21 Days in October (6 page)

“They don't speak French?” Gaétan asks naively.

“
This is Westmount. You cannot loiter here. This park is restricted to residents. For security reasons.”

“What are they saying? They can't speak French like everyone else?” he grumbles.

“They're saying that we can't stay here. The park is reserved for residents only.”

“
Please, you must leave
!”

“Nature isn't for everyone?”

Gaétan lets out a low “
Fuck!
” under his breath, the only English word that he knows.

“
Please, return to your district
.”

Not having a choice, they get up. One policeman leads the way and the other follows them, escorting them to the park's exit.

It's the first time that Gaétan has been thrown out of a place like this, and he can't believe it. But he keeps a lid on his anger, unlike Louise, who is visibly upset.

“You'd think we were in a South African township or on an Indian reserve. Better not step on their stupid grass with our shoes covered in poverty and filth. 'Cause it's so civilized here an' all!” she exclaims, putting on a working-class accent.

“Watch it, you!” the smaller of the two policemen, a redhead, barks roughly at her in French with a strong English accent. “I'm from down the mountain.”

“It's funny how they understand us when we raise our voices!”

“That one must be one of the Irish from Verdun,” Gaétan snorts.

“He's from the British side, the strongest side!” Louise adds scathingly.

When they get to the end of the path they leave the park, relieved but furious.

Y flottait dans son pantalon
De là lui venait son surnom
Bozo-les-culottes
Y'avait qu'une cinquième année
Y savait à peine compter
Bozo-les-culottes
Comme il baragouinait l'anglais
Comme gardien de nuit il travaillait
Bozo-les-culottes
Même s'il était un peu dingue
Y'avait compris qu'faut être bilingue
Bozo-les-culottes

Raymond Lévesque,
Bozo-les-culottes, 1967
^*

F
or the first time in his life, Gaétan understands the song that Luc used to play on the patched-up turntable he had rescued from the street. He'd never really paid attention to the words before. But they sunk in yesterday in that neighbourhood full of hypocrites. He had felt the conqueror's deep contempt of his language when the police officers spoke to him in English. Gaétan recognizes the working-class man who had never held a pen: it's his father.

Pauline Julien's passionate voice seems to nearly explode the small transistor perched on the kitchen shelf.

CKAC has just announced the singer's release from prison. At the end of the song, the announcer explains that despite her release, police officers have raided her house again and arrested her fifteen-year-old son, eighteen-year-old daughter, and the cook.

“They're all crazy!” Gaétan exclaims.

“Don't forget that the police are still looking for James Cross,” his mother replies. “I heard those terrorists have enough explosives to blow up the whole city. The mayor said they're looking to seize power.”

“But Pauline Julien is a singer, not a terrorist.”

“Yes, but she's spreading her bad ideas to the public. Doesn't she talk about dynamite in her song?”

“Don't be ridiculous! You should stop listening to Frenchie Jarraud's gossip on CKVL. That's all just to scare us. The Parti Québécois and even Claude Ryan, publisher of
Le Devoir
, is calling for the municipal elections to be postponed because of all the insane rumours going around. And they aren't extremists.”

“Either way, it's because of the stupid FLQ bums that the army is everywhere.”

Gaétan sighs. There's no point arguing with his mother.

“You got two cents, Ma? I want to make a call.”

“Who to?” she asks, smiling.

“Someone's curious!”

She tosses him a coin, laughing.

“A mother can try! At your age, you should be paying more attention to girls than to your father's crazy ideas.”

Gaétan slips on his coat and runs to the phone booth on the corner. Bell cut off their phone service two months ago because of late payments. With his next paycheque, the family might get the phone line back.

It rings several times. No answer. But Louise had told him that she'd be there this morning. He walks back home a bit disappointed. He'll call back later.

Instead of going into the house to listen to his mother grumble, Gaétan decides to pass by Luc's to see if someone is still in the apartment. He hasn't been there since Tuesday.

As usual, he takes the back lane, which looks forlorn at this time of year with its empty clotheslines. Gaétan likes to see all the colourful clothes flapping in the wind. It makes the neighbourhood seem festive. He sneaks around some children who are playing street hockey. Two large cardboard boxes serve as goals. Each Saturday morning, the lanes are alive with the shrieks of children pretending to be Jean Béliveau or Yvan Cournoyer. Tonight, they'll all be sitting in front of their televisions to watch the Canadiens play the Philadelphia Flyers.

When he gets to Luc's balcony, Gaétan notices that the door pane has been replaced. He looks through the window. Everything is in order. Is Paul still living here? He goes in and walks around the apartment. There isn't a trace of him anywhere. He's disappeared.

Although he has no news of her son, he heads over to see Luc's mother and tell her that Paul is no longer in the apartment.

“I heard on the radio that the people who were arrested without warrants are beginning to be released,” he tells her. “Luc should be getting out soon.”

“I dunno. There are new raids and new arrests every day.”

Gaétan doesn't reply. He doesn't tell her about the drawing of the
Patriote
he saw lying on the counter or that Paul is supposed to be in Abitibi. He doesn't want to worry her.

“You staying to eat? I made a
tourtière
.”

Gaétan doesn't dare say no—and anyway, there's no turning down Mme Maheu's
tourtière
. She gets out a jar of homemade pickles. He bites into a tangy pickle, all crunchy and delicious.

In Mme Maheu's house, as in all the other neighbourhood houses, the radio is constantly crackling in the background. When they hear the theme song to the news, both listen attentively.

“The Montréal police have just announced that a message from the FLQ has been found. Its authors demand the immediate release of union leader Michel Chartrand, lawyer Robert Lemieux, and Patriotes Pierre Vallières and Charles Gagnon, or Montréal will pay.”

The woman and the young man look at each other, bewildered. The announcer adds that the police are questioning the document's authenticity.

“And with the elections tomorrow,” Gaétan sighs. “It's not looking good!”

*
Free translation:
“His trousers a bloody shame/ It's where he got his name/ Bozo-in-Britches/ Never learned to hold a pen/ Could hardly count to ten/ Bozo-in-Britches/ In English he'd jabber away/ Worked all night and slept all day/ Bozo-in-Britches/ Though he barely went to school/ He knew that English was a handy tool/ Bozo-in-Britches.”

L
ouise still isn't answering her telephone. There's been no sign of her since Friday. Gaétan walks around in circles in the empty apartment. What a strange Sunday. It's the day of Montréal's municipal elections. His father is an official at a polling station; he'll be there all day. His mother left with his little brothers to go vote and then take a walk up Mount Royal. Gaétan has no doubt of her support for Mayor Drapeau.

Gaétan is restless. He sits down in front of the television but doesn't turn it on. On Sunday afternoons there is never anything to watch. Instead, he watches the movie that is playing in his head. It seems as if he's just lived through the past week in fast-forward motion. As if he isn't quite the same person who, a week earlier, had casually ridden the bus to the factory for the first time. Is life really all about working for wages that are spent in a flash? He thinks of Louise studying, of his father selling his soul to put food on the table, of Luc languishing in prison.

“And where do I fit in all of this?” he wonders.

He is overwhelmed by a wave of helplessness. Fortunately, the ring of the doorbell pulls him from his thoughts. He jumps off his chair and bounds down the stairs, opening the door. In front of him stands a police officer.

“Mme Simard, please.”

“She's not here.”

“Who are you?”

“Her son.”

“Ok. Well tell her that she can come pick up her husband at the station.”

“At the station? What's the matter?”

“I'm not at liberty to say. Pass the message on to your mother. Tell her to come by before eight o'clock, or he'll spend the night in station 22.”

The police officer hands him a ticket. He can barely make out the words scrawled on the page: obstruction of justice and injury to a police officer.

By the time he looks up, the police car is already gone.

Gaétan walks back up the stairs and lets himself drop onto the sofa.

“Should have expected that from Pop! He can never keep quiet. Looks like he's jealous of all the others who were arrested for no reason,” grumbles the boy.

He's now tied to the house: he has to wait for his mother to come home to tell her the news. Even if Louise were back he couldn't go see her.

After cursing his father, he decides to turn on the television in order to pass the time. A man and a woman are standing on a small bridge, talking. The actors have a funny accent and use expressions that he's never heard of. In the background he can make out the name of a run-down hotel:
Hôtel du Nord
.

Apparently the French don't all speak like schoolmarms. These two must come from the
Faubourg à m'lasse
of Paris, he reasons.

Gaétan is sleeping on the sofa when Richard and Patrick, his two brothers, jump on top of him. Their hands are like ice and their cheeks are rosy.

His mother is already in the kitchen making hot chocolate for everyone. Gaétan gets up and runs after his brothers, pummelling them good-naturedly. The two younger boys scamper into the kitchen where they run rings around the table before ending up hiding behind their mother's skirts.

“Scaredy cats! Scaredy cats!” Gaétan taunts them, happy to be surrounded by family.

“Get out from there, you little rascals! And go sit down, I'm about to pour the hot chocolate. Careful, it's boiling hot!”

Everyone immediately grabs a seat around the table. With almost religious silence, the three boys bury their noses in their mugs.

“I'm gonna get supper ready. Your father should be home soon.”

Gaétan almost chokes on his last sip. He gets up and goes to find the ticket he left lying on the sofa.

“Here. The police came and gave me this earlier. You have to go get him at the station.”

“Goddammit! He couldn't just keep his mouth shut, could he? I don't have time to go before you have to leave for your shift. I'm not leaving the children all alone.”

“I could maybe stay and watch them.”

“There's no way you're missing work because of your father's antics. I'll go tomorrow morning when the boys are at school. Anyway, a night in there might set him straight.”

“
D
rapeau re-elected with 92% of the vote.”

On the front page of the newspaper, the headlines are relentless. The opposition hasn't won a single seat. The fear campaign orchestrated by the two governments as well as by the mayor himself worked like a charm.

Gaétan doesn't want to go home this morning. The mood in the house must be unbearable. After a night spent in jail, coupled with the election results, his father is surely in a foul mood. Once he has left the factory he calls Louise, who finally picks up and invites him to come by her house.

He walks along Cherrier looking for number 928. There it is: a big grey-stone house with ornate wooden doors. He climbs the steps leading up to the porch, but hangs back a moment before ringing the doorbell. A real doctor's house, as his mother would say. The door opens, and a young man wearing ripped jeans and an army jacket comes out, brushing past him.

“'Scuse, man!” says the tall bearded man, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Gaétan throws a curious glance inside.

Before him, there's a long hallway that leads to a dining room. The floor is waxed. Gaétan takes off his boots so as not to get it dirty. On each side of the hallway, doors open onto rooms lined with posters of celebrities, the mattresses resting square on the ground. There are newspapers and magazines strewn everywhere. He sees a guitar in one corner, a djembe in another, a turntable hidden underneath a stack of LPs, clothes thrown about haphazardly. Complete chaos!

An old wooden table fills up the entire dining room. The remnants of breakfast are still scattered everywhere. A number of plants sit on the windowsill overlooking a small backyard. On the wall, someone has painted
Flower Power
in broad strokes, surrounded by peace signs and small bright flowers. Louise comes out from the kitchen, still wearing pyjamas, coffee in hand.

“I'm sorry… Someone let me in,” stammers the boy, uncomfortable that he has surprised her this early.

“Do you want some coffee?” she replies, not in the least unsettled by his presence.

“Sure, thanks. You don't live with your parents?”

She goes back into the kitchen, where he follows.

“My parents are in Magog, in the Eastern Townships. I wanted to study art at the Cégep du Vieux-Montréal. They finally agreed to let me go, as long as I live with my brother. That's where I was this weekend, at their place. I forgot to tell you.”