Last Days of Montreal

by John Brooke

  Yes, there are two sides to every life and now she thinks she might be winning.

  Les belles couleurs (4)

  In April, traffic reporter René Bonenfant asked Marcel Beaulé’s producer if they could talk. René did the traffic reports for Marcel’s show, surveying the rush-hour situation from his helicopter, circling, hovering, high and low, all over Montreal. He reported to Marcel at eight, twelve, twenty and twenty-eight past the hour, then again at twenty, twelve, eight and two minutes to. As with everyone else on the team, he and Marcel were meant to sound like friends. But it was not easy, what with Marcel’s continuing blue mood, and especially if you were having to do it from the other end of a phone line in a noisy helicopter. René took a lunch meeting with Sylvain Talbot and asked if there might not be something in Marcel’s private life about which he could strike up a conversation that could be the basis of an ongoing rapport. His beloved car perhaps?

  “You could try,” said Sylvain, “but cars are what you’re there to talk about. People need some contrast.”

  “Well, then,” said René, “what does he like?”

  The producer shrugged. “Coffee. Books about famous military campaigns…”

  “Hockey?”

  “He gave up on the Canadiens when they shipped Roy to Colorado.”

  “Ah, oui,” averred René, “…right after the vote. That thing really blew his mind, I think.”

  The producer did not disagree. The two men stared into the middle distance. They poked away at their poutine.

  “Patriotism,” said Sylvain. “Marcel likes patriotism. Quebec-oriented, of course.”

  “That’s tricky territory,” said René.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “Even worse when you have the sound of a chopper in the BG.”

  “René, I’m only trying to help you with this problem.”

  “And I appreciate your time. But how do you talk about patriotism before going to a jam-up on the 2 & 20?”

  Marcel’s producer shook his head and asked for the bill.

  Two days later, against a pink April dawn spreading over the river, René’s pilot passed him a message as they met on the tarmac at ten to six. “From your station.”

  René unfolded the scrap of paper and found a single word: “Flags!”

  Thus the seed that spawned the brilliant concept that became Les belles couleurs.

  Les belles couleurs… Marcel’s producer said, “C’est superbe!”

  And like all good ideas, basically simple:

  René, aloft in the chopper, would find a flag and give the location. He’d say, for example, “It’s on the lawn with the pink flamingos at the eastern tip of Terrebonne — with the purple van in the driveway.” If the listener was not alerted by that, like as not he or she would come out to investigate the racket caused by the hovering helicopter, see the station’s call-number on its side and either clue in and call, or simply call to complain. Either way, they…or a neighbour, a relative or friend who heard René (or his chopper) ended up in a chat with Marcel about the flag. And if it started as an angry call, well, that was soon charmed away by Marcel as he delved into what it meant, how long it had been there, what their children thought about it, and any other pertinent hopes and dreams attached to the fleur-de-lis. All flag fliers received a copy of Marcel’s book, Un coeur ennobli. Since its inception, half a dozen listeners had been able to make it downtown, to sit across from a beaming Marcel in the booth and talk about their flags. The thing was a winner. Not only were their ratings up — four points since May, an amazing feat given the usual summer downturn — but so was the number of flags. At least according to René.

  Most important of all, Marcel Beaulé was happy again.

  He had returned from his holiday early, having taken a scant three weeks away. It was his way of atoning. He told his producer, admitted openly to the team, that he hadn’t been himself for a stretch there and that perhaps he’d been giving his listeners less than his all. But Les belles couleurs had put him right again, and he felt an obligation to help the show regather any lost ground through the summer months. It was, after all, the season for flags.

  And with René as his eyes, there was no more need to ply the streets in his famous car.

  When Miriam Poirier, manager at the Maison Villeray retirement home, called Father Martin Legault to tell him that radio host Marcel Beaulé was impressed by Madame Lamotte’s flag and wanted to honour her on a segment of his show called Les belles couleurs, Father Martin told her he was not familiar with Les belles couleurs, that his mornings were far too busy to listen to the radio. Father Martin told Miriam he had a presbytery to renovate and it was not going to be cheap. He and his committee had planned a corn-husking party as a fundraiser for the third Saturday in August. A supply of corn had been contracted for, a liquor permit secured. A country and western band was also going to be part of the fun. Father Martin was a big fan; there was something inherently satisfying in a line dance. But ticket sales had been slow and the renovator was refusing to begin until the necessary funds were in his bank. Father Martin understood; it was just business; the man had his workers to pay. Still…

  Miriam said a representative from the radio had been pestering members of her staff to facilitate an interview between Marcel Beaulé and Madame Lamotte since mid-July…

  Father Martin said he had not seen Madame Lamotte at mass for some time now.

  …although of course they had refused these requests. Miriam assured Father Martin that regardless of their personal political beliefs, the maison staff knew their main responsibility was for the well-being of the residents. The reason Father Martin had not seen Madame Lamotte at mass was because she was now housebound, too fragile to walk the two blocks from the maison and, sadly, even if she could, the poor woman would likely get lost, such was her increasingly enfeebled state of mind. Miriam said her staff had told Marcel Beaulé’s representative that Madame Lamotte did not need excitement at this stage of her life. She was not at her best in the mornings.

  The man, very pushy, had said Monsieur Beaulé would be happy to tape the interview during the afternoon, at the maison, in her apartment, sitting with her — at Madame Lamotte’s pleasure.

  No, they’d told him, she would be confused. It would mean nothing to her. It would not work.

  He had suggested Madame Lamotte could speak to Monsieur Beaulé with the aid of an intermediary. “…A friend?”

  But they’d held firm: She was too old. There was no one who knew her that closely.

  But the man would not give up. “One of her children?” he’d asked.

  They told him, “Her children are not available.”

  “One of you?”

  They told him, “We cannot.”

  And, inevitably, he had put it to them: “Her priest?”

  The maison staff had said, “You must leave the lady in peace. She is past politics.”

  Wishing to help out, Father Martin called Marcel Beaulé’s representative to confirm this. “The lady is not political, monsieur. Her flag is a spiritual thing.”

  “As it is for Monsieur Beaulé,” replied the representative.

  “Then he will understand the special privacy involved…” It seemed, in parting, that the man was sympathetic and that Marcel Beaulé would leave Madame Lamotte alone. But in the process of the exchange Father Martin had obviously divulged too much. The next day, after another fruitless visit to the manager of the parish savings account, the presbytery phone rang.

  “Martin,” said the priest, always businesslike in answering.

  “Martin, Marcel Beaulé.”

  “Ah, yes…” Although he never — well, rarely — listened, Father Martin was slightly thrilled to admit there was no mistaking that voice.

  The famous morning man chatted with Martin, establishing common acquaintances amongst the clergy before bringing the conversation around to the parish fundraiser. Then Marcel Beaulé was also highly businesslike as he laid out the well
-documented financial benefits to be derived from one of his personal appearances and the fee such a service usually commanded. In this instance, however, all he asked was that Father Martin get her to listen to the show.

  “Her?”

  “Marie-Claire Lamotte.”

  “Oh, her…That’s all?”

  “Very simple, Père. I will do the rest.”

  “She won’t understand.”

  “I believe she will.”

  They printed up another flyer to be distributed around the parish. Soon, with Marcel Beaulé’s name in bold letters at the top, ticket sales were indeed booming. Father Martin knew the presbytery renovation project would succeed. And so he visited Madame Lamotte, to persuade her to accept the gift of a small radio. “It’s good to have company,” he advised.

  She said, “I would like some Black Label beer.”

  He chuckled. But as the discussion circled in on itself yet again, he realized this was not an old woman’s whimsy, but a bargaining point: without the beer she would have nothing to do with the radio. Well, thought Father Martin, a priest’s life is designed to be beset by tests and misgivings; otherwise, what use is it? He was wondering if one deception can be mitigated by another honesty: in this case, his word to Marcel Beaulé. Before leaving, he set all the radio’s search buttons at the same channel and heard Madame Lamotte’s abrupt promise to tune in, in exchange for beer.

  Then Father Martin found Teresa Valverde, a Salvadoran woman who worked as a housekeeper on Madame Lamotte’s floor. She lived, sometimes with her husband Guario, sometimes not — these families fleeing from political strife had such difficulties! — and three young children, above a bric-à-brac shop on St. Hubert Street across from the church. Her attendance at mass was exemplary, and she had always patronized the parish kermesse, held twice a year in the church basement. Father Martin felt that with the correct appeal and some just negotiation, he could depend on Teresa Valverde to help him. He explained the old woman’s loneliness in poignant terms, and her odd request for beer in exchange for her promise to listen to voices from the outside world.

  Teresa said, “But, Père, she seems to love the silence.”

  Martin countered, “This is something that will surely brighten up her long days, and with luck, her mind.”

  “What about the beer?” asked Teresa, referring to the more real problem of Miriam Poirier and her nurses.

  Martin smiled. “At her age, it can’t hurt much. Why shouldn’t she be happy?”

  Apart from the maison rules, Teresa could not think of a reason.

  Martin said, “Voilà.” In exchange for this service Teresa required Father Martin’s promise to let her and her family, which might well include her mother and her brothers, and Guario if he happened to be in the picture, into the church basement a full hour before the opening of the fall kermesse so they could have first pick before the crowds arrived. Martin agreed. Then Martin supplied Teresa with an elegant antique cologne bottle which he’d snapped up at last spring’s kermesse before the throng was allowed in, and a package of Red Dye Number One: “For the nurses’ sake,” he whispered with a soft grin. Leaving the maison, Martin fended off the thought of Marcel Beaulé’s machinations by contemplating the notion of many promises strung through the parish and beyond…through the air-waves…maybe unto heaven. After all, it was a promise that had inspired the idea of the balcony and the flag. The meat of this would make a compelling sermon.

  And a renewed presbytery would benefit many for many years to come.

  Bruce and Geneviève stayed home that summer. He’d been taking his holidays in short spurts, according to the weather. Early August was the zenith. He sat on the balcony with a large can of beer in hand and music in his headphones. Below, the garden was redolent and drooping with colour. Geneviève was reclining in her chair, studying her book. She wore a faded tangerine bikini that may have been getting too small. She was brown, but not relaxed. She had reached a difficult time in her life and had been erratic, changing their plans on a moment’s notice, highly restless since the spring. Beside her, a cluster of starlings foraged in the branches of the lilac tree. When Gen shifted, they rose as a flock and then resettled. Feeling a warm breeze, Bruce looked up, nodding to a smooth rhythm in the phones, communing with the two giant poplars that graced the lane.

  Beyond the poplars, on her sixth-floor perch, sat the old lady.

  As usual — as Bruce had been observing with the help of his binoculars — she’d been there since breakfast, alone with her flag. The rest of the maison residents had potted plants on their balconies. Geraniums were the favourite. One had also arranged an elaborate rose trellis. And they had fringed parasols opened over plastic garden tables, and they hung their washing to dry on folding racks. Afternoons such as this, they received visitors — children, grandchildren — who sat on the balconies and chatted and ate, and bustled in and out of the apartments as if there were actually lots that needed doing at Grandmère’s. The old lady with the flag never had flowers on display. Nor laundry. Never any visitors except women dressed in institutional white.

  Bruce sipped beer as he lifted the binoculars, studying her: The constant supine pose upon her lawn chair. What remained of her hair appeared wispy and infant-like, as the hair of the very old can become. She was mainly bulk in a drab brown shift, feet peeking out at one end, tiny head at the other, tilted upward. Always upward, like a cloud expert, watching… He thought of sculpture: she was Moore-esque, a preternatural blend of amorphous earth and timeless woman. Her effect on Bruce’s summer-warmed mind was of something primordial, something that makes a man feel small, almost nothing in the face of it. She was there, always and forever; as was her flag, dipping and jostling in the sporadic breeze.

  Bruce sipped beer. Like him, she wore headphones as she sat; she held a portable device on her lap. And again today (like Bruce), she was swigging as she passed the time. He watched her take yet another swallow of something candy-red from a bottle that was too small in the body for wine, too delicate in the neck to be liqueur. Bruce was stumped. It was as if she had a taste for cologne. Perhaps it was her medicine. When she moved in and out of her apartment she did so with a cumbersome difficulty, and maybe it was something to ease her pain. Whatever it was, she was loyal to it. The liquid’s jewel-like ruby glint highlighted the vibrant blue in her flag.

  Bruce sipped beer, pondering the mystery of an old woman’s lonely existence. Why a flag but never a flower? Because flowers died and flags did not? If he could get closer, look into her eyes, she might explain it. But he wasn’t going to do that. Not today. A perfect day! Elysian, like paradise is bound to be if the Lord has any sense of beauty. Bruce lifted his beer for another swig but it was empty. It was such a perfect day and he wanted another. He’d have to go the depanneur for more. On his way out, he noticed a flyer in the mailbox and fished it out. It was from the parish: To support the much-needed renovations to the presbytery there would be une épluchette de blé d’inde et soirée musicale Western et Country. And there would be a special appearance by Marcel Beaulé. Marcel Beaulé? Wasn’t he that separatist morning man?

  A corn-husking party with C&W in French: Could be fun, thought Bruce. A two-step might be just the ticket to loosen up Gen’s mood. He put the flyer in his pocket and headed for the depanneur…

  A Turn in Menocchio’s World

  1. Nature’s void

  “Not fair,” hisses Geneviève. It’s this menopause that refuses to happen.

  But her doctor cannot help her.

  “Ce n’est pas juste!” Moaning to no one, hurrying for home, hateful wind assaulting her face, grey sky nothing but a burden on her fragile patience. Montreal is hell in spring.

  It’s mid-April and dregs of unholy snow lie frozen in these crumbling streets, these shabby sidewalks still strewn with garbage preserved in ice and blotted with stony canine turd whichever way she steps. Schoolchildren slouch along like imbeciles, bored to death with boots, coats opened hopefully,
dangerously with this wind. Hoping in vain, Geneviève knows. Mid-April!… And now a derelict man in a wheelchair, drinking beer. It looks like he’s praying, and the sign behind him says Last Days of Montreal… Oh, oui, oui, oui! This city is forsaken. Regards: cranky citizens who should know better steeping themselves in another language fight — the newspaper under her arm features the spectacle of senior citizens from the Two Solitudes lined up like street gangs, threatening each other outside the hospital where a black immigrant English-speaking nurse has allegedly screamed at a pure laine French-speaking patient to speak white. And Bruce, the Anglo she shares her life with, all he can do is whine on and on about feeble hockey players and the gold mine stock debacle. He’s mired in it too, this ugly, endless winter.

  But how can she help him? How can she help anyone?

  Of all forsaken, miserable Montrealers, Geneviève believes she has been singled out.

  She’s approaching a significant juncture in her life and it makes her nervous. Confused. Because the signs are skewed. Again this morning she has talked it over with her doctor and there’s no question that the time has come. “The change?” She has adjusted her diet. She has made the decision about hormone therapy and duly affixed a patch to her body. She has been reading whatever she can find and feels ready. And she has had a dream of herself re-emerging with the lilac blossom in the yard to a different kind of beauty, a deeper sense of spring. Indeed, all the literature has said that if she does it right it can be a distinctly spiritual time. Instead, despite Marie-Claire magazine’s best advice on diet, Geneviève is popping buttons, feeling fat and fed up.

  It is not supposed to be like this. And the ridiculous weather…

  She wonders, How can I change if the world will not?