My October

by Claire Holden Rothman

  Luc squirmed. It was hopeless.

  “Yes,” Hugo said after a pause, so softly they all had to strain to hear.

  “Can you tell me the model?”

  Hugo nodded.

  “You have to speak, Hugo. Speak!”

  “You just said it, monsieur,” Hugo muttered, addressing the floor.

  Luc stared at him. Such insolence. His heart was pounding. Bonnaire’s face had flushed a dark pink.

  Finally, when Luc felt he could endure it no longer, just as he reached the limit of endurance, the boy spoke. “A nine- millimetre Mauser Luger.”

  There was a collective release of breath in the room.

  “Thank you,” said Bonnaire, although he did not look at all appreciative. “You knew the model before I said it, did you not?”

  Hugo didn’t move.

  “You must have. Where did you learn it, Hugo? Please tell us, in a nice, loud voice this time.”

  Hugo shrugged.

  Luc could barely breathe. It felt as if stones, a whole quarry of them, were piled high and precarious inside his chest.

  Bonnaire put his hands flat on the table and repeated the question. “How did you learn the gun’s make and calibre?”

  “At the gun shop,” whispered Hugo.

  “The gun shop?”

  “The pawnshop, where I bought it.”

  “And where is this pawnshop located? Be precise, now. Give us the names of streets.”

  Hugo described an establishment on Sainte-Catherine Street, not far from the school. As he spoke, his gaze never once left the floor. He looked guilty as hell, his body all but screaming it.

  Bonnaire, for some reason, didn’t seem to notice. “I visited that shop,” he said, his tone suddenly shifting to conversational. “I had the pleasure of speaking with the owner, a man named Leblanc. Do you know this man, Monsieur Leblanc?”

  Hugo went perfectly still. In the light filtering through the stained glass windows, his skin looked yellow, the way it had in the days immediately following his birth. Newborn liver malfunction. An excess of bile.

  “I have to tell you, he was surprised when I showed him the gun,” Bonnaire continued, ignoring Hugo’s silence. “He claimed that he had never seen it before. He said he had no licence to sell firearms.” Bonnaire stopped. “Perhaps you’d like to say something now, Hugo?”

  Rain had begun to rap on the windows, a light pinging sound against the glass. No one moved.

  “We are waiting,” said Bonnaire.

  The rain kept on rapping. It was disconcerting. It sounded like someone knocking, wanting to be let in. Luc glanced at Hugo, who was looking at his lap. On the far side of him, Hannah was staring straight ahead, her face a stone mask.

  “We have two very different accounts here, Hugo. They cannot both be true.”

  Hugo shifted, making a floorboard creak.

  “Are we to conclude that Monsieur Leblanc is lying?”

  The floor creaked again.

  “It is in your interest to respond,” said Bonnaire. “We are offering you a precious opportunity to explain the situation in your own words.”

  Luc had a sudden impulse to shout. Of course the man hadn’t admitted to selling the gun, or even to setting eyes on it. Hugo was underage. This was a lethal weapon they were talking about. Even selling it to an adult would be a crime. It was perfectly obvious. Why didn’t Hugo speak?

  “I bought the gun from him,” Hugo said in a whisper.

  Bonnaire brought his fingers together, forming a tent, and pressed them to his lips. “So the man is lying. Is that right, Hugo? You are accusing Monsieur Leblanc of lying.” He stood up to ask his next question. “You have also told me that you went to this pawnshop, the one on Sainte-Catherine Street, before school started on the morning of October 2. At eight o’clock. Is this correct?”

  “Yes,” whispered Hugo.

  “And yet the shop only opens at ten thirty.”

  Across the table, the chair of the parents’ committee scribbled something on her notepad.

  “He came early for me,” whispered Hugo.

  “The owner? Monsieur Leblanc?”

  Hugo nodded.

  “Speak up,” said Bonnaire. He turned to the secretary. “That was a yes, Madame Chicoine. You may note down a yes.” He looked back at Hugo. “Monsieur Leblanc denies he did anything of the sort.”

  Bonnaire’s questions continued. Why had Hugo bought the gun in the first place? What had he wanted to do with it? What could a boy from a good family like Hugo’s want with a gun? Hugo remained silent, not that Bonnaire seemed bothered by this anymore. He was too engrossed in his own rhetoric to pay any attention.

  “I am not a mind reader,” Bonnaire said, addressing the room like a prosecutor from one of those third-rate TV courtroom dramas that were currently so popular. “I can only guess what was going on in the mind of Hugo Lévesque on the morning of October 2. His motives are a mystery, and will remain as such until the day he chooses to explain them.”

  The room fell silent. Luc tried to will Hugo to speak. In his mind’s eye, Hugo smiled and opened his mouth, but when Luc glanced sideways, Hugo’s lips were clamped in a thin, defiant line.

  Luc couldn’t contain himself. “He meant no harm,” he burst out, taking everyone, himself most of all, by surprise. “It was bubble-wrapped in his knapsack, for the love of God. He wasn’t waving it around.”

  Everyone in the room was staring at him. “Please, Monsieur Lévesque,” Bonnaire said. “You will be called upon to speak soon enough. But at the moment, your son has the floor.”

  Luc was about to answer indignantly that he could speak without being called upon, that he didn’t need anyone’s permission to talk about his own son, when Hugo turned his way. It was only for a fraction of a second, too short a time for any message to pass, but the sadness Luc glimpsed was enough to silence him. Emotion. Real and unfiltered. He shut his mouth and sat back in his chair. His heart was galloping. He wasn’t in any pain, but surely this wasn’t normal. Arrhythmia? Was that the term? Tachycardia? Could a man die of failing to defend his son?

  Things were going horribly. Luc had forgotten what this place was like: the rules, the deplorable, petty power plays. How he’d hated it when he was young. He pressed his fingernails into the flesh of his palms and tried to slow his breath. If only Bonnaire would let him speak. He could win them over; he knew he could. He was literary and he was peaceful. Books were his great love. Literature, the only thing he’d ever believed in. What did he know about guns?

  Bonnaire had turned to face Hugo. It appeared that the interrogation was not over. “This man,” he said, “the pawnshop owner. Can you describe him physically for us?” He was smiling for some reason, but not generously.

  Hugo surprised everyone by speaking. In a single clipped sentence, he described a stout person with thinning grey hair.

  “And you swear that this person sold you the gun?”

  Hugo remained silent.

  “Answer in words, please, Hugo. Would you swear to it on the Holy Bible?”

  Luc shifted in his chair. Surely this was outside the bounds of a high school disciplinary hearing. Where was Bonnaire going with these questions?

  “Answer me,” ordered Bonnaire.

  Everyone looked at Hugo, but he didn’t raise his eyes. A bell rang. Sounds of footsteps could be heard outside the closed door. Muffled shouts and laughter.

  Do it, Luc willed.

  “Answer me,” Bonnaire said again. He was on his feet now, staring at Hugo with his horrid, beady eyes. At length he sat down. “I will speak, then,” he said. “You tell a good story, Hugo Lévesque. A story that holds together, that has the virtue of coherence. There is a pawnshop on Sainte-Catherine Street, just as you say. And yes, Monsieur Leblanc does sell antique guns on occasion. He has a glass case with antique firearms in it. And if, in fact, he had sold you a gun, he could never admit to it afterward. You are a minor. He would be admitting to a crime.”

 
Bonnaire paused for a moment, allowing everyone to absorb this logic. Then he leaned across the table and picked up the Luger. “You and I both know, however, that you did not purchase this gun at the pawnshop.” He looked from Hugo to the gun, and from the gun to Luc.

  “You seem confused, Monsieur Lévesque.”

  Luc tried to rearrange his expression. Bonnaire was right. He had no idea what was going on.

  “I’m glad of it.” Bonnaire flashed him a tight, aggressive smile. “It would have pained me to discover that an esteemed graduate of the school and one of Quebec’s finest writers would deliberately lead us astray.”

  What was Bonnaire saying? Was he accusing him of lying too? Luc returned the principal’s gaze as steadily as he could. Bonnaire seemed to feel there had been some sort of deception on his part. Did the others think it too? The jury members appeared to be as confused as Luc himself. They were all exchanging bewildered looks. All except for Serge Vien, Luc realized with a start. Vien was sitting very still in his chair, his dark eyes averted.

  “Another boy was involved,” Bonnaire announced.

  Hugo’s head jerked up.

  “You were seen,” Bonnaire said, nodding triumphantly. “New witnesses have come forward.” He held the gun out and addressed the entire room. “This weapon belongs to the father of another of our students, who happens to be in Hugo’s homeroom class. On the morning of October 2, 2001, the student in question took it without permission from his father’s apartment—stole it, to be perfectly frank—and brought it to the school to sell.”

  Bonnaire turned back to Hugo. “Isn’t that right, Hugo? Have I got the facts right this time? I should hope so, since I heard them from the very student to whom I am referring. He told me you paid him seventy-five dollars in cash for it.” Bonnaire replaced the gun on the table. “Hugo Lévesque has lied to us, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Lied repeatedly and systematically, from the start of this inquiry to this very moment. If this were a court of law—” he began portentously, but then stopped, interrupted by a loud scraping sound.

  It was Hannah, pushing her chair back from the table.

  “Excuse me,” she said, leaning in toward the line of judges and fixing her eyes on Bonnaire, “but this changes everything, does it not?” Her voice was much higher than usual and her cheeks were flushed, but she gripped the seat of her chair and continued. “If another student is involved, then Hugo didn’t bring the gun onto your school grounds, did he?”

  Bonnaire’s jaw muscles tightened. “First of all, madame, may I remind you that these are not my school grounds. They belong to all of us. To your son. And to you too.”

  Luc winced. He’d warned her not to speak. That had been a bad slip. Surely, now she’d stop. But Bonnaire’s words seemed to make Hannah more determined than ever. She sprang to her feet, her gaze still fixed on the principal.

  In her hand was something Luc had not noticed before: a little red booklet. “Your rules,” she said, flipping the booklet open and skimming a page of it until she found what she was looking for. “Your rules,” she repeated, “refer to ‘anyone bringing a gun or other weapon onto the college premises.’” She paused and looked up again at the judges. “Bringing, not having. Not possessing, Monsieur Bonnaire. Those are two different things.”

  She sounded like a lawyer. Like her father. There was a moment of silence.

  It did not last. Madame Laflamme stood up. “This is absurd! Whether your son got someone to bring it to school or brought it himself is irrelevant. It’s splitting hairs. The fact remains that a gun was found on the school grounds, within school hours, and it was in your son’s knapsack. He’s clearly to blame.”

  “To blame for what?” said Hannah.

  Luc shook his head, willing her to look his way and read the message in his eyes: the best thing she could do was sit down and shut up.

  She didn’t even glance at him.

  The chair of the parents’ committee was smiling now, moving in confidently for the kill. “For having a gun. At school,” she said slowly, as if addressing a child. She began to describe her daughter, a little girl who had entered the school that autumn. She had just turned twelve, young for secondaire un. According to her mother, she had never laid eyes on a gun before, not even on television, which in any case was banned in their home.

  Bonnaire raised his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “Ladies, please!”

  Madame Laflamme turned on him. “I have a question for you too, Monsieur Bonnaire,” she said, clipping her words to show her displeasure. “Why are we even bothering to give this young man a hearing, since all he does is lie? This whole proceeding is a farce.”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “If you want my opinion, he should be assessed. There are tests that can be done,” she said, conspicuously refusing to look at either Hannah or Hugo. “He could be evaluated for … anti-social tendencies.” She stared belligerently at Bonnaire. “I wish I could say I trust these parents to do something constructive, but frankly their contributions to the discussion today have been anything but reassuring.”

  Hannah was formulating an answer. Luc could see it. Before her mouth could open, however, Luc brought his hand down hard on the table. Now he was on his feet as well.

  “Enough!” he said. It came out louder than he’d intended, but at least it had the desired effect. The women fell silent. “I will not be insulted like this,” he said. “I will not stand it for another second.”

  Bonnaire had to call them all to order. As soon as they sat down in their seats, quiet and contrite like schoolchildren, Bonnaire announced that the investigation was ongoing. The second boy would receive a hearing, and, until this occurred, no decision could be made about Hugo Lévesque.

  Luc felt exhausted. Hugo had sunk himself. Sunk them all. Luc couldn’t have saved him even if he’d had a chance to speak, which he hadn’t, thanks to Hannah. He lifted his eyes to the row of stained glass windows along the wall in front of him. It was overcast outside and the colours were dull, but one scene caught his eye. A green hill with three black crosses: Jesus and the two thieves. Today you will be with me in paradise.

  The chair of the parents’ committee didn’t apologize for her rudeness. In fact, she kept right on glaring at Hannah while Bonnaire talked, averting her gaze only after the principal bowed and announced, to Luc’s immense relief, that the proceedings were adjourned.

  As they left the building, Luc couldn’t bring himself to look at either Hannah or his son. He felt sick and ashamed. When he had approached Bonnaire to shake his hand before leaving, the principal had made a show of being engrossed in his papers while giving instructions to the secretary. Luc had walked away without forcing the issue. And Vien had hurried off without meeting Luc’s eye.

  A No Trespassing sign at the entry to the parking area warned drivers that their cars would be towed if they failed to get the requisite permission. Tufts of brown grass pushed through cracks in the asphalt. Luc led the way to the Peugeot, walking beside Hannah but not touching her. Hugo walked a few metres behind.

  “I hope you’re pleased,” he said as they reached the car.

  She got in, silent and contrite. Hugo followed.

  As he drove them home along Sherbrooke Street, Luc lowered his window, letting the cool air rush in. The rain had stopped, but a bank of clouds still hung over the city, dark and ominously low. The car passed the Sulpician seminary immediately west of the school, with its row of scraggly poplars over a dry reflecting pool. No one spoke. He accelerated through the turn onto Atwater and drove fast down the hill toward Saint-Henri.

  There were no parking spots near the house on Laporte Street, so Luc had to circle the block to the other side of the park. The instant he was out of the car, he walked away. No explanation, no goodbye. He could feel Hannah’s eyes on his back, but he didn’t care. He was too angry to deal with her right now. Or with her lying son. As he walked, he became aware of something lumpy in his pocket. He reached in and pulled out
a dollar-store key ring, a die made of silver-painted plastic attached to a flimsy chain with a single key on it. His new landlord—the fat man, Gagnon—had given it to him with the key. As Luc turned it over in his hand, he felt a rush. Hannah and Hugo were too far behind him to see it, and even if they had, they wouldn’t have known what it was. It was small and secret, and that only added to the pleasure.

  10

  Dr. Mandelbaum’s office was on Sainte-Catherine Street in lower Westmount. Hannah must have passed this building a hundred times and never noticed it. An art gallery occupied the first floor. Hannah and Hugo were standing in front of its shiny window, waiting for Luc, whom they hadn’t seen since last Thursday’s hearing at the school. Five days. They had spoken three times during this period over the phone. Each time, he was the one who made the call—from a pay phone, with an ocean-roar of traffic in the background.

  The first call had come Friday morning, the day after the hearing. She had been up all night, waiting and wondering, and then, at ten thirty in the morning, just as she was about to go to bed, the telephone had rung. No explanation. No apology. She had been too distraught to demand either.

  The second call had come Sunday night. Luc had learned from Serge Vien that Hugo would not be expelled. He was safe. The school, Luc informed her, would phone her officially with the verdict sometime Monday. The boy who had sold Hugo the gun would be thrown out. It turned out this boy had been in trouble before. He, not Hugo, would pay for the crime.

  The final call had come last night. Again filled with traffic sounds and again no indication of where Luc was or why he had left, though this time Hannah asked. She assumed he was bunking at the new office, but he would not tell her. He kept deflecting her with queries about the logistics of their meeting this morning, where the place was located and what time they were expected to show up. She decided not to insist. Explanations would have to wait.

  A brass figurine looked at her from inside the gallery window. Barely a foot high, it was by far the most striking piece on display, much more beautiful than the acrylic painting or the geometric Plexiglas sculpture that also occupied the space. The figurine was female. Her breasts protruded generously beneath a garment that covered her from neck to toe. Her belly was a gentle hillock rising from the flat plains of her thighs. Was she pregnant? Hannah bent in for a closer look, pressing her nose against the glass. The moon-like face seemed to be glowing, full of secrets. Yes, thought Hannah. A young woman with child.