Last Days of Montreal Read online

  Last Days of Montreal

  John Brooke

  © 2003, John Brooke

  Print Edition ISBN 978-0921833-91-8

  Ebook Edition, 2012

  ISBN 978-1897109-91-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by Terry Gallagher/Doowah Design.

  Cover photo of John Brooke by René De Carufel.

  Interior photos by John Brooke.

  “Nones” by W. H. Auden is from A Pocket Book of Modern Verse, edited by Oscar Williams, Washington Square Press, New York, 1954. Champlain information came from Champlain, by Joe C.W. Armstrong, MacMillan, Toronto, 1987; and from Journeys of Exploration, by Stan Garrod, Fitzhenry & Whiteside, Toronto, 1986…I fashioned my own passage for Donald to read.

  The Finer Points of Apples was first published in KAIROS 9, ed. R.W. Megens; then in The Journey Prize Anthology 10, McClelland & Stewart. Last Days of Montreal…was first published in KAIROS 11, ed. R.W. Megens. Who Can Fight the Snow? was first published in The New Quarterly, Vol. XIX, No.4, ed. Mary Merikle.

  Thank you to: Annie Granger, Anna di Giorgio, David Blanchard, David Macnee & Kieran Quinn for timely help and generosity.

  Disclaimer/promise: This is fiction. All the characters are the product of my imagination; their names are names that fit. Further: Although there are many references to certain public figures and people associated with them, all were gleaned from the public domain we call the news.

  We acknowledge the support of The Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Brooke, John, 1951–

  Last days of Montreal / John Brooke.

  1. Montréal (Québec)–History–Fiction. I. Title.

  PS8553.R6542L38 2003 C813’.54 C2003-906146-9

  Signature Editions, P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon

  Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7

  www.signature-editions.com

  For my neighbours, real and imagined

  and our eternal poplars

  And to KH

  who loves Montreal and proves it

  Les belles couleurs (1)

  Spillover

  Last Days of Montreal

  Our Lady of the Poplars

  Les belles couleurs (2)

  The Drug Dealer’s Son

  The Finer Points of Apples

  Adjusting to Pacci

  Les belles couleurs (3)

  The Woman Who Got Dressed in the Morning

  The Next Thing After Baseball

  Who Can Fight the Snow?

  Unborn Twins

  Les belles couleurs (4)

  A Turn in Menocchio’s World

  Les belles couleurs (5)

  Extreme Fighting

  The Erotic Man...A Plouc’s Progress

  Harvey Hangs a Door

  A Processional Exit of One...

  About the Author

  What we know to be not possible

  Though time after time foretold

  By wild hermits, by shaman and sybil

  Gibbering in their trances,

  Or revealed to a child in some chance rhyme

  Like will and kill, comes to pass

  Before we realize it; and we are surprised

  By the ease and the speed of our deed,

  And uneasy:

  — W.H. Auden

  Les belles couleurs (1)

  In the spring of ’94 Marie-Claire Lamotte was feeling uneasy about leaving the ground floor apartment at the corner of Chateaubriand and de Castelnau where she and René had lived for sixty-two years. But as Father Martin Legault, curé of Notre Dame du Rosaire parish, gently pointed out, a six-and-a-half room apartment was far too much for her to cope with alone. “Madame Lamotte, you should not have to work at this stage of your life…and I think we can both see that you are overwhelmed. N’est-ce pas? How can you stay here?”

  Marie-Claire Lamotte could not disagree. It was obvious every morning — the mess that had built up since René had gone. Yet how could she leave it when she still smelled René in his old chair by the front window, still saw his shadow in the afternoon whenever she looked from her kitchen across the yard to the garage? René with his bottle of Black Label beer, arranging his tools or polishing the car. Their Ford Comet. White and sensible. Once they drove to the beach in New Jersey. And when he was done working, René would be sitting at his bench, in front of his wall of license plates: La Belle Province…all their memories stretching back to the beginning of time. Every day she heard him: It won’t be long, chère. Coming right in. Just let me finish my beer.

  Father Martin told her, “That car is worth something, but if it sits in that damp garage too long it will rot. Really, Madame Lamotte, it’s time to turn the page.”

  She told the curé, “Father, I cannot leave. This house and these things, they connect us.”

  “B’en, madame,” he said, “these are only objects.”

  Objects? Marie-Claire Lamotte protested. “Father, you don’t understand. René said he would always be looking for me. From paradise. He promised he would recognize our spot and keep watch. But if I leave, Father, he will lose me.”

  Father Martin said, “I see.” And perhaps he did. Two months later he showed her the tiny apartment on the top floor of the city-subsidized maison de retraite on rue Villeray. He let her know there was a waiting list and that he had pulled some strings. He went over the financing, slowly and patiently, until she understood that she would not have to worry. He introduced her to the nurses in the office. He pointed to the residents practising their dancing in the salle de réunion, the gardener cleaning up the yard for summer. It seemed nice enough. Madame Lamotte hadn’t danced in ages. It could be fun. “And,” added the priest, “it’s two blocks closer to the church.”

  But what clinched it for Marie-Claire Lamotte was the balcony, high above the city: all that sun pouring down from heaven. And the flag…the flag of Quebec. “You will fly this for your René,” instructed Father Martin, unfurling the thing, letting it loose in the breeze. “Fly it every day and he will always know where to find you.”

  She saw it immediately. “I’ll just do that, Father. Merci.”

  After the signing of the lease, Father Martin attached the flag to the balcony railing.

  Miriam Poirier, manager at the retirement home, advised the bare minimum by way of furniture. Apart from basic amenities, Marie-Claire brought her reading chair, the bed, and one license plate from the garage: ’58, a rich forest green, the year she and René drove down to New Jersey without the children. She left the rest of her things in the care of a woman who would sell them at the kermesse, the jumble sale in the parish basement that autumn. And in November Marie-Claire received $746 as her share of the profits. On top of that, Father Martin offered $300 for the car.

  The money was nice, but Marie-Claire Lamotte quickly forgot the things that used to surround her life. Her children were far away. J-F was in Vancouver, J-P was in France, and Marie-Lynne was a nurse in Texas, of all places. For Marie-Claire it was the balcony and her flag. God bless Father Martin for being so clever. She devoted herself to the vigil.

  Time went by and life went on. But time means little when you have your eye on eternity.

  For others, time was rushing forward. Too soon, it was October 30, 1995, Referendum Day, a rainy and bitter Monday, and Montreal was writhing under the strain of political tension. Bruce dawdled over his breakfast, having decided to vote before heading downtown. He was a less-than-successful broker living with a French expatriate named Geneviève in a row house in the north en
d of the city. Going to the office would be strictly for appearance’s sake. He couldn’t concentrate on portfolios to save his ass — not for the last three weeks, and certainly not today. But if the world was going to end it would not be till tomorrow, after the results were in, so he had to show up and go through the motions. After brushing his teeth, he went to kiss Geneviève good-bye.

  Normally he was not one to offer a kiss good-bye on a work-day morning. And Geneviève was not one to demand it. She was surprised. “Oui?”

  “It could be our last day together in Canada,” he murmured, morose, staring out at the rain.

  Geneviève nodded. Being French-born, she was removed from the thing that was occurring and utterly fed up. But she was wise enough to keep her counsel. She was translating a marketing report and they wanted it by noon. She would vote after lunch — Non; because it was Canada she had come to and of which she was now a citizen — and hope that tomorrow might bring some peace.

  Geneviève’s office window looked directly across at the maison de retraite on the other side of the back lane. The last thing Bruce saw before leaving was the old woman’s flag, waving, defiant, from the balcony on the top floor. It had been tied to her railing for more than a year, billowing, flapping, snapping in the breezes, knotting up when the wind was strong, drooping in the dead humidity of August; and it had been ripped to shreds by the October rains, but it was still there that awful morning — waving. Forget the Non side’s dipping numbers. Forget the fist pounding of the Oui side’s beatified and maniacal leader. For Bruce it was the flags. He had only to walk down the street, any street in the quarter, and his fear kicked in. The flags were everywhere — the white cross on the royal blue field, a fleur-de-lis in each quadrant — and they went far deeper than slogans or polls. They were silent. It was as if they were part of the weather and they were getting into his bones: it was an aching sense of isolation, of being the enemy, surrounded, overwhelmed by the opposite idea. More than anything, the flags had brought it home.

  Literally: Whenever he looked out back, or worked in the garden with Geneviève, or sat on the balcony with his headphones and a beer…that woman’s flag was there.

  He buttoned his collar as he stepped into the rain and wind, and headed off to vote. Madame Damas, a Haitian woman who lived across the street, was also leaving at just that moment. Their eyes met, he nodded good morning. They had never talked much: “Bonjour, madame.” “Bonjour, monsieur.” “Il fait froid!” “Oui, monsieur, pas chaud…” Bruce might mumble a glib compliment about the flowery down-home straw bonnet she always wore to church, and which she was wearing today; but she never got it. Or if she did, she never laughed. Like many neighbours in that north-end corner of the city, Bruce and Madame Damas lived in different worlds.

  But that morning, after the usual pleasantry, she fell in beside him at the corner at the top of their short cul-de-sac, rue Godbout. She was staring into his eyes, as if expecting him to say something more. Although a tiny woman, she matched his steps and stayed with him as he attempted to stride away in a pretense of hurrying off to work. Rue St. Gédéon, festooned in blue and white, looked like a parade route. After a strange march down it with Madame Damas, Bruce gave up and smiled at her, nervous. He said, “Alors, allez-vous voter?”

  “Mais oui.”

  “Moi aussi. Fait froid, eh?”

  “Oui.”

  They turned at the corner of Faillon. The polling station was just around the next corner on Lajeunesse, in an old school that was now a community centre. Madame Damas continued to watch him. Finally he met her eyes and said it: “C’est Non, j’espère.”

  Her grin broke beautiful and huge. “Mais oui, c’est Non. C’est le Canada!”

  Bruce and Madame Damas stopped and shook hands. It was spontaneous and absolute. Then he proffered a clenched fist: go for it! She made the same gesture in response. After that, there was nothing much to say. They walked in to vote together, she in her colourful Sunday hat because it was indeed a special day, Bruce with his Gazette tucked under his arm because he knew there would be a wait. But, accompanied by Madame Damas, Bruce experienced a sense of solidarity that had hitherto been missing. Straightening up, lifting his head, meeting all eyes, very sure anyone who saw them would know just by looking. Regarde! deux Non…It felt good.

  It was the one bright spot in a long and otherwise thoroughly dispiriting day.

  In the aftermath of that day, award-winning morning man Marcel Beaulé ached to delve into the so-called “Montreal factor.” The defeated and now outgoing Premier’s scathing consolation speech had laid bare a deep spiritual thing that needed to be discussed.

  Sylvain Talbot was Marcel Beaulé’s producer. He said, “Not now, Marcel. Don’t, please…for both our sakes.”

  They both knew that all good business sense said do it — that Marcel’s numbers, already the highest of any morning show in the greater Montreal listening area, would go through the roof. But Marcel had to promise his producer that he would not raise the issue on-air. Because all across Montreal, Marcel’s media counterparts were in their worst denial mode, full of gormless repudiation of the Premier’s honesty, and crying sheepish apology for same. They were saying, “That’s not us! That’s not Quebec!” While the new man, the hero who would now lead them, had taken eloquent pains to distance himself. Marcel, a recent winner of the Chevaliers de Jacques Cartier Patriote de l’Année award, had to wonder about the new man’s vaunted dedication. This backlash was a pitiful shame. The Premier had called a spade a spade. Money and the ethnic vote: this was the Montreal factor, all right. It wasn’t racism, it was reality and utterly germane. If it weren’t for that…

  Marcel could still hear it. See it! Those songs of the homeland powered by tears rising up in the sea of blue flags, those shining fleurs-de-lis! And after two days of restraint, it got the better of him. A lady called from Verdun. She was decidedly Non and full of righteous shock at the Premier’s transparent bitterness. Marcel took a deep breath, had a sip of his coffee, then replied. “This was bitter, mais oui, madame, but it was the most bitter of moments, n’est-ce pas? N’EST-CE PAS? N’EST-CE PAS!” Upon reviewing the tape with his producer, Marcel admitted to screaming it at the poor woman. Luckily, neither the Gazette nor the Globe and Mail caught wind of it. Nor that horrible woman at the Financial Post. They knew La Presse knew, and worried for a day or so. Nothing came of it, however. Everyone was worn out and Marcel’s on-air lapse disappeared in the dark echoes of the outgoing Premier’s honest gaffe.

  But after the dizzying run-up and the heart-rending loss, time lagged for the patriotic morning man. Then it slowed to a near dead stop. He told his producer, “We were on the verge of history. No more dreams. Day One: it was sitting there for all to see. Now it has gone into the ether.”

  Marcel went on leave for a month, claiming exhaustion.

  His home was south of the city, by the Richelieu River, between Chambly and St. Jean. Here he lived quietly in a riding that was solidly Oui. He had fixed two small-sized blue and white Quebec standards to the front fender of his pale blue ’85 Eldorado rag-top, and it made an excellent sight as he travelled the streets. The last vestiges of autumn were bleak, frozen; but even without the roof down — the better to spot the combed-back silver hair and trim goatee from his station’s occasional TV spots — people recognized him. His people.

  Smiles. Fists up and clenched — Vas-y, Marcel! Hands reaching out to touch the colours as he glided past like a head of state. Marcel used his leave to drive around and he began to feel better.

  He returned to his spot in time to take calls reacting to the official announcement putting an end to the rumours of the new leader’s move from Ottawa back to Quebec. According to format, he primed his listeners with his own take on it: “If the man has any sense of destiny he will call an election this summer and bind another referendum directly to it. Two questions — yes, perhaps on two separate ballots, to ensure the time sequence is adhered to: your choice of go
vernment; and then Oui or Non. This would be perfectly legal, the voter having chosen his new government with the first question and his country with the second. We could pick right up where we left off. It would prove that October 30, 1995 was all on account of the weather. N’est-ce pas, mes amis?”

  The first caller objected. “Monsieur Beaulé, people would say he was being opportunistic.”

  “Only the little ones,” rejoined Marcel, beginning to feel his oats again.

  “Monsieur Beaulé, I resent — ”

  “Monsieur, in the forge of history, one strikes while the iron is hot.” It was pointed and slightly mean, tough, le vrai Marcel, and it left the caller sputtering. Marcel bid him a cool Bonjour.

  Marcel’s producer flashed a thumbs-up sign through the booth window. Bienvenue, Marcel!

  Yes, all he’d needed was a rest.

  Struggling through his own aftermath, Bruce searched for kindred spirits, his own kind of people. A group? He inquired throughout the north-end neighbourhood where he resided, then over in Park Extension, and then up in Montreal North. There were Italian groups, and Greek groups. The Armenians had a group, and so did the Haitians and the Syrians. There were groups for the various Latin Americans who had found their way to Montreal, and for the Africans of various stripe, and for the amazing mix of peoples from Southeast Asia and the Indian subcontinent. All these groups were proudly “Canadian,” solidly federalist, but the unity crisis was not their main focus and Bruce did not feel they could adequately serve his needs. He gathered their meetings were not conducted in English.

  Bruce needed to talk it out in English: the anger, the anguish, the stress.

  There was an Anglo group in Westmount. But Denise, his ex-wife, had remained a resident and had joined that one, and Bruce wanted to keep his distance. He could have headed off-island, north to the community of Rosemont, or to the various Anglo enclaves on the South Shore; but he felt no affinity with these places and knew no one there. He could have joined his parents’ group in the West Island community of Pointe Claire where he’d grown up. But the drive out and back would be murder in February, and — for this one especially — he felt an undefined need to stay clear of his father’s opinions. He finally settled on a group in Notre Dame de Grâce, called NDG, directly to the west of Westmount. They convened on Tuesday evenings. Geneviève was not interested in attending, so he would work late and go straight from the office.