Apartment 315—The hallway of my building reeks of secondhand smoke and wet dog despite the fact that neither smoking nor dogs are allowed inside. Today is Sunday. Normally at this time I would be carrying my cracked plastic laundry basket through this malodorous hallway and down the uncarpeted steps to the shared laundry room on the bottom level. Two coin-operated washing machines and two coin-operated drying machines for the entire building to share. Sundays are particularly bad since it’s the preferred laundry day of many of the residents, but if I can get down there early enough I can usually avoid the congestion. The laundry room is claustrophobic and derelict. Beside the sink are some crusted magazines that have been there since I moved in. I swear someone is stealing my socks one at a time and I shudder to think as to what their reasons for doing so might be.
Château Montblanc—The laundry room in M’s house is bigger than my bedroom back home. The interface on his machines resemble an airplane cockpit and I’m too embarrassed to ask for help. I can do laundry here whenever I want. No wait and no stolen socks. Though the laundry room is just down the hall from the office where I work, the machines run with the type of silence that parliamentarian money can easily afford.
Apartment 315—The guy in the unit beneath me keeps the volume on when he watches porn. We both prefer to keep our bedroom windows open, though the price that I pay to take in a little fresh air are the snippets of skin-slapping smut sounds that occasionally waft up. I’ve met him a couple of times, he can’t be more than nineteen or twenty. Living away from home for the first time I imagine and still getting used to the freedoms his new life affords. He’s a nice kid, if only lacking in situational and spatial awareness. When it’s not the aural waves of what sounds like very conventional porn rising up into my room, it’s the marijuana smoke he blows out his window after inhaling from his unnecessarily large bong that I’m sure he’s very proud to show off to his friends. It doesn’t really bother me. In fact, I see him as something of a kindred spirit. The world turns and the guy downstairs smokes pot, jerks off, and eats microwaveable food. I’m not much of a cook myself.
Château Montblanc—Max is a terrific chef—because of course he is—and his kitchen is full of ingredients, appliances, and utensils that I wouldn’t know how to use even if I wanted to. In his absence I mainly stick to making sandwiches, albeit with slightly more expensive condiments than I’m used to. Taking a cue from the oblivious second-story stoner back home, I make a continual effort to be a respectful and cleanly guest. Big M isn’t going to hear the salacious sounds of filthy films coming from my room. As a matter of fact, I’ve been ignoring any lecherous desires whatsoever since I’ve arrived. But I’ll be damned if it’s not getting harder. Innuendo not intended. The mind wanders. I believe M’s closest neighbours are another rich, white couple. I’ve seen them outside once or twice. I think the wife might be quite attractive for an older lady but I haven’t been able to catch a proper glimpse.
Apartment 315—There’s a cute, purple-haired girl that lives on the other side of the building, though I wonder, is her perceived cuteness one of those ‘thirsty in the desert’ situations? That’s a terrible thing to say, no wonder she hasn’t invited me over yet. If I look out my bedroom window I can just barely see into her kitchen, which I promise is not something that I do regularly. Sometimes she’s washing dishes at the sink and I find myself encumbered with questions. What does the rest of her apartment look like? The layout is surely the same as mine, but how has she arranged it? What does her bedroom look like? What does she keep in the drawer beside her bed? What might I find in the boxes at the bottom of her closet? This line of questioning carries on for some time and soon I’m thinking of potential names for our children. Yeah, better tap the brakes on that for now. My periwinkle-peaked peer across the building is but one contributor to the larger collective I find myself entangled in. Even though I don’t really know any of my neighbours, it’s still comforting to belong to a community—except when it isn’t. Which is often. I get woken up both late and early to the surrounding cacophony of merriment and argument. Here’s some free counselling to the couple above me—if you fight so much, why not just break up? When it’s not the louts in immediate earshot it’s the constant traffic or the construction across the road. There’s always noise, but if it gets any louder I might just snap.
Château Montblanc—If it gets any quieter I might just snap. There’s still consistent sound to be sure, but it’s not the artificial, gauge-reddening noise found back home, it’s sound. It’s birds and insects, and once the faint horns of Amazing Grace rising from the horizon, though I may have just imagined that. With no jarring audible distractions I am free to focus on my work undisturbed. Yup. Just me and my work. Just me sitting in a naturally-lit office surrounded by the soothing sounds of serenity. Just me and a pile off stuff to do and nothing in the way to stop me. I wonder what that couple back home is fighting about right now. I’m going to be so far behind on their saga when I finally get back. Oh, and would you look at this? A mostly yellow butterfly is loitering in the air just beyond the window. What’s up, pal? You want to kick it with me for a bit? Nope, she’s gone. Seems that even the insects here tend to be goal-oriented.
Apartment 315—There’s a spider that lives just outside my bedroom window. I’ve named her Wolfish. She’s made herself quite the prosperous life too, her web always seems to have company. In my more macabre moments I’ve spent long stretches watching her interact with her prey. I think it’s hypnotic, but maybe I’m just lazy. When the rain and winds come more violently than usual I see her web thrash back and forth and I wonder if it will still be there the next morning. It always is. She’s getting fatter too. Is it because of her prowess as a huntress or did some suave man-spider melt the ice around her heart? I never said goodbye to Wolfish before I left, but I feel that she will still be there when I return, stalwart as ever. Someone really ought to talk to the landlord about the pest problem in the building though. I try to avoid him whenever possible, fly under the radar and all that. He’s a stern man, Romanian, I think. Never seen him smile. I haven’t had any problems with him myself but I have heard other tenants complaining about him.
Château Montblanc—Of course I’ve heard lots of people complain about my current landlord at Château Montblanc as well. They say that he’s going to steer the nation in the wrong direction, that he’s going to run it like a business, not like a country, that he’s going to forget about the people who are struggling. When I am surrounded by reminders of his achievements as I am now it becomes easy to forget that Montblanc is quite a divisive figure, even within his own party. There are a lot of people out there who are going to do everything in their power to ensure that M doesn’t gain any more influence. I suppose my job is to do the opposite.
Apartment 315—And that’s the type of reasoning that leads my mind back home. To that place I wanted to leave but couldn’t. But I could live in hope with something to work for. Wretches unbound by paved roads saddled with those of us who would count the potholes we cross.
Château Montblanc—And that’s the type of reasoning that opens my eyes to where I am now. To that place I can leave any time but don’t want to. I stand at the top of expectation peering over the edge and suddenly I can’t find within myself the constitution required to take another step forward.
9
PENITENCE
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Kim Campbell is unique amongst the register of former Canadian Prime Ministers for one very important reason. Know what it is?
At forty-six years old she was comparatively young when she first took the office, but no, she wasn’t the youngest. That distinction belongs to Joe Clark, who was only thirty-nine when he was first elected to the position.
Campbell’s tenure as Prime Minister lasted a paltry 132 days, and while this is indeed significantly shorter than the average, it is not the shortest. That record belongs to Charles Tupper’s sixty-eight-day term.
Unlikely a coincidence, Tupper did not pass away until the age of ninety-four, thereby making him both the shortest serving as well as the Prime Minster to have lived the longest life.
Of course, there is a more obvious answer—Campbell is unique in that she was the first, and so far, only female Prime Minister in Canada’s history. This fact is highlighted in the rather clumsy title of her memoirs, Time and Chance: The Political Memoirs of Canada’s First Woman Prime Minister. To the best of my knowledge her memoirs were completed without the aid of a ghostwriter, which suggests that somebody must have been doing their job properly. Still, this is not the answer I had in mind.
Kim Campbell is, to date, the only Prime Minister to have been born in British Columbia—a fact that may soon change.
Though now an established fixture of Southern Ontario, Montblanc was, like myself, born in the sparsely populated Northern Interior of British Columbia, and I suspect that the shared geographical proximity of our birthplaces is part of the reason why he has trusted me to tell the story of his life. Murky idiosyncrasies abound that area and can only be rightly understood by those who have through birth and circumstance unknowingly waded through them. The collegiate hacks and shallow scholars of metropolitan pedigree might study enough to sufficiently mimic the tone and vocabulary, and indeed, they may succeed in accurately describing what the fallen log on the forest floor looks like, but they haven’t any idea what kind of creepy crawlies exist underneath that log.
They wouldn’t know that it’s the type of place where Trooper’s seminal 1977 offering, ‘We’re Here For A Good Time (Not A Long Time)’, could sincerely be somebody’s favourite song. The type of place where people did ‘favours’ for one another with no thought of reciprocation. The type of place where moths were caught and trapped in Tupperware containers to have their wings pulled off and to have boiling water poured on top of them. The type of place where dad’s fishing hooks were routinely used to pierce the curious ears of neighbourhood boys in bloody and unsterilized coming-of-age rituals. The type of place where rudderless striplings met in the park after dark to take turns kicking the ribs of the drunk Indians who slept there—whether they wanted to or not. The type of place where touching her would be okay, because enough people were there to witness it and cover for you later. Just do it. Just do it. Just do it. The type of place where the cops knew everyone, and generally allowed folks to settle their own personal matters without their involvement. The type of place where that ‘stuttering faggot won’t come anywhere near her ever again.’ The type of place where self-imposed penance wasn’t valued as social currency. The type of place where a four-story leap from the tallest building in town should be avoided, as it wouldn’t necessarily be enough to finish the job.
Though Montblanc’s youth differed from my own in many ways, we’ve both been baptized by the frigid waters of the Fraser and we’ve both been partially formed by the chemical compounds it carries. As such, I have an inherent insight into his mind that few else will have. I can only believe that this is why I’m here. Anyone with a rudimentary understanding of language and structure can slap together a man’s biography. But who else can empathize with the facts on a phenomenological level and present them as such, save for those who never had to learn them in the first place?
Monty warns me against dwelling too long on his childhood in B.C. or over-romanticizing his appreciation for the province. He thinks that might isolate readers from the rest of the country. ‘Pander to populous places’ he says. Always demonstrating foresight, always thinking ahead. Still, while he’s now some 3500 kilometers away from that place and has been for quite some time, I do occasionally sense in him a wistful nostalgia. I would say it’s nostalgia for simpler days, but that’s too easy and not entirely accurate. Though I’ve only known him a short while Montblanc has yet to strike me as a man burdened with any serious regrets. So why then does this notoriously stoic and driven champion of enterprise sporadically emit a faint scent of remorse?
That is something that I just don’t know, though I do have one idea:
There are some truly terrible sins that occur in rural British Columbia after dark, but none are more frightening than those that occur during broad daylight in the offices and boardrooms of the cities.
10
POLLARDING
IF ALL YOU knew about Maxime Montblanc was based on what you’ve read in this book, you might justifiably be wondering how a man of his eccentricity and mercuriality has attained and maintained the positions that he has. Suffice it to say that the man I see behind closed doors and under the artificial lighting of private hours is not the same man that so effortlessly commands the boardrooms of public perception. Out there in the real world M is a true master of his crafts. I wager he’s tried making love while listening to The Blue Danube. But this is not what the public thinks about when they gaze upon the weathered Adonis with his fancy words and soothing voice and perfect delivery.
Monsieur Montblanc’s public speeches have been criticized as needlessly verbose and prior to meeting him I assumed this was a deliberate rhetorical act. The thing is, he is in fact less elegant when he speaks to the public. While my purple words are the result of deliberately inflated overcompensation, his are entirely genuine. Still, when you speak with him he brings the entirety of his focus and empathy. I suspect this has partially contributed to his political and financial success. He has a way of ensuring that he is the most important person in any given room while still being able to process and carefully respond to every word spoken to him.
Monty made his millions and won his seat and built the empire of his name almost entirely on his supernatural awareness. I know the federal election is still some time away, but the pundits and bloggers are already predicting his victory. This wasn’t a lifelong dream of his. He wasn’t a starry-eyed child who wanted to grow up to become the Prime Minister. This is an opportunity he noticed well into his adult life and is now planning to act on. An exclamation point at the end of his life’s résumé.
You can tell a lot about a person by how they respond to people who are better than they are. Some people get defensive or antagonistic or jealous, some become sycophantic or overtly deferential just to remain in the orbit of their superiors, some try to learn as much as they can and analyze the template of success before them. By any standard societal definition, Montblanc is better than most people. I myself am not a man of substantial ambition. I never intended to be a leader of any kind. I thought my life would be a resounding success if I could see my hobby of writing through to any tangible recognition or financial gain. M, the better man, has provided this opportunity. And how am I to respond? Take for instance our conversation at breakfast this morning. He tells me:
“I’ve read Resorting Conviction. You’re an excellent writer.”
I thank him, but I don’t have time to internalize the compliment before he continues.
“But you are a terrible businessman. I know what the Premier paid you to write that for him, but have you any idea how much he made from it? Without my protection you would be devoured.”
And my baron is at once all things of beauty and sin in this life. He is the boatman at world’s end ferrying the chosen few across the moribund morass. With the monosyllabic first words spoken by primitive man came the first lies, the first acts of knavery and manipulation given form. And thus was his shovel given a handle and his momentum propelled forward. He tickles the Turkish March without missing a note. I drink his coffee and I think it’s the best I’ve ever had, as if he grew and processed the beans himself with the same care and proficiency he displays in all his endeavors. It gives me the energy I need to translate his deeds into words so that other might share in venerating the man we were all meant to be. He is a master of his crafts people.
At one point in his life he liked them young. She was eighteen at a time he was nearly twice that. He told me the that the last time he remembered feeling jealousy was
when she confessed that she was also seeing someone who just happened to be one year older than he was. That was nearly twenty years ago. Are we really to believe that he hasn’t felt the tap of jealousy on his shoulder once since then? Oh, but the men worth reading about are not the men who routinely do believable things now, are they? No, I don’t believe that either, but that’s what I’ll need to convince myself of if I want to do this properly. It’s method acting. I must look upon his as the work of God and mine as the scribe who is to finish curating the Bible before binding it with blood and skin.
It’s just that sometimes I feel so very low in myself. Surely so must he?
11
PLAUDITS
ACCLAIM FOR
Restoring Conviction:
The Hope and Faith of a Public Servant
“An unexpectedly raw account from a notoriously divisive public figure . . . Restoring Conviction portrays the former Premier not sympathetically or critically, but in a simple and refreshingly honest way.”
— Jeff Malay, Toronto Citizen
“Eloquently written, the memoirs of Canada’s most controversial Premier may not do much to redeem him, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t an absolute pleasure to read.”
— J. J. Ricard, Montreal Sun
“A must-read, not just for those interested in the occasionally esoteric world of Canadian politics, but for anyone interested in a genuine, occasionally heartbreaking, and above all, a thoroughly human story.”
Panegyric Page 3