by Mel Bossa
“The shanties?” Widow Leary scrubs harder, her cheeks reddening from the effort. “You’re fit for Saint-Jean de Dieu, if you think that’s proper work for a man. Living with a crew of stinking bodies, hacking wood all day, and catching lice. Surviving on hard bread and—”
“Rum. And don’t be sending me off to the asylum just yet.” He winks and leans his shoulder on the wall, near the picture of Christ with his golden hair and tender blue eyes. The only decoration in the room. “Or at least, not until I’ve paid off my debt to you.”
She’s holding back a laugh, her rounded shoulders shaking a little. “Oh, to think your saint of a mother named you after a priest.” She shakes a dripping finger at him. “Get outta here before I ruin these rags.”
“Thank you for taking such good care of my mother,” he says, more seriously, before stepping away to his mother’s room.
“Oh, don’t you thank me for doing God’s will,” she singsongs behind him, her Irish brogue coming through. “But wait a minute, young man. Haven’t you been going around the parish, up and down these streets, talking about workers’ rights and now you’re joining up with a sawmill?”
McGauran shoots her a look over his shoulder. “Never said so. Gonna be one of Gédéon Latendresse’s men. Gonna go out to his house today and ask him for a job.”
Her eyes widen and she quickly crosses herself.
“What is it?”
She shivers exaggeratedly. “That man is hexed. That whole family is.”
He tries not to laugh. “Now, Mrs. Leary, you don’t believe in all those old tales, do you?”
“Oh, this isn’t an old tale, Mac.” She lowers her voice, as though someone could be listening. “It’s a true story. True as I stand here.” Again, she crosses herself. “Folks say Gédéon Latendresse was a bad seed. Nothing like his brother George junior. Now listen here, Gédéon fell in love with his brother’s fiancée, a girl from south of the border, believe it or not. Some fine American lady. Talk about coveting, huh? The boys’ father, George senior, was afraid the two brothers would kill each other over the girl, so he sent Gédéon up to the logging camps to teach his sinning son a lesson and make sure George junior could marry his gal without incident. Now, this is where it gets interesting, Mac.” She pauses, for effect he supposes. “At the camp, Gédéon received a letter from a friend, telling him the wedding was planned for New Year’s Day, after the traditional father’s blessing and all. Oh, well, now, Big Baptiste, that French Canadian with the limp, he was there at the shanties that night, and he swears that Gédéon turned into a lunatic and made a pact with the Devil so he could get to the girl before the morning and try to change her mind.” Mrs. Leary lowers her voice until he can barely hear her. “He rode the witchin’ canoe. From the lumber camps. It was on New Year’s Eve. Landed right here in Montreal. Oh, I think, twenty years ago.”
He’s heard this tale before. Something about a flying canoe. A spell. The Devil. Lonely lumberjacks wanting to come home for a night. La chasse galerie, the French call it.
She grabs his arm. “Listen,” she says, pushing something into his coat pocket. “Folks say Gédéon cheated that night. Broke one of the rules. And now the Devil’s come back for his due. You’ll need this if you go into that house.”
He feels for her gift inside his pocket. Beads. It’s her rosary. “All right,” he sputters, not knowing what else to say. Superstitions. All of it.
“They’re all a bunch of devil-worshipers, that’s what they are.” Widow Leary stares out the dirty window pane by the stove. “Oh, and the worst kind, too.” She scrunches her face. “French Canadian bourgeoisie.”
Chapter 3: Charmed
Walking up Saint-Denis Street, McGauran slowly begins to lose his confidence. How can these people live in their ornamented mansions, riding glittering carriages up and down these paved streets, while his mother toils eleven hours a day over a machine in a shoe factory which affords her no sunlight or fresh air?
How fair is that?
What do they have that he doesn’t? He knows things, too. He can read and write just as good as these people can, maybe even better. His mother taught him, as her adoptive mother had taught her. And he’s visited the Fraser Institute. He’s even read some books. History, mostly. And some papers on botany, too. A few science journals. He’s learned things in the last years. He’s no fool.
Maybe he should have stayed ignorant and pious. Why does he have to question everything so much? Father Hayes tells him it’s a sin…all this pride.
Mulling over these thoughts, McGauran quickly reaches the famous Saint-Louis Square. A water reservoir used to be here, before they moved it up to the southern slope of the Mount Royal, and now in its place is this quaint little park the French Canadian aristocrats have recently claimed as their territory. The rich sure know how to embellish their quarters. He can imagine Widow Leary’s boys having a place like this to run around in. How thrilled they’d be. How grateful, too. Grass and trees are a rare sight where he comes from. Never mind flowers.
The spring air is sweet in these parts, and as he walks across the square, digging his hands into his pockets, McGauran can feel people watching him from their benches. His reefer coat is tattered. His trousers are a bit too short, and loose around the ankles, out of fashion. When he passes two young women giggling coyly under their parasols, he glances over his shoulder at the prettier of the two. She blushes, and the two hurry away, skirts rustling over the tips of their patent boots.
He could seduce them, he knows it. Women, rich or not, stare at him whenever he walks by. He hears the local girls whispering in church. Sees their hungry eyes on him whenever he kneels for communion. He’s heard the older women in town call him the best catch of Saint-Anne’s ward.
What’s wrong with him that he can’t desire any of those girls back? How simple his life could be, if only he were a normal man. He’s prayed and prayed about it, but nothing has changed. If anything, his lust for men has become almost too strong to contain. At times, he fears it.
How long before he gives in to it again and gets caught?
Nervously, McGauran adjusts his plain black necktie, which is beginning to feel like a tightrope around his neck and hurries his pace. Now isn’t the time to be thinking about this. He needs to keep his mind on why he’s here. Heart in mouth, he crosses the square to the Latendresse home on Laval Avenue. John Baldwin told him what to look for and gave him the door number. The house is a mansion, and he has to pause to stare at it from the other side of the narrow street. The three-story grandiose home is built of gray stone and expensive dark bricks on which ivy has begun to cling. The front garden is thriving with all kinds of shrubbery, wild flowers, and newly planted trees, and like painted eyes, the house’s many large windows are flanked with shutters that gleam black in the sun. A cobblestone side way leads to the lower part of the house which has its own side door. He suspects that’s where the servants and cooks live. White marble columns surround the wide balcony, but what impresses him the most is the tower standing a story higher than the rest of the house. With its pointed black roof, it reminds him of a castle. The windows in the tower look directly at the park. Whose room?
Climbing up to the heavily ornamented wrought-iron porch, he pauses to take another shallow breath. Finally, he knocks on the black-lacquered door. That’s when he realizes he isn’t wearing gloves. A proper gentleman always wears gloves.
But then again, his coat is a size too small for him. He isn’t fooling anyone.
A man with a thin but attractive face, the valet McGauran supposes, cracks the door open. At the sight of him, the man’s golden green eyes slowly narrow as though he’s seeing someone familiar and not him. “Yes?” he inquires in a slightly nasal voice.
“I’m here for Monsieur Latendresse. He—he knows me. I’ve worked for him before. Can you please tell him that Mac O’Dowd is here to see him.” His voice jumps a little. “If you could…please. Sir.”
The valet has d
elicate features, a daintiness about him. “And you don’t have an appointment?”
In the house, someone is playing the piano loudly, hitting the notes at a speed he’s never heard before. For a second, McGauran loses track of his thoughts. “I—I don’t have an appointment, sir.”
“Then I’m sorry, young man.” The valet shuts the door in his face. But not too hard.
McGauran sighs and knocks again.
The door opens. “There’s a plague going around. I don’t wish to have you forcibly removed.” But again, there’s a hint of kindness in the man’s face. He seems more annoyed than angry. “Off you go now.”
“Wait, see, sir, I need to see him. I know he’s hiring, and if I don’t talk with him today, I’ll miss my chance.” McGauran tries another approach, leaning in a little. “I’m desperate. I need this money.”
“Qui est à la porte?” a man asks, somewhere in the house, but nearby. His voice is young and happy, full of zest.
“Go back to your practice!” With a smile, the valet snaps his head around. “And please, try not to wreck the keys!”
“I’ll do no such thing.” The young man’s face appears behind the valet’s shoulder, but before McGauran can get a good look at him, the valet shuts the door again. He hears the older man scolding the younger one in a somewhat paternal tone. There’s affection in the valet’s voice.
Again, the door opens.
This time, the young man is the one standing in the doorway. Resting his shoulder on the jamb, he gives McGauran a quizzical look. “You wish to see my uncle?” He has a charming French Canadian accent. Under his dark arched brows, his eyes are large, of a celestial gray-blue, maybe mischievous, but gentle, too. His hair, thick and black as coal, is parted to the side, swept away carelessly. He opens the door wider and gives him a bright smile. “Please, do come in.” The young man wears a tailored black frock coat over a red waistcoat threaded with gold designs and on which hangs a silver pocket watch. His shirt collar is chin high, stiff and starched, not a shadow of a stain on it. His fine silk necktie has a touch of blue in it, and McGauran can’t help noticing that it’s the same gray-blue as the young man’s eyes.
This man can’t be real. He’s a conjuration. An apparition from one of his secret nightly dreams. McGauran has never seen a more enchanting face. “Yes,” he finally answers, remembering to breathe. “I’d be eternally grateful.”
“Oh, don’t waste eternity on that.” The young man steps aside. “Well, my uncle is busy fornicating with his mistress, but I’m sure he’ll be in a generous—”
“Good Lord,” the valet says, walking up to the door, “have you no shame?” He gently grabs the young man’s elbow. “Go on, you p’tite peste.” But he’s clearly holding back a smile.
When the young man laughs, his teeth, so straight and white, shine in his mouth. “Bernard, please have Maggie bring tea and biscuits for mister…?” He stops and frowns. “Your name?”
“O’Dowd.” He tips his worn derby hat.
“Well, Mr. O’Dowd and I will be in the parlor.” The elegant host walks off, the heels of his ankle-boots clicking against the polished hardwood floor in the vestibule. “Please, take his coat and hat.”
In the azure-blue entrance, Bernard relieves McGauran of his coat and hat, and then hangs both items on the coat stand. “Where did you come from?”
Self-conscious, McGauran runs a hand through his red hair, hoping it isn’t too wild. “Uh, Griffintown, sir.”
Bernard looks him over. “I see. That area has been devastated by the flood, hasn’t it?”
“That’s right.” Among other things.
“How are the people holding up down there?”
Down there. Yes, beneath the hill. “We always make do,” he says, holding on to his pride. “We’ll get through this, too.”
“Yes, but with that terrible outbreak—”
“I’m not sick, if that’s what you mean. And I’m not gonna get sick either.” So far, he hasn’t told anyone about the vaccine. Not even his mother. But what does he care if the government doctor stuck cow blood or whatever in him? He’ll sort it out with God later. Right now, he wants more life. “I got vaccinated last year,” he says, real low, unfastening the first button of his shirt. “I can show you my scar.”
“No, no, no, that won’t be necessary,” the old man stammers, blushing. “I believe you.” He coughs dryly and steps back. “It was a wise thing to do, young man. Brave, too. But please keep your shirt on.”
Somewhere down the large hall, the young man’s musical voice is heard again. “Bernard, he’s my guest, not yours!” His boyish laughter echoes through the large house, chasing McGauran’s dark thoughts away. “Don’t be selfish!”
Bernard regains his composure. “There will be no tea or biscuits, and you will not bother the young master for more than a few minutes. He has a nervous condition and must be spared any excitement.”
Nervous condition? What does that mean exactly? He’s seen the ads in the paper advertising all sorts of bizarre treatments for women’s nerves, but can men suffer from this type of ailment, too?
“I suggest that you sit and be quiet and I will see about getting you a brief appointment with Monsieur Latendresse. Senior.”
“Thank you. That’s very generous of you.” McGauran leans back on the heels of his worn boots. “That’s all I hope for.”
“Well, then, follow me. And don’t touch anything, please.”
As they make their way down the luxurious hallway, McGauran’s heart races like a horse at the tracks. He gapes around at the crowded hall cluttered with furniture, foot lamps, statues, and various other trinkets. Paintings, all encased in large gold frames, hang loosely on every papered wall in a disorganized manner. He wants to stop and look at the one of the ballerina dancers, but Bernard is walking fast ahead. Then the valet turns to glance at him over his thin shoulder. “That’s a Degas. Do you know the Impressionists?”
He hasn’t read much about art.
“It’s all about the light, Mr. O’Dowd. The beauty it reveals.” Bernard stops. “I’ve heard that Monet settled in a garden home in Giverny where he paints the same lily pond over and over. Obsession can lead to marvelous things, but it can destroy an artist’s mind, don’t you agree?”
No one has ever bothered to ask him such questions. McGauran thinks about it for a moment, then says, “Well, it’s difficult to create something that wasn’t there before, so I suppose it would make a man want to get it right, absolutely right.”
The valet watches him and smiles kindly. “Very astute observation.” He continues down the hall, which now begins to separate into a narrower passage leading to more rooms at the right, and a wide, deep-red carpeted staircase that turns and opens into a beautiful dark-wood balustrade circling the second-floor landing.
The walls in this part of the house are covered with golden oak and glimmer under the light of a low hanging chandelier. McGauran stares up at the stunning crystal piece above his head. Those aren’t candles in there, but glass bulbs.
“Monsieur Latendresse had the whole house wired with electricity last year. No more awful gas lamps or kerosene oil in this house.”
Electricity…Around the quarter, people say men died because of those wires. Shocked to death.
“Oh, here is the telephone. But please, don’t touch it.”
McGauran stares at the box hooked up to the wall, frowning at its bells and wires. How can people talk to each other through this apparatus? He still doesn’t completely understand how the telegraph machine works. Everything is moving so fast these days. He’ll have to remember all the details so he can tell his mother later tonight. She won’t believe he was inside such a house.
“The music room.” Bernard stops by an open door. In there, an upright piano, deeply polished and catching the light, waits to be played again. All around the instrument, silk red and green couches woven with gold threads, glitter in the sunlight. So much gilded gold and bronze in this
house, it confuses his senses.
A king could live here. Or a prince.
Is that what that young man is?
“Mister O’Dowd.” Further down the hall, Bernard signals impatiently. “I will be very near,” he says, showing him into the room. “Do we understand each other?”
“Uh, yes, sir.” Not knowing what to expect, McGauran peeks into the room. The furniture in there is all white-lacquered, lovely—almost feminine. Intricate grapevines have been carved and painted into the chair seats. The pale green velvet drapes are pulled open and sunlight streams through the large windows. Potted plants and flowers of all kinds line the sill.
The young man stands at the window, with his back slightly turned to him, his profile bathed in sunlight. For a moment, McGauran’s attention roams over him. There’s grace in this man’s lines. A finesse to his movements. When McGauran steps into the room, the lights switch off, and then all at once, turn on again. A little taken aback, he frowns.
But oblivious to the event, the man touches a purple flower on a dark green plant. “This is an African Violet. They’re very delicate. Usually, the mother plant likes to be near its offspring, like this.” His fingers gently go from plant to plant as he names each one. “Begonia. Jasmine. Another Strepto—um, Streptocarpus, yes.” He looks up and smiles. “That’s a difficult one. I rarely get it right.”
“They’re nice.” He wishes he had more words.
“Please, sit down.” The young man points to one of the four chairs circling a white-wood table covered with lace. He glances up at the door where the valet is still standing. “Bernard, let my uncle know that Mr. O’Dowd is here for him.” He raises a thick and sculpted eyebrow. “Et le thé?”
“It’s not five o’clock,” Bernard retorts.
“Oh, please, to hell with the British. Call it resistance tea.”
“Fine. Fine.” Surprisingly, Bernard leaves the room. “I’ll see what I can do.”
