by John Brooke
“Bonjour, Marcel! Ça va?”
“Ça va, ça va. Still recovering from a magnificent corn roast and dance in the parish hall up in Villeray quarter this past weekend. My good friend Father Martin Legault sure knows how to lay on a good time. A lot of our friends came along to lend support. The place was all done up in blue and white. Just a great way to end the summer!”
“Marcel, you have all the fun.”
“It’s because I’m a fun guy, René.”
“Mais oui, mais oui. And did you have a spin around the floor with my favourite flag-lady?”
“Marie-Claire Lamotte?”
“Who else?”
“No, I have to say I did not. And it’s a shame, because everyone was asking for her. René, so many people were coming up to me and saying: but Marcel — where is Marie-Claire Lamotte?”
“An appearance could’ve capped a perfect night.”
“True, my friend, so true. Ah well, they say she doesn’t get out much these days.”
“Well she’s out this morning,” reported René. “We flew over to say good morning…she was out as usual on another brilliant morning. Her blue and white was dancing to beat the band.”
“Bravo,” said Marcel, draining his coffee. “Bonjour, Marie-Claire! I wish you’d call. We all do. But where are you now, René? And can you see les belles couleurs?”
“Marcel, right now we’re over Pointe-Aux-Trembles and we’ve spotted a flag down by the river. We’re talking about a red brick cottage across from the park, set back from the street, and it looks like there’s a blonde woman in pyjamas hanging out her washing in the garden next door. Yes, a blonde woman…hanging up her bras.”
Thanking René, Marcel asked, “Can you hear us, madame or monsieur? Give us a call and tell us about your colours. And now, René, how are things on the roads?”
René described the situation.
During the news Marcel stared, trance-like, at his reflection in the booth window. He was thinking of Saturday night — how he’d slipped away from the party in the parish hall and hurried the short two blocks from the church to the maison de retraite with two buttered cobs on a paper plate and plastic glass of beer. For her. It was not that late, couldn’t have been past ten; but the nurse, then two of them, refused to even let him into the elevator, let alone knock on her door with his offering. Worse, they accused him of supplying her with beer! They said “It’s the last thing in the world she needs!” before sending him away. Marcel could never share this with René or his listeners. He worried those nurses might start talking…
After the news an excited gentleman from Pointe-Aux-Trembles began telling Marcel how his fleur-de-lis flew proudly beside the St. Lawrence, and how the passing freighters had become like friends, each blowing their horn in salute and —
Marcel broke in: “What about Marie-Claire Lamotte?”
It tripped the caller up. “What about her?”
“Do you know her?”
No, the caller couldn’t say he had ever known a Marie-Claire Lamotte. Although he used to know a Jean-Guy Lamotte. A freighter pilot…dead now, but a very interesting man…
“Ah…” And Marcel listened to the gentleman.
But Marie-Claire Lamotte, out there each and every morning with her flag: The highest place. So constant. Their mascot…their champion! Not a politician. Not a radio host. A citizen, pure and simple, someone as basic as the flag itself. There had to be a way to get her on the show.
Ten days later, the Wednesday after Labour Day, 1997. The Gazette’s lead story, borrowed from the Washington Post, described the public’s mounting anger at the Queen of England’s apparent lack of grief over her daughter-in-law’s sudden death in a Paris underpass. Beside it, the Gazette explored the impact of Montreal’s newest English radio personality, a guy named Howard, who was being imported by feed from New York each morning for the sole and obviously popular purpose of insulting everyone and anyone, including French Canadians. The Gazette confirmed that as far as ratings in the English market went, the foul-mouthed New Yorker had easily raced to the head of the pack. Bruce wanted nothing to do with the new morning man. One outraged minister of the current government had labelled the man’s approach “vomit on the air waves.” Having tuned in for a few minutes to get a taste of it, Bruce was inclined to agree. He would stick with the CBC. And he was fed up with Diana’s death. The tragedy had left markets sluggish. Too many people were distracted. The usual post-Labour Day surge had not occurred. Moves he’d planned were falling flat. The thing was costing him money.
Down in the corner of that same front page, Bruce found this: Rooftop Flags OK: Mayor.
A sub-heading chortled: Maple Leaf display in Pointe Claire irks a sovereignist.
It was a local thing — nothing to do with Ottawa, mounted to protest overly zealous enforcement of sign laws by the Office de la langue française. Bruce read: The Mayor of Pointe Claire has dismissed a complaint about the 440 Canadian flags adorning local rooftops, saying city regulations do not prohibit the unusual display of flags. But one local resident feels only anger when he sees the flags stapled to roofs. He believes they may cause tension or devalue homes in the area. He had asked the city to send him a copy of its rules concerning flags, and wrote the Mayor on August 15 when he found what he thought was a prohibition.
But the Mayor had sided with federalist constituents (who were also the voting majority), of whom Bruce’s father was definitely one. Bruce picked up the phone and called him. His mother, still fretting about the Princess, said he was up on the roof… That night he tried his father again. His mother, answering, was weepy from watching yet more news about the royal crash. But there was no hint the old man had even heard of Dodi and Di’s ill-fated ride. Yes, he’d spent the day up a ladder with a staple gun, attaching the Maple Leaf to his roof.
Bruce expressed misgivings about a seventy-six-year-old climbing around on the roof.
His dad brushed him off. “It’s my house and it’s in Canada. This is just so no one forgets it.”
Bruce asked, “Aren’t you afraid you’re going to start a war?”
“On the contrary, it feels good. Liberating.” He laughed. “This will be our war of liberation!”
This time, something in his father’s hardline words sounded right. Next day when he left the office, Bruce loosened his tie against the humid evening and trudged up Beaver Hall. In a novelty store on St. Catherine Street he purchased a Canadian flag. Saturday morning, with a distracted partial blessing from Geneviève who was glued to the funeral broadcast from London, and with a make-shift pole to hang it from — because unlike roofs in the newer suburbs his was flat and without a pole the flag would be only for God to see, Bruce toted out the extension ladder and up he went.
Marie-Claire Lamotte lifted Father Martin’s small radio from her lap and fooled with it, looking for René. But there were far too many buttons on the thing and she failed to find him. With her time drawing near, she was anxious; she wanted to hear from him once more before setting out on the path to join his soul. Only yesterday — or the day before? — René had come through again and told her how far and wide he could see from his place above the world, and that her flag was his daily delight, and how they were all waiting for her call.
Then, of course, there was that Marcel. The way he went on and some of the things he let slip? Well, it seemed he wanted to see her even more than René, and Marie-Claire was tempted to think this Marcel was sweet on her. Which was nice; but she’d stopped listening whenever Marcel began his chatter. Out of respect for René. Still, she was glad René had found a friend in paradise. Maybe there was a garage there, where they could go to work on things and have a beer.
Beer. Marie-Claire took the little bottle from inside the folds of her shift and sipped. Imagine! Bright red beer and radios that gave you heaven. Everything was changing. Who could have guessed it would be so gentle? So filled with unexpected friends?
It was a fine morning. Bonjour les p
eupliers! Ça va?
The poplars were doing well, thanks.
The poplars had become her friends. They knew the way. Madame Lamotte felt the weather changing, and the poplars were waiting to guide her on her journey to be with René… Yes, the weather was changing. At last. God knows she’s ready. She will be there… She looked up and whispered, “It won’t be long, cher.” Sipping; just a little bit. And then a little bit more. Getting calm. Getting ready, watching the sky; then, looking down through the poplars, watching a man on the roof below.
There was a man on the roof of the house opposite and Marie-Claire Lamotte was wondering: Does he have a loved one he wishes to communicate with? He was in the process of lifting a flag. The other one — white. And red — like her beer, tucking her chin toward her breast and taking another sip. The flag of Canada: attached to a pole, wavering as he worked to fix it in place, the bright silk unfurling against the drab greys and browns of the roofs and street, shining as it spread across the immaculate blue sky, collapsing again as the man made more adjustments.
Marie-Claire made an effort to wave, to attract his attention.
He didn’t notice. Too busy. Like René when he was working in the garage. Dommage. They should talk, she and this man on the roof across the way, she could tell him he was doing the right thing…that a flag will work, that a true heart could find you over time. And maybe she could tell René to find his loved one and pass the word along.
Or she could carry the message herself…
There was a tapping.
Marie-Claire turned: it was a woman, smiling. Then the woman went away.
Inside, Miriam Poirier and housekeeper Teresa Valverde moved into the kitchen. The maison manager opened the refrigerator and inspected its contents. She sniffed three times. “Do I smell beer?”
Teresa also sniffed, then shrugged. “I don’t see how.”
“That Marcel Beaulé came in last Saturday night — he wanted to bring her some beer.”
Teresa nodded at this news. She asked, “Who is Marcel Beaulé?”
“He’s on the radio,” said Miriam as she continued her search, opening, then closing cupboard doors after a cursory glance in each, “and it’s absolutely atrocious how presumptuous those kind of people think they can be.” When her inspection was complete, she asked, “There’s no one who visits, is there?”
“Only Father Martin,” said Teresa. “He brought her a radio.”
“Does he bring her beer?”
“Father Martin?”
“It does…” She sniffed again, five, six times, as if following her nose up and up to touch the ceiling. “…smell of beer in here.”
“I think it’s more that she never opens her windows,” offered Teresa.
Miriam’s look said she was not convinced.
Teresa gestured back toward the balcony door. “Ask her.”
Miriam made a tightish face. “You don’t ask — you confront. With proof.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” said Teresa.
“Especially if you’re working weekends, with all the people coming in and out. He has this tacky silver hair like Elvis Presley.”
Teresa Valverde knew who Elvis Presley was.
The two women moved over to the door. The egg-like crone was reclining on her lawn chair, staring at the sky. Miriam asked Teresa, “How is she getting along?”
“Well, she’s so much brighter in the mornings these days, but fades again the afternoon — like she doesn’t know me. It’s sad. But she loves her radio. Father Martin said she would.”
“Not so sad,” mused Miriam. “It’s spiritual. I really believe that. I’ve seen it before. They feel it coming and they’re getting ready. They’re already living on a different plane.” Now opening the door and looking out for a moment; “Bonjour, Madame Lamotte.”
This time the lady didn’t turn.
And, next morning, Teresa, returning from early mass to change sheets and open windows before relatives began to arrive for Sunday lunch, found Madame Lamotte on her balcony, serene, if slightly sodden from a heavy dew. She had her headphones on. When Teresa lifted them from the lady’s ears and pressed them to her own to hear what was playing, there was only the intermittent buzz of a run-down battery. So she shut it off and wrapped the cord neatly, then proceeded to make sure Madame Lamotte’s person was as pure as her empty eyes. The doctor arrived and determined that she’d left them sometime on Saturday afternoon. He also noticed a faint scent of beer about her body; but no one at the maison could explain it and it didn’t really matter — poor soul. The maison staff had her place cleared and cleaned and were showing it to the next person by that evening.
On a lively Monday morning Marcel Beaulé gave short shrift to Diana addicts who persisted in lamenting. He was more interested in calls concerning the ugly anti-French comments by the overpriced clown from New York on the other station, and in calls about this uprising of Canadian flags out on the West Island. But it was 7:28 and he had to break for traffic and news.
René Bonenfant sounded strangely uncertain as he checked in. “Marcel, it’s um…it’s…well, a glorious, sparkling clear September morning up here.” Then there was only the muffled drone of the chopper for an overly long moment, leaving concerned drivers adrift in rush-hour limbo.
“René…?” inquired Marcel, “you still there?”
“Of course I’m here,” came the reply. Then René blurted, “But Marie-Claire Lamotte is not.”
“What are you telling me?”
“Marcel, I’m telling you our Marie-Claire is not with us today. She is not on her balcony to salute us for the first time since…well, since we found her. And her flag has been removed.”
“No.” Listeners could not see Marcel staring into his coffee, suddenly suspended.
“The only colours I can see,” rejoined René, “are red and white — flying from a pole on the roof of a house in the street right behind Madame Lamotte’s balcony.”
“You mean the maple leaf?”
“Exactly, Marcel — the maple leaf.”
“B’en, René…what’s going on?”
“I don’t know. But from here it does not look good.”
Marcel blinked. They were counting him out for the news. Too late for the traffic, he said, “Thank you, René. We will investigate.”
They went to the 7:30 news. A call was made to the maison. By the time Marcel returned to air they knew of Madame Lamotte’s demise. Marcel was shaking. His producer stepped into the booth as Marcel’s theme music swelled. Sylvain Talbot advised Marcel not to mention it just yet. He took Marcel’s bowed shoulders in his hands, looked into his eyes and urged him to turn his grief and shock into radio energy. “Work with it, Marcel. Build something.”
Using the pretext of a jackknifed trailer on the Christophe Colomb exit on the Met westbound, René flew a tight pattern. They went to him five times in twenty minutes, bumping the usual Monday Morning Sports Chat. Each of René’s reports continued to describe the red and white flag and the unsettling absence of their most loyal and patriotic listener. Marcel’s responses pointed toward something ominous. “Mesdames et messieurs, it smells of provocation. I have a bad feeling about this. And you?”
So a solitary red and white flag in the north end quickly became the focus of that morning’s discussion. It proved the perfect juncture for the callers’ anger at West Island partitionist pranks and their expressions of hurt and outrage over the gutter-born words of a fool in New York City; and the show rolled on, tight and punchy, until 9:55, when Marcel, back in control of himself, let it slip. “Mesdames, messieurs, I can now report, sadly, that we’ve lost one of Montreal’s finest citizens. Marie-Claire Lamotte, formerly of the parish of Notre Dame du Rosaire, faithful wife, loving mother, and proud, proud patriot — a true daughter of the real Quebec, has passed away.”
They brought music in gently. A dirge on the fiddle…keening, touching deep. He continued:
“Madame, we will miss you. You ha
ve given us hope and inspiration far above and beyond the call. At the end of your long life: a solitary, fragile woman and a flag. We will not forget. Nor will we, be assured, allow the self-serving provocation that has traumatized your quiet vigil to pass unchallenged. For it is shameful and you have to wonder what goes through this kind of person’s head.” Marcel broke off. He finished his coffee with a sigh. “But let’s not let anger cloud our sense of who she was. Not today. Today let’s just say: adieu, Marie-Claire. We will take your part. And I’ll say, à demain, mesdames et messieurs.”
Then the fiddle’s lament rose implacably with the second hand to meet the news at ten.
Geneviève was hard at work on a big contract, translating an insurance industry guidebook for agents and adjusters. Heavy going and deadly boring, but it would be worth about $4,000. She was thinking ten days, and so barely paused for a bowl of salad at noon. She was heading back upstairs when there came a thlump! sound on the front door.
Opening it, she found her white door besmirched by splattered chocolate milk, a burst carton on the step at her feet. Four thick-faced, Buddha-shorn boys were grouped loosely in the street, gawking with insolent eyes, waiting for her to react. She realized it might not be wise to start yelling. An older man — old enough to be their father — stood thirty paces away, at the corner of St. Gédéon. He wore a scraggly goatee and had a cigarette dangling from his lips. Geneviève had a vague sense of having seen him before and knew immediately, instinctively, that he was responsible for the four thuggish boys. She called to him instead. “Et alors — these your lovely children?”
The man shook his head, blasé — who, me? — and dragged on his smoke.
To the boys she said, “Très courageux, vous.” You guys are really brave.
To which one boy spat before replying, “Ton drapeau — c’est moche.” Your flag is ugly.
Another chimed in, “On l’aime pas.” We don’t like it.
Geneviève stepped back inside and closed the door. Something else hit it. She heard the boys chanting, “Le Québec aux Québécois!” in a mindless chorus…until the next thing hit the door. A single voice called, “Anglos go home!” They really must be stupid if they think I’m English, thought Geneviève. She went back up to her desk and called the police; then Bruce.