River City

by John Farrow

  Upset, she pushed past him and returned to the living room, where she slumped onto the sofa. He reappeared and sat opposite her. “What’re you saying?” “Calm down. I’ll explain.”

  “Just fucking explain it,” she told him, and started scratching on the label of her bottle. “I don’t have to fucking calm down.”

  “Father François knows everyone involved. Your dad. Your mom. Houde.”

  “I know them, too. So interrogate me. Ask me where I was that night. Or have you been doing that secretly, you shit? Do you browse through my closets when I’m not looking?”

  “I know where you were. You were a kid at home. Will you let me finish?”

  “Finish.”

  He released tension by blowing air out of his lungs, like a whale surfacing. “Father François also knew Pierre Trudeau back then. He still does. He was involved in the de Bernonville affair, as was your mother, working to have the man deported back to France to face war crimes charges. He either worked politically with the people involved or found himself aligned against them. He knew all the players. He also knows, because you told me, that Trudeau acquired the knife. Now, he could have told me that in our conversation the other day, but he chose not to do so.”

  “He’s a priest!” she burst out. “He can’t talk about confessions.”

  “Houde didn’t confess that part. Houde wanted to know if a transaction for the dagger had occurred. Father François was in on that part, Anik. Face it.”

  She held her hands apart, yelling at him as if trying to berate the wall behind him, the beer bottle in one hand as though she might throw it. “He wasn’t in on it. He just happened to know about it.”

  “Knowing about it means he was in on it. In some way.”

  “Oh, balls!”

  “It’s my job to ask questions. He’s key. It’s not because I know you.” “It is because you know me! I trusted you, Émile. The only reason I told you about Trudeau and the dagger is because we sleep together.” “Occasionally.”

  “What? What was that? A complaint?”

  “You’re out a lot, that’s all. It’s not a complaint. That’s just how it is.” “Hello? Who here works the night shift? Who plays detective on his days off?” “Okay, okay.”

  “So, what’s your complaint?”

  “It’s not a complaint. I’m not complaining.”

  She sighed heavily again. Having lifted the edges of her beer label, she ripped it clean off, dropping the debris beside her on the sofa. “Just spit it out, Émile.”

  He sighed, too. “You’re out a lot, that’s all.” “That’s not all. Say what’s on your mind for once.”

  He had a notion to do that, but he found the going difficult. “Your friends don’t like me much.”

  “You are a cop. It comes with the territory.” “I’m not so crazy about them, either.”

  That made her think. “True. They talk about overthrowing the government. In that situation, you’d have to shoot them, right? Won’t that be fun for you?”

  Their quick smiles acknowledged that their differences felt odd, even to them.

  Ranger’s nails were clicking on the kitchen floor as he paced in circles. “I wonder,” Émile said. “Did your mom and dad have conversations like this?”

  Often Anik wondered something similar. According to her mom, Roger didn’t often voice contrary opinions. He just made sure that he knew which strike she was supporting that day.

  “I’m not very confident,” Anik said quietly, slowly, measuring her words, “if I can live with our disparities as well as they did.”

  “Anik—”

  “Let’s just … I don’t know.” She inhaled. “Take a breather.” “Anik—come on. It’s not that bad. We can work this through.” “Can we?” She sipped her beer, but could scarcely taste it. Her chin quavered. “I’m not so sure. For now, Émile, for today at least, I need room.” “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing—definitive. I’m just saying, I’d like to be alone today.”

  This was hurting. Émile accepted her resolve and crossed the room to kiss her. Their lips touched lightly. When he left the room, and the house, and shut the door behind him, he felt as sad as the rain beginning to fall. She hadn’t said so, but this felt terminal. An ache pestered his back. He wanted to turn, to see if she had come out to watch him go, but he could not fully twist himself around. He didn’t know what to say that would be new or beneficial, so he walked on.

  All day, the part of him that was a policeman wanted to ask why she had cried the day she ran from the old mayor’s house after hearing his final confession. She’d made a point of telling him that. She had wept uncontrollably. Was it the old mayor’s imminent death causing her to weep? Or had she overheard something she had yet to reveal? Émile would become cross with himself, for always he faced this dilemma. Was he her boyfriend or her inquisitor? He supposed, as he took the corner and looked to see if a bus was in sight, that Anik probably had to struggle with the same issue.

  The nature of the question seemed to carry its own response.

  From the living-room window, Anik watched him go, stopping herself from rushing out and offering an umbrella. Ranger wanted to dash out, too, but she squeezed him to her side and rubbed behind his ears. “Later,” she said. “Soon.” This hurt. She felt awash, sad, unable to determine what to do next. She went through to her room and plopped down on the bed. She hugged herself, then her dog. A while later, she napped. Waking, she knew she had somewhere to go, people to see. Time for a quick bath and a change of clothes, a scoot around the block with her pet, then she’d be off. Another late night. Which is what Émile resented—the late nights made him suspicious. As she dressed, her sadness weighing upon her, she wondered if she’d be coming home that night. She’d leave her mother the usual note, advising her not to wait up. Her mom would think she’d be sleeping at Émile’s, but she wasn’t planning on it. And if she didn’t sleep there, or here, that might at least resolve a few matters in her life. Or, if not resolve them, abruptly end the discussion.

  “Okay,” she told her dog, “we’ll do better than around the block.” She locked eyes with Ranger. “The park!”

  The terrier jumped three feet.

  Hours later, her usual bar was lively as she entered. Parallel to a brick wall, a long table was crowded with young people. Others pressed in close, standing with their beers in hand. Anik tried to get near to see the principals, going around to one side and elbowing her way through the throng until she could catch a friend’s attention. When she did so, she was signalled to the table. A spot had been held for her. Dozens of young people looked her up and down, wondering why she was important. The older man at the table had seen her coming, and signalled others to move, and after this sport of musical chairs had played out, the free seat that awaited her now appeared, magically, beside his.

  Anik squeezed her way through. She smiled at the man. He kissed her on both cheeks before continuing with his general conversation. He was addressing the group, and the young people listened, enchanted, enthralled. This was the second such gathering. At the first one, Anik and the politician had hit it off, unexpectedly for her. She listened, evaluating. Could it be possible? Could they really create an independent country for their people? Could a way be found? And she thought about Émile, wondering how they had come to love one another when that love felt impossible. If Émile were here, he’d be arguing each point. He would not sit in thrall, basking in the glory of the moment. What’s up with me? Was she destined to inhabit a relationship similar to that of her parents, and shouldn’t that be an ugly thought, or at least off-putting? Had she been searching for a man who could attract her, yet whose politics were opposite her own? Wasn’t that unfair to everyone? She wondered if she shouldn’t go home, or over to Émile’s, rather than carry on into the wee hours in this rapt discussion and into the arms, perhaps, of this renegade, magnetic leader, for that was the danger, even now, as his hand delicately touched her knee, her thigh, h
er wrist, for she had yet to pull away from him. She watched, and listened, and waited, and wondered, and bickered with herself, trying to decide.

  CHAPTER 20

  1939

  ON THE FIRST DAY OF SEPTEMBER IN 1939, THE PREMIER OF THE province of Quebec lay sequestered in mid-debauch. He declined to be distracted by the news that Hitler had invaded Poland. Over the next few days, he maintained his public silence on world events. Not an uncommon tactic. Let others surrender their positions, then see what voids remained for him to wisely inhabit. Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King had backtracked on his longstanding rhetoric and declared that Canada would fight on the side of Great Britain, and the House of Commons was called to address the issue on the fourth.

  Duplessis, nonplussed, drank on.

  He had retreated to a room in the Château Frontenac, high above the St. Lawrence River. To ease a vexatious spirit, he had invited a series of consorts to pass through his suite. Business and news were periodically brought to him, which he perused while the damsel of the day bathed or took a nap.

  Then King invoked the War Measures Act.

  Officially, King’s premise was the defence of the nation in the aid of France and Great Britain against Germany’s aggression, yet the first casualties of his legislation were the premier of Quebec and, by extension, the bombastic mayor of Montreal, Camillien Houde. These were his true political foes. He needed them out of the way to properly conduct a military campaign. He could not rally the nation if two adversaries, each of whom enjoyed strong populist sentiment, were strategically aligned against him. So he went after their Achilles’ heel: both men were running their governments into bankruptcy. Houde had the city forty million in debt, and a trio of banks had cut the city off from further advances. Houde had already stated that Quebec should fight on the side of Mussolini, which had helped the banks reach a determination regarding his civic management. Now he was assailing them. “I won’t allow the people to die of starvation to please a pack of bankers.” The pack hardened their hearts and sealed their vaults against him.

  Duplessis felt King’s squeeze. He had the option of raising government money in the United States, for Americans were accustomed to many of their own states being in worse fiscal straits than Quebec. The banks had bailed him out in the past, but now the War Measures Act forbade any borrowing by cities or provinces unless approved by the federal government.

  All vaults were closed to him. He sent a man to Ottawa to beg funds from the federal government itself, only to be stiffly refused.

  The Opposition took heart. Godbout, the Liberal gnat, declared, “With each beat of your heart, Duplessis extends your debt by two bucks!” In the past, the premier could have countered the accusations with wild spending sprees calculated to buy votes. He could have ordered the building of roads or bridges or wharves, but with empty coffers he was stymied, and from his room in his drunken spree he sent notice that he was calling an election for October. When he awoke to sobriety, he discovered that, compounding his dilemma, King had also instituted censorship. Duplessis could not campaign over the radio without first submitting his speech to federal censors, whose red pencils and snipping shears were kept especially sharp for him. His first reaction was to refuse to speak on radio altogether, and to disallow anyone in his party to speak, effectively surrendering the airwaves to the glory of his silent sulk. And to his enemies.

  The fresh campaign, which he called to rally support against the federal government, began as a disaster, quickly worsening. For his inaugural speech, his diction was precise, as usual, his oratory robust, as usual, but he was uncommonly drunk. By the night’s end, the people were uncertain whether he meant to lead them towards independence or war, or against war, or into the arms of Hitler, or was inviting insurrection. His coalition of forces fell away quickly. The English business community was appalled. Cardinal Villeneuve had recently travelled through France, treated with the élan reserved for a head of state while being educated on the impending peril posed by Germany. He could no longer support Duplessis, and so the crutch of the Church was also withdrawn.

  The Liberals fought hard, taking up several positions the premier might have considered his natural ground. They dismissed conscription, declared it would never happen, and effectively vilified Duplessis. A vote for the premier was a vote for Hitler and Stalin, a vote against him a vote for civilization. Intoxicated and feeling absurdly assured of his own power, le Chef was losing control over his confederates, who now believed he was marching them towards disaster.

  Disaster ensued. He was scorched in the election. His regime of artificial dictatorship, scandals, martinis and attendant ladies buckled.

  In his home in Trois-Rivières, his sister, unaccustomed to defeat, quietly wept. He stepped up beside her and sat down. “Why cry? Do not cry,” he said. “I will be back. Next time, I will remain in power for fifteen years, or until God takes me. I promise you, never again shall we know defeat. They are saying that my government has been an aberration, but we will rise up again to show them that this night is the aberration.” He kissed her temple, and her weeping ceased. “I will be back.”

  In the days ahead, Duplessis stayed home, not drinking so much, remaining contemplative, rearming his energy. On his desk he kept a clipping, in English, culled from Time magazine. He read it aloud each morning, and before lunch, and at the end of each business day, permitting the rancour of the separate readings to settle deeply inside him. He returned to his office before retiring for the night and read the clipping to himself once more, to embed the nettlesome comment into his marrow. Centred in the journalist’s assessment was an insult he could not abide—one he would correct, but, more important, one he would use to motivate his comeback. He read, “Because he used Hitler’s theories of racism, Mussolini’s system of corporatist trade-union laws, and Huey Long’s finger-wagging, roughshod political tactics, he was called a Fascist … But things went badly for pink-cheeked, Hitler-moustached, Bon Vivant M. Duplessis.”

  Never again, Duplessis vowed, would anyone think to call him “pink-cheeked.” Of that, he was profoundly certain.

  To the clipping, he’d say each day, “I’ll be back.”

  In Ottawa, Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King was ecstatic with le Chef’s demise. “One down,” he confided to a senior advisor.

  “We’ll get the other one, soon enough,” the confidant replied.

  “I want Houde’s head on a platter.”

  Carole and Roger Clément were awakened from their beds.

  The cops went straight to the small, hand-cranked printing apparatus in the otherwise empty back bedroom, where a crumpled copy of a pamphlet was mysteriously discovered in the waste bin. They never left copies lying around.

  “Get dressed, please, ma’am. You’re coming with us.”

  Under the War Measures Act, some criminal trials had been disbanded.

  Roger declared, “I did it. Not her.”

  An officer held up the offending leaflet. “Says here a woman was raped. In a munitions plant. That’s sedition. You printed this?”

  Roger said he had. To prove it, he said, the crank had been malfunctioning, stubborn and strenuous to turn.

  “Go ahead. Turn the handle yourself.”

  The officer tested it out, realized that a small woman could not possibly have turned the crank, and ordered that Roger be arrested in Carole’s place. She watched him go.

  The man who loved her sacrificed himself. Somehow she knew that was right. What would she do in a prison camp except die? Roger would survive, and he’d return to her. She would help by making airplane wings and trust that her labours shortened the war. Each night she returned alone to her little house, as she had done for so long before she’d been married. Each night, she gazed at a picture of herself and her husband on their wedding day, whispering to him, “Be so very brave. Come back to me, Roger.” Each day, she’d check the mail, hoping the censors had let something through from the camp.

 
Always, before he finished a letter by saying again that he loved her, he would write, “I’ll be back.”

  The justice minister had news. The last time he was this excited, he was reporting Duplessis’s defeat. Since then, Paris had fallen. Few around Parliament Hill were feeling chipper.

  “What is it?” the prime minister asked.

  “Houde!” he exclaimed. “He’s come out in public against conscription. He urged the people of Quebec to defy the law.”

  “Sedition?”

  “Sedition,” the man proclaimed.

  “Off with his head.”

  “Sir, I don’t know—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s a metaphor. Arrest him. I want him interned.”

  “The mayor of Montreal?”

  “The mayor,” King confirmed, “of Montreal.”

  “Just like that?” the man asked.

  King paused. “No,” he decided, his political brain at work. “Do we know that he said these things for a certainty? Or will he claim that he was misquoted?”

  The minister told him that the journalist who overheard the remark had phoned the news to his editor, a man by the name of Ludington, whom King had once met. Ludington advised the reporter to write out the remarks as he had heard them, then take them to Houde to see if he would sign them.

  “He signed?”

  “With some élan, apparently. You know Houde.”

  “Call Ludington,” King advised. “Tell him we’re using the censors to scuttle the story.”

  “It’s already been printed.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He can write no more. When he complains, tell him that if the story had been mentioned in the House of Commons, he’d be free to write about it. As is, we’re free to scuttle it.”

  “Then we don’t get Houde,” noted the justice minister.

  “Oh but we do,” King told him. “Ludington will call the Opposition. He’ll coax them to air the story in Parliament. Once they do, I’m obliged to discharge my duty and arrest Houde. It won’t be because I want him gone, but because my arm has been twisted by the Opposition. Make the call.”