She looks back at Marc, who’s calmly scanning the lake. The gun is clenched between his legs, his broad shoulders pressed against the boat. She feels safe with Marc on lookout. He’s remarkably confident for his age, always poised and steady. He’s well-spoken, bright. Billy and Tug took to him right away. They’re friendlier with him than they ever were with Pierre. Véronique suspects they never trusted Pierre.
She also enjoys his company when they’re making deliveries. Sometimes they have to drive a couple of hours there and back, and the time passes much more quickly with Marc. He has a great sense of humor, doesn’t take himself too seriously. It worries her that Camil is grooming him to take over the drug-smuggling operation, which will eventually include cocaine. Camil’s been talking about it for years. Weed and booze are small-time. The cigarettes were one thing—lucrative but with far less severe consequences—but the big money is in coke. She doesn’t want Marc to waste his life selling drugs. She feels motherly toward him. He could be anything—a lawyer, an entrepreneur, a great leader. He has that sort of mind, as well as tremendous likeability.
James always says to her, “You’re better than this life.” It always offends her, but that’s exactly how she feels about Marc. She would be devastated if he wound up in jail, or like Pierre.
When she pulls up to her uncle’s, Marc hops out and ties the boat to the dock. Camil appears, and they start unloading the crates of booze and packages of weed. Nothing has changed since the contraband-cigarette days. They work in silence, quick and steadfast, grave. It takes them about half an hour to get everything inside the boathouse. Camil won’t look at Véronique, hasn’t uttered a word to her all night. He’s still furious with her, punishing her because she won’t go to Ottawa.
When they’re finished, he locks up and starts heading back to the house without saying goodbye.
“He’s giving me the silent treatment now?” she says to Marc.
“He has no one to send to Ottawa. He’s upset.”
“Are you?”
“Upset with you?” He shrugs. “No. I don’t get why you won’t, but you must have your reasons.”
“I do.”
He throws his arm over her shoulder, and they walk down to the lake. He’s about a foot taller than she, and she practically has to lift her arm over her head to reach his shoulder.
“You want to swim?” he asks her. “Water’s pretty warm.”
“I’m not in the mood,” she says, sitting down cross-legged on the dock. She’d like to be on her way home, but she’s sleeping here tonight so they can head out first thing in the morning. They’ve got deliveries all day, from Repentigny to Trois-Rivières and then back via Sorel. It’s going to be a long day.
Marc undresses down to his boxers and dives in, his body lean and straight, piercing the water with barely a splash. When he pops up, he lets out a whoop. “That’s fucking cold!” he says, hoisting himself onto the dock.
He dresses quickly, putting his hoodie on and then his jeans. “It feels good, though,” he says, and his eyes are twinkling in the moonlight, his lashes wet and long. He’s too good for this life.
“Let’s go for a beer,” he says. “I’m not in the mood for Camil’s sulking.”
“Me neither,” she says, getting up.
They drive over to Brasserie Olympique in Coteau-du-Lac, which is full of kids about Marc’s age. He knows them all. He walks in like a pied piper, greeting everyone, kissing the cheeks of swoony girls. They sit down near the pool tables, and within minutes, the waitress—an older woman with dyed-purple hair—delivers a pitcher of draft and two glasses, and asks him if he wants any food.
“I’ll have spaghetti,” he says. “I’m starving.”
The waitress rumples his hair affectionately and disappears. Marc pours them each a beer. He chugs his down in one gulp. When he notices Véronique’s stunned expression, he says, “Smuggling makes me thirsty. All that stress and tension on the boat? This helps me relax.”
“You feel stressed on the boat?”
“Of course.”
“It doesn’t show.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not shitting my pants.”
He pours himself another glass. “So why won’t you do the Ottawa runs anymore?” he asks her. “I know there’s a reason.”
“I don’t like the college students,” she tells him. “They’re entitled assholes. The last time I was there—”
“What?”
“I just got a bad feeling.”
“From who? Callahan?”
“How do you know about Callahan?”
“From my dad. I know he’s one of our best guys.”
Véronique finishes her beer, and Mark fills her up again.
“What we do is dangerous,” she says. “Really fucking dangerous.”
“Yeah, and?”
Véronique doesn’t elaborate.
“Pierre was high and he was speeding,” Marc says. “We would never do that.”
“I’m just saying. Some aspects are more dangerous than others, and they’re not in our control.”
“You’re telling me a bunch of college morons in Ontario are more dangerous than the bandits on the lake or the guys on the res selling us drugs?”
“I’m just saying, we deal with a lot of really shady people. We don’t know them. We don’t know what they’re capable of.”
He’s looking at her with a funny expression. She finishes her beer and this time replenishes her own glass. It does help take the edge off. “Do you ever think about doing something else?” she asks him.
“You mean like a real job?”
“Yeah. A real job.” She hates herself for sounding like James, but it’s different with Marc. He’s so damn young. She’s had this gnawing sense of responsibility for him lately, a protectiveness that seems to be getting louder the more time she spends with him. He’s never had a mother. Maybe Véronique is the one who needs to step up and be that person in his life.
“Why?”
“You’re a smart kid,” she says. “Really smart.”
“So are you.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“You were about my age when you started. And now you’re rich.”
“I have savings, yes, but this isn’t sustainable, Marc.” A direct quote from James.
“Why not?”
“It’s too dangerous. You’ll probably wind up in jail. Most dealers do. When I started, we were just smuggling cigarettes. It was always supposed to be a short-term thing. I haven’t told your dad yet, but my plan is to stop completely by next summer and go back to school in the fall.”
“Wow. Your boyfriend has really rubbed off on you.”
“I make my own decisions.”
The waitress comes back with Marc’s spaghetti and another pitcher. Véronique notices the first one is already empty, and she realizes she’s quite tipsy.
“I’m not going to school,” Marc says, as though it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. “I hated school. Besides, we’re doing a service for people who can’t afford to pay for that shit.”
“So your plan is to become a full-time coke dealer? Because that’s your dad’s plan.”
“My plan is to make as much money as I can.”
“Until you’re arrested. Or shot.”
“Câlice, Véronique. That’s pretty dark.”
“That’s the kind of thing that happens.” This story has no happy ending.
“I’m not going to get shot. Nobody is.”
“I used to think that way, too,” she says. “That no one would ever get hurt—least of all me. It was just smokes. Just weed. Just CDs.”
“What happened to you in Ottawa?” he asks her, stabbing his fork into a pile of noodles and twirling.
“I just got caught off guard,” she admits. “I trusted someone I shouldn’t have.” The beer has gone straight to her head, loosened her tongue.
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter who.”
“Callahan? What did he do?”
“I’m not saying who it was.”
“Whoever it was, did he rip you off? You should tell my dad, Véro.”
“He didn’t rip me off.” She’s staring down into her glass. The draft beer smells vinegary, like a dirty tap faucet. A wave of nausea rushes over her.
“You okay, Véro?”
“You can’t tell your father,” she says, looking up at him. “I mean it. He’ll do something stupid and I don’t want that on my conscience.”
“I won’t,” he promises. “Tell me what he did.”
“He tried to rape me,” she blurts. “My guard was down. I managed to get away, but . . . that’s why I’ll never go back.”
Marc is quiet. His cheeks are flushed, and his free hand is clenched in a fist. She reaches for it and squeezes. “I’m okay,” she says. “I’m just telling you this to make a point. We don’t know the people we’re dealing with, even when we think we do. Some of them are really bad people. One of them tried to rape me. Another one might just as easily shoot you for your weed.”
“You’re just going to let Callahan get away with it?” Marc says, his eyes darker than usual.
“I never said it was Callahan. I’ve got a couple of guys in Ottawa—one in the ByWard Market, one at Ottawa U.”
Marc pushes his plate away and drinks more beer.
“Will you think about what I’ve said?” she asks him. “About maybe finding something legitimate to do with your life? You could do anything, you know.”
Marc nods, humoring her. His mood has changed. She hopes she hasn’t made a terrible mistake.
23
“Tell me, what’s going on?” James asks Véronique, lowering the radio. They’re in the car on their way to her parents’ place. She’s been short with him all day.
She’s staring out the window. Outside, the street is a kaleidoscope of red, yellow, and orange. There’s nothing like autumn in Montreal, he thinks, rolling down the window to let some of that crisp air into the car. “V?” he says, glancing at her.
“I just want you and my dad to like each other.” Not looking at him.
“I do like him. I’m not sure how he feels about me.”
“You don’t respect him, though.”
Because he’s a murderer.
“I shouldn’t have arranged this interview,” she says.
“Is that why you’re so irritable? Don’t you trust me to be fair and open-minded?”
She shrugs.
“I really want to hear his side, V. I really do. I want to understand his motivation and his beliefs. That’s why I want to write this piece.”
She turns to face him, trying to read his expression.
“Just give us both some time,” he says. “We don’t know each other yet. And let’s face it, it’s complicated.”
She lets out a little grunt of exasperation.
“It’ll be fine,” he says, touching her leg. He loves her. He can see himself spending the rest of his life with her, which is why he wants to like her parents. She’s convinced that her father was the victim of an unfair system that set him up to fail, but Léo has never apologized for Laporte’s death. James wants to be able to explain to his readers how he rationalizes that. Hell, he wants to know for himself.
Maybe today will be the day Léo Fortin expresses remorse. Maybe James—his possible future son-in-law—is the one to whom he will finally repent. What a coup that would be for James, being the first reporter to elicit an apology from the FLQ. The story would be picked up everywhere. It could be a game-changer.
Lisette greets them at the door wearing jeans, an Esprit sweatshirt, and slippers. “I made meatballs,” she says, hugging Véronique and kissing James on either cheek. He can smell the tobacco in her hair. “It’s just about ready,” she tells them. “You and Léo can talk after we eat.”
“Sounds good,” James says. “I’m starving.”
Léo is waiting for them in the small kitchen, already seated at the table with a beer. Lisette has laid out a can of Kraft parmesan cheese, a stack of white bread, margarine, garlic powder, and chili flakes. His mother would be mortified. She has four food pet peeves: cheese that doesn’t need to be refrigerated, white bread, margarine, and garlic powder. (“Why use powder when you can crush up the real thing?”)
James makes a mental note to keep them apart for as long as possible.
“Smells delicious,” he says, sitting down.
Léo is watching him.
“How are you, Léo?” James reaches across the table to shake his hand.
“Looking forward to telling you my life story.”
“I’m looking forward to hearing it.”
Véronique smiles, looking a little more relaxed. Lisette serves the meatballs, which, in spite of the garlic powder, taste pretty good.
“Maybe you’ll understand my daughter better after you hear my story,” Léo says, stabbing two meatballs with his fork. “How’s the volunteering, Véro?”
“Great,” she says, lighting up. “I’ve met some cool people. I think I’ve actually convinced a few students at UQAM to vote Yes.”
“Good. Keep at it until you convert them all.”
James makes a point of staying quiet. He knows they don’t want to hear what he has to say about the referendum, and he’s determined not to get off on the wrong foot tonight.
“Has she converted you to our side yet?” Léo asks him.
“Not yet,” James responds, forcing a smile.
“His mother is English,” Véronique says, by way of explanation.
“Half English,” James corrects.
“Half is enough,” Léo mutters. “If you’re half English, you’re not pure laine.”
James grits his teeth, shovels bread in his mouth to keep from saying something he’ll regret later.
“Was your father a separatist?” Lisette asks him.
“He was,” James answers. “He was very involved with his union at Vickers. He was a nationalist, for sure. Voted Yes in 1980. My parents were not on the same page about politics.”
“And yet you’re against it,” Léo says. “You’re a mama’s boy, I guess?”
“I have my own opinions about it,” James says, trying to keep his voice light. “I think separation would be terrible for our economy. The PQ is misleading you about what will happen if we separate, or they’re at least asking you to bury your heads and vote Yes and then deal with the fallout.”
“It can’t be worse than it is now.”
“Are you kidding?” he says, already forgetting to keep his mouth shut. “It sure as hell can. And it will.”
“Spoken like someone who grew up in a nice country estate, got a college education, and now has a white-collar job at an English newspaper.”
James is tapping his foot under the table. Don’t take the bait. Don’t take the bait. He looks over at Véronique, waiting for her to jump in.
“James’s parents were proof that you can love someone and still disagree on politics,” Véronique says. “I respect him, even though he’s wrong.”
They all laugh, even James.
“Maybe I can still change his mind before October thirtieth,” Véronique says.
After dessert—a warm pouding chômeur right out of the oven, simmering with butter and brown sugar—James and Léo leave the women in the kitchen and settle in the living room. Léo’s got a beer and James a cup of coffee. He’s driving, which he has to remind them numerous times.
“So,” Léo says, reclining in his La-Z-Boy. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” James says, resting his small tape recorder on the coffee table. “Start from the beginning.”
“That means starting at the real beginning,” Léo says. “Long before 1970. I’m talking about a couple hundred years before the Quiet Revolution, so that you have some context.”
James nods, eager to hear whatever Léo has to say.
“Here’s a little history lesson for yo
u,” Léo begins, his tone lofty, patronizing. “After the British conquered the French in 1760, Quebec’s economy switched into the hands of the English. English became the language of business, with the Anglophones filling all the highest positions in the province—management, white collar, civil service. The French were completely marginalized, which is pretty much how it stayed for the next two hundred years.”
“I’m fully in agreement with you on that.”
“Once a system like that is in place,” Léo continues, “the dominant language only gets stronger. Can you imagine the Goliath we were up against? A two-hundred-year-old system designed to keep the French at the very lowest echelon of society? The Bank of Canada didn’t even print bilingual money when it was first created in the thirties. Why? Because the federal government consistently refused to acknowledge Canada as a bilingual country.”
“But that wasn’t entirely the fault of the English,” James interrupts. “The Roman Catholic Church oversaw education in the province. The French were trained to farm and pray, and not much else. They were poorly educated. That’s why they couldn’t get ahead.”
“I never said our only problem was the English,” Léo says. “They became a symbol of what was wrong with the province, but it was never just a struggle over language. It’s always been a class struggle. The Duplessis government certainly kept us stuck in a world that revolved around rural life and religion so that we could never forge ahead and gain any ground, not until the Quiet Revolution.”
James nods, appreciating Léo’s knowledge on the subject.
“Still, the Quebec government operated almost entirely in English. Do you begin to see the picture? Everywhere we turned in our own province, we were subjugated, belittled, marginalized, oppressed. Quebec belongs to the French. When we finally started to resist in the sixties, we had our work cut out for us. We were trying to change two centuries of oppression. You think we stood a chance without being willing to go to extremes? We never wanted to hurt anyone. We only ever wanted change for our people.”
“I can appreciate that,” James says. “But does it justify murder?”
“You’re jumping too far ahead,” Léo says. “All we wanted was a fair shot at getting off the production lines and into the professional and managerial jobs that the English had taken over. This was the society into which I was born and raised.”
The Forgotten Daughter Page 20
