Asylum

by André Alexis

  (What curious annals are hidden behind each of those names: handshakes and broad smiles, Jake Epp’s hair, Pat Carney’s teeth, Joe Clark’s shoulders, Ray Hnatyshyn’s eyebrows, Erik Nielsen’s sneer…)

  Though it was wonderful to see so many Westerners in Cabinet, most of them were aware of being not quite there. Martin Brian had run on the promise of reconciliation. He’d pledged to unify a Conservative Party that was prone to bickering, that had grown scruffy in exile. To that end, he’d filled his Cabinet with women, Albertans, George Hees…all of whom were as important for what they represented as for who they were. It’s in this sense that they were there and not there.

  Albert Rundstedt, for instance, was insignificant. There was very little about Rundstedt (as Rundstedt) that made him more valuable than any other Westerner. He was reliable, a long-time Conservative, fond of Joe Clark, but you could say the same of any number of them. He was clever, which was a liability, but he was also practical, experienced in electoral matters, and capable of being led. L’homme moyen conservateur, in other words. What Rundstedt had in his favour, the thing that made Rundstedt valuable (as Rundstedt), was his chief interest: prison, a subject of universal interest, a good idea in both the best and worst of times. One could always count on the public’s fear. So, prison was, to the political sphere, immaculate?

  Well, no, not exactly.

  A prison was nothing (in itself). It was not an edifice meant to please aesthetically. In fact, a prison is always best when somewhere else, best when invisible, though behind the walls and beneath the searchlights there is Law and Right and the assertion of a Moral Order, and that is what’s needed and what is represented: a return to morality, a halt to the decay that looked indifferently on crime and churchlessness. Still, though prisons were wonderfully significant, they were much less important than taxes, say, or education or health care. They were also a partial preserve of the provinces. And so…a real politician (Rundstedt) with highly symbolic concerns (prisons and houses of detention) was assigned a symbolic portfolio (Cabinet Council to the Secretary of State on Prisons and Penal Reform) in a symbolic Cabinet; though, because the symbolic carries real weight in politics, Rundstedt was given an actual budget and that, of course, meant he had real, if circumscribed, power.

  It was, for Rundstedt, a moment of pure pleasure. For the official photograph, he stood beside Duff Roblin, smiling broadly, showing his teeth. He was given three offices in Centre Block: for himself, for his policy adviser (Franklin Dupuis), and for three assistants: his personal secretary, Ms. Rees; the ministry’s secretary, Mary Stanley; and a research assistant, Edward Muir. Though these offices were smaller than what he might have had in either wing, he basked in the prestige of Centre Block, basked in its history. It was as if you could smell the foul breath of John A. Macdonald or kick MacKenzie King’s dog. And along with history, there came an inkling of the “historical,” a desire to belong to the story of nationhood. This was like a wonderful civic mirage in which all he could accomplish shone before him as if to light his way.

  Then there was the respect, the sheer Excuse me, sir. Yes, Mr. Rundstedt, slightly bowed greetings of pages, underlings, and honeymoon journalists. You could see the Who knew? in them, the What was that? What did he say? attentiveness, as if his every hem and haw now had potential. A more self-conscious man might have found some of this attention difficult, but Rundstedt was not particularly self-conscious. It did not disturb him to find matter trapped among his teeth, and, though he was reasonably careful to avoid them, stains to his clothing did not concern him. He was confident his inner being, now that he was a member of Cabinet, was worthy of presentation, whatever the circumstances.

  This was a remarkably wrongheaded attitude for one so experienced in politics. There was, of course, precedence for such seeming guilelessness. Eugene Whelan had traipsed about in a green Stetson for years, but Whelan had craftily evolved into a parody of the good old Western guy, had hidden behind the Prairies, much as John Crosbie hid behind the Grand Banks. (Also, Whelan was Liberal, and a Liberal from Alberta might do the strangest things without raising eyebrows: a talking dog that does math gets little attention for its sums.)

  A remarkable attitude indeed, because Rundstedt’s inner being was inimical to Politics. It might even be fair to say that any inner being is (by degrees) toxic to the body politic, or that Politics is that aspect of the imagination that begins with a partial occlusion of the inner. The more particular the individual, the less likely is election. It is a failing, in Homo politicus, to allow glimpses of a private agenda, unless, of course, the private agenda is so innocuous that it is, in its wide appeal, as close to public as the private can be. Yes, of course, the particular sometimes meets with public approval, but the fortunate politicians who embody a particularity are not so much individuals as personae. That is, once it’s established that Trudeau is the “intellectual,” Trudeau can wear buckskin breeches and Hawaiian shirts without ruffling the public’s feathers. One simply says

  – Ahh, there goes a university education…

  and turns to the Sports page. For the average politician, however, for one not blessed with a vivid persona, a white smile, a clean suit, and an inoffensive demeanour are not simply a curtain on the inner being, they are a tithe paid to the public, a way of saying “my own concerns are insignificant compared to my devotion to you, to your standards, to your interests…” No one believes this, of course. The jack-in-the-box has sprung so often one waits almost impatiently for the appearance of raw self-interest, but one objects when the tithe is not paid. The box must be closed for the music to sound.

  All of this was standard fare to Rundstedt. He knew better than to allow the public an unobstructed view of his inner self or his sartorial indifference. But in the excitement of victory, he permitted himself a je m’en foutisme that he came to regret. It’s true that journalists listened to what he said, but they wrote about his appearance and his manner. In the first two months, reading through his press clippings, Rundstedt saw the words

  rumpled, careless, arrogant, unprepared, not serious, eccentric, obsessed, clownish, clownlike, motley, buffoon

  used to describe him. They were used so often, he began to wonder if he had not, now that he thought of it, always had something of the buffoon about him. Perhaps he could make motley work for him? No, he could not. No one was impressed by his sense of humour. His witticisms were abysmal: stilted, obviously rehearsed, and beside the point when the discussions were serious, as they sometimes were when prison was at issue. His witticisms were early Churchill by way of Diefenbaker:

  – Madam, in the morning I shall be sober, but you will still be ugly.

  and so on. Hard biscuits, even for the committed conservative. So, for two months, Rundstedt floundered. He floundered until his secretary, an experienced parliamentarian, tactfully suggested they shop together for “a few things.” They were, at the outset, looking for women’s shoes, but, mysteriously it seemed to Rundstedt, they ended up in a peculiar boutique on Rideau (by King Edward): Les Cheveux Rouge du Forgeron.

  Les Cheveux Rouge was unusual for a number of reasons. First, it was almost as anonymous as a store could be. It was on Rideau, yes, but its name was nowhere to be seen on the storefront. There were no picture windows and its single metal door was platinum, opaque and intimidating. It was almost as anonymous on the inside: long, narrow, bereft of merchandise. Its walls were white, recently plastered; on one, there was the print of a woman: glance askance, head bound in a white scarf, holding a small child, its face in shadow, its plump hand nestled at her throat. Towards the back of the shop, there was a silver counter, waist high. On the countertop there was nothing at all. The counter looked like a rectangle of polished silver; behind it, there stood an impeccably dressed young man: square-jawed, smooth-faced, his nose descending classically from between his eyebrows, his blond hair falling liturgically in ringlets.

 
– Please? he asked.

  – Is Rossastro in? asked Ms. Rees.

  – No, that he is not, said the young man.

  – Eh bien, said Mr. Rundstedt

  who thought he’d detected a French accent from the young man.

  – Are you expecting him soon?

  The young man considered the question carefully.

  – Perhaps, he said.

  – Perhaps?

  – Lately, his hours are most unpredictable.

  – Eh bien, repeated Rundstedt

  in an effort to be friendly.

  The young man considered Rundstedt.

  – A politician? he asked.

  – Yes, answered Ms. Rees.

  – Liberal or Conservative?

  – Conservative.

  – Ahh…May I?

  – I guess it’s all right.

  – What’s he doing? asked Rundstedt.

  From beneath the countertop, the young man took a square of coarse white paper and a tape measure.

  – Allow me, he said

  coming out from behind the counter. And, before Rundstedt knew it, he was being measured for a suit.

  – I thought we were looking for shoes, he said to Ms. Rees.

  – You certainly need them, said the young man.

  Rundstedt was too much the politician to take offence. He watched as the young man wrote figures on the square of paper, and then he was astonished when the young man handed the square to his secretary.

  – Won’t you need that? Rundstedt asked.

  – It is for you, sir. I have good memory. Your clothes will be ready in two weeks.

  – What clothes?

  The young man was momentarily puzzled. He looked to Ms. Rees, who discreetly nodded, before turning to Rundstedt.

  – Do you also need undergarments?

  Fifteen days later, Rundstedt received two Brioni suits (doublebreasted, blue and navy blue), two white shirts, silk ties from Gianfranco Ferri (red), Gucci shoes (ox blood), (black) Stanfield’s, and a receipt for $5715.70, a considerable amount for Rundstedt, who had never really considered the value of clothes.

  Their effect was immediate and not unsubtle. To begin with, journalists stopped writing about his clothes, but they did not mention his new elegance. Rather, it was as if his clothes did not signify, though Rundstedt himself was treated with restraint and there was new respect for his humour, which hadn’t changed but which now seemed subtler, somehow. He was still a Westerner but, in Italian clothes, this was more acceptable, even to Western journalists who, perhaps unconsciously, took pride in him. Here was a man to represent their interests, a jocular but important politician, a man who quoted Churchill and one who knew all one could know about his own portfolio.

  – I am not sure importance is important…

  said Rundstedt when it was suggested that his position in Cabinet was quite important

  – Truth is.

  An answer that, though stolen from a philosopher, pleased everyone.

  And so, after a fall from grace, Rundstedt regained some of the esteem he’d lost, regained enough esteem to recover a measure of self-confidence and that was most helpful, to himself, above all, but also to the prime minister and those in caucus who kept close watch on who had and did not have the confidence of the public.

  Rundstedt’s real victory, then, came not immediately after the election but some two months later. He had erred in disregarding the importance of dress, but there must be a fall if one is to rise and Rundstedt was fortunate in his fall. By placing his faith in Rossastro’s boutique, he had solved a minor but potentially fatal difficulty with his image.

  Rundstedt was gratified.

  {14}

  WHAT IS NIGHT, ANYWAY?

  Franklin’s first months as Rundstedt’s policy adviser were bewildering and unproductive. Rundstedt seemed unsure of what to do, unclear what was expected of him, and uncomfortable in power. He floundered until, miraculously, he found his footing and assumed his stature, becoming a Cabinet minister almost overnight. After an interval of doubt and uncertainty, Rundstedt managed to restore Franklin’s faith in him. This was good, in itself, but it preceded and, perhaps, influenced the most important moment in Franklin’s life. Shortly after he and Rundstedt found their bearings in office, once he regained confidence in Rundstedt, his life’s purpose was revealed to him and, finally at ease in his work, Franklin took it for what it was: his long-attended inspiration.

  It happened like this: Franklin was by Dow’s Lake, happily strolling. It was evening on a Friday and he was thinking of winter and windows when he suddenly recalled the words of a poet, words he had first heard in university: “I call architecture frozen music.” The words were Goethe’s, and they had, perhaps, been meant lightly, but there was, suddenly, something about them that made him stop and think: a little something at the edge of Franklin’s mind, like a moth trapped in a light fixture.

  As he looked across the water towards the experimental farm, its bare trees, more words came to him, along with a thrilling question. The other words were mine, spoken the night Franklin and I met:

  – Prisons aren’t civilized…

  The question, though, was his own and, as if he’d finally managed to ask it so that it sounded in his depths, the thing made him reel:

  – Why shouldn’t they be?

  As the shepherd (or the wolf) makes the flock stronger by culling, so does the politician make his community stronger by taking certain men and women from the throng and shutting them away. Not so? But politicians can do what wolves and shepherds cannot. They can improve those they take away and return them (stronger) to the flock. That, at least, was the theory, but the words “prisons aren’t civilized” had astounded Franklin by their obvious truth. Prisons are not civilized.

  But why shouldn’t prisons be civilized? That was the question, and it brought with it a vision, not of a penitentiary but of a place created as art, an institution that helped strengthen community while instilling community at its noblest. Not simply a good-looking prison but one whose effect was ennobling on a number of levels: aesthetic, social, political, perhaps even religious. A building, that is, to civilize those who passed though it or lived within. A building that would do what great art does: enrich the soul.

  For the first time in years, Franklin remembered the black man he’d seen in prison: golden brown pants, blue-and-white-striped shirt, black shoes, missing teeth, pink tongue. He felt a rush of warmth, of fellow feeling, of emotion that turned the bare trees beautiful. This was his mission: to civilize those who had been cast aside, to find or create a building that would inspire in its inmates not fear or disdain, as most prisons did, but nobility, civility, and awe before the creations of man and God. It’s true, he’d had versions of this very idea before, but those had been the imaginings of a man wandering in wilderness. The man who stood by Dow’s Lake contemplating the autumn trees was in a position to bring his vision into being: he worked for a minister as interested in prisons as he was, he knew an artist, Reinhart, who might be persuaded to design the very building, and he himself was familiar with the ways of bureaucracy and government. In other words, Franklin was now an ideal steward for his own imagination.

  Besides turning the dull landscape bright, the discovery of a purpose filled him with a joy he had not known since childhood and reconciled him to Ottawa, the city in which his purpose was, finally, revealed and in which it would be (he would see to it with all that was in him) accomplished.

  It was quite a moment, but Franklin kept it to himself for weeks, turning the idea about, thinking it through. Was Art really ennobling? Yes, if it was truly Art rather than, say, a record of some suffering or another. Was it possible to create a building as great as La Giaconda or The Ninth Symphony? Yes, he was sure of it, but only if “Alba” – the “white one,” a name he imagined for
the prison of his imagining – were designed by an artist and he was certain Reinhart was at least that. And what were the arguments against Alba? That it would be expensive, that it was an experiment, that it would mean housing criminals in a place more beautiful than the average citizen’s. Yes, okay, but, to begin with, crime itself cost society more than Alba would, and then again, we have had centuries of horrid and ugly prisons that killed the spirit. Wasn’t it time for something else? And as for Alba’s beauty surpassing that of the average habitat…it was Dostoevsky who’d said, “A civilization is best judged by how it treats its prisoners.” (A sentence that came to Franklin in Alexandra’s voice.) Though it might be counter-intuitive, it was perhaps time to treat prisoners better, wasn’t it, time to bring them into the noblest fold? Questions, questions, answers, answers…they took over Franklin’s thoughts, plagued him, one might have said, but, far from defeating him, they gave him countless occasions for little victories that, in the end, amounted to a successful campaign.

  Though he was by nature cautious, he allowed himself, in the months following his revelation at Dow’s Lake, a hopeful thought for this endeavour that sought to achieve, on such a grand scale, a sense of belonging that usually existed only on a small scale, at home, say, home itself being the greatest human accomplishment. He even permitted himself kind words for his own family, though he did not go so far as to visit any of them. Instead, he embraced friendship. That is, he was happy in Edward’s company and he was less guarded with others.

  Myself, for instance. It was almost certainly around this time that, meeting by accident on the Laurier Bridge, Franklin invited me to his apartment, a modest, not quite austere collection of white rooms, with two bookcases, a striking, hand-sewn rug (crimson, cream, orange, with the figures of men, birds, turtles and horses, woven into it), and a dining-room table that looked as if it had come from a poor farmhouse.

  This sense of purpose was good for Franklin, in general, but it also made things easier for him, as head of the Commission for the Investigation of Penal Reform (CIPR). Appointed in late November, by the Right Honourable Rundstedt, Franklin had, by early December, assembled a committee of lawyers and sociologists, none of whom was experienced enough to offer resistance to his directions, or to fend off his enthusiasm. They all did as they were guided to do and, on top of that, they did it for very little money, the CIPR being, for most of them, a first government commission. The lone exception was Jackson Tate, a highly regarded intellectual who had, in his day, written a controversial and widely respected study of Antonio Gramsci (Greece and Gramsci, Carleton University Press, 1957).