko’s two sisters live with their boyfriends in the other house, ten doors along St. Gédéon, Lalli up, Stella down. The girls run the tanning salon and look after the banking. They have all grown into the business, and at a certain point Miko said fine, who cares about manicures and counting money — he would stick to bar drops and collecting incoming product. And those were good times for a bit. Had a red Mustang. But he got too strung out one night there — testing product? yeah, well…and ran it into a tree on Belanger, three hundred yards from that Italian ice cream place, one scoop of baci and one of nougat all over his face. Pa smacked him back and forth across the street, right in front of the cops. Then he had the Spider, black with red trim, but they got him running lights on Pie IX and he flunked the breathalyser so they took away his licence and the thing rusted in the garage. Pa, who had been trying to ease into retirement, had to step back in till Stella met Stan.
Stan had done a total of two years on the inside and knew everyone. He had a lemon yellow Viper and never made a bad move. Stan and Stell were even talking about having a kid. Miko liked him, wanted to work with him, and, for a while, got back on the road with an unregistered Tercel. But Ma kept talking about the risk. So Miko tried the clinic but it was such a drag. Then Lalli found Gerry and there was lots of work for him too. “Give Pa the rest he’s long deserved,” she said. What she didn’t say was that Miko was a fuck-up.
But why say it, Miko? You only have to look.
Right on cue, Gerry squeals up to the house like some cop, jumps out, rings and runs inside without so much as a “hi.” Gerry’s Blazer has smoked windows. Gerry wears Gore-Tex sweats and plays hockey on Tuesday night. Fucking “Gerry of St. Gédéon.” The more he goes around saying that, the more he should be killed. It’s me, thinks Miko, I’m the drug dealer’s son. He’s thinking of ways to top Gerry when another cramp hits like a poke with a fork. Cristomadonn…jeez!
Miko crosses the street and goes inside. Pa, watching the news, waves his gun. Just a reaction. Pa doesn’t like it when people came in without ringing. Some pissed-off guy stormed into the kitchen ten years ago and grabbed Ma by the neck. Pa had to shoot him and there’d been a lot of trouble. It was on the news, French and English both. They were poor for more than a year after that and it was lucky Pa still had the coin laundry going. Now Stan, Gerry and the girls all ring. Pa himself even rings when he comes back from his morning coffee with his friends.
Miko doesn’t ring. Miko is his fucking son.
But Pa still waves his piece…then goes back to his news.
Gerry goes rushing out again, all business.
Back in the kitchen, Ma is doing her sausages, has the big grinder going, waxed paper and string all over the table, hands oily and pink from paprika, the big red blotches under her eyes. Miko’s on an eight-hour cycle and it doesn’t matter if he’s in a cold sweat, no one wants to hear about it. That’s the rule. So he goes into his room, shuts the door and sits on his bed.
The Gazette is spread across the floor. Staring at it as he hugs himself, Miko makes categories: Killers who kill children. Killers who kill wives or girlfriends. Separatist politicians. Normal politicians. Lazy union bastards who fall asleep on the job. Bank presidents who make too much and fire their tellers. Rock stars. Hockey players. Baseball players. Soccer players…all these guys who make too much. The guy who owns Disneyland. And Windows, who is supposed to be the richest in the world. Haitians vs. Jamaicans. Bikers who blow up kids and steal Ma’s customers. Cops who beat up faggots vs. the cops who kill blacks…Miko takes after his father when it comes to the news. He likes to study it and know what’s going on. As he makes his lists he picks the worst one from each group. Too bad for Disneyland and Windows: they’re all he knows in those categories so they will be the ones who get it in the head.
Miko’s window faces the street. Three kids run by, into a martial arts thing, spinning and kicking, stopping just short of the other guy’s teeth. The only time Miko ever moved like that was when Pa hit him in the face for shoving Ma when she told him he was turning into a junkie and he should learn some self-control. He’d missed Pa, who knew how to fight, and that was probably lucky…Watching those kids, it doesn’t seem too
likely he’ll ever move like that again. Miko will be thirty-five in July and his body is seizing up. Sure he knows it. He’s not stupid, for God’s sake.
God! Now the pain is up behind his eyes.
Then down in his thighs, circling his balls like bugs. Please!
Miko lies on his bed and puts his pillow over his head to drown the noise from the street…from the television…from the kitchen. There is still an hour to go.
The doorbell rings. He looks and sees another taxi waiting in front of the house. Miko goes back under his pillow and wishes he could kill all the taxi drivers who know where to come, and all the neighbours who know why they come, and all the kids who make noise, and the dogs, and his sisters too. The last hour is when it really gets bad.
But by the time Miko has killed everybody who deserves to be killed, it’s time. He gets up from his bed, stops first at the bathroom to wash his face, then goes into the kitchen. Pa has a coffee. Ma has washed the sausage makings off her hands and is taking care of Lou, whose father, Lou Sr., had done deliveries like Pa until he’d been put inside Ste-Anne-des-Plaines for something someone else had done, but which was also part of the job. There he had recently died a violent death.
“Hi, Lou.”
“Miko, how’s it going?…Anyway, Magdalena, I’m telling you right now, that fucker is dead. I got some people in there working on it.”
Ma sets her jaw and nods, patient — she’s always patient. She hears stuff like that every day. Finally Lou stops talking, gets out his cash. Ma gets out the product.
After Lou leaves, Ma sighs. “He’s going to spend all his money here. Lou Sr.’s too. He won’t be able to have no one working on anything.”
“OK, Ma?” Miko’s not interested in Lou — neither his problem nor his plan.
She gives him what he needs and he goes back into the bathroom.
Then Miko comes and sits with his parents.
“It’s beautiful, Ma.”
“I don’t know why you do this to me, Miko.”
