by André Alexis
It was clear, from the outset, that the Canadian penal system would be found wanting, that it would need additional and different prisons. Franklin and Rundstedt believed this to be the case, before the first penny was spent on airline tickets, personal assistants, or office supplies. Not that the commission was a cakewalk for Franklin. There were a few small hedges to jump. For instance, Professor Tate, whom Franklin took on for his reputation and prestige, was not unequivocally for penal reform. He was, in fact, against it, or against the Conservative version of it, which, it seemed to him, was a matter of locking more people up for longer. But he was now, at eighty-three, too preoccupied with his own mortality to care one way or the other. He was only a temporary public face for the CIPR, and that suited them all. Then there was the matter of Franklin himself. In what way was he qualified to head an investigation into the penal system? This was the question at the commission’s initial press conference.
– Well, Franklin answered, rubbing his hands together, though I’m co-chair of the commission, my role is administrative. I’m a handmaiden to Professor Tate. I’ll see to the small details, organization, and so on. And Professor Tate will sift the evidence and oversee the commission’s final report to Minister Rundstedt.
– Do you have any views on prison reform? a reporter asked.
– None, said Franklin. I’ll wait until we finish our report. The minister would like this to be as objective an investigation as possible, and so would I.
– I see…, said the reporter before turning his depleted attention span to Professor Tate.
Finally, there was the matter of budget and timetable. These things Franklin managed with relative ease. The CIPR would cost the public hundreds of thousands of dollars, a million actually, but Franklin was efficient. He assured Minister Rundstedt that it would take no more than six months to collect the (appropriate) statistics and (appropriately) interpret the data. And it took no more than six months, months during which Franklin demonstrated his ability to think of one thing to the exclusion of everything else. He worked unstintingly, to the credit of Minister Rundstedt, whose judgment came to be admired in those circles where admiration was useful.
And it was all to Franklin’s credit as well.
On a winter evening, after much of the commission’s work had been accomplished but before its report was published, Franklin went to Reinhart’s studio, as he’d been doing regularly over the preceding months. As if he had been waiting for him, Reinhart opened the door and gave Franklin a friendly, sideways hug.
– Frank, what’s the story? he asked.
– I just wanted to have a word, said Franklin.
– Come into my office, why don’t you? said Reinhart.
He put his arm around Franklin’s shoulder and shepherded him in. When Reinhart had taken his coat and draped it over a stool, Franklin said
– I wonder if we could talk about a commission?
– A commission?
– For a prison, answered Franklin.
– You want me to paint a prison?
– No, no. I’d like you to design one.
Reinhart smiled. He had just finished a painting he was proud of and he was grateful for company and diversion. He stared at Franklin as if the man were a new subject…an interesting face he had, and familiar too.
– Edward mentioned something about prisons, a while ago. So did you, now that I think about it, but, you know, I work for architects. I get enough architecture at Kessler and McAdams and I’m not really interested in buildings.
Franklin looked disappointed. Reinhart smiled, handed him a shot glass of rye, and said
– Drink.
while he, too, downed a mouthful of whisky.
– I have my own work to do, said Reinhart, and, besides, I haven’t designed a building since university. I mostly do modelling these days.
– Well, answered Franklin, it wouldn’t be a building, exactly. It wouldn’t be the usual thing. I had something else in mind, a work of art, something great and deep and noble, the equivalent of…
On hearing the words “great and deep and noble,” Reinhart stopped paying attention. These were the kinds of words people who knew nothing about art commonly used to describe it, but “greatness,” “depth,” and “nobility” inevitably meant something ancient, something known, something dead. “Greatness,” “depth,” and “nobility” were what happened to works of art over time, like rust or tarnish. No serious artist ever strove for them.
– You know, I don’t think so, Reinhart said, but thanks for the offer, Frank.
– I’m disappointed, said Franklin. There can’t be many artists out there who could create something deeper than the usual lines and planes.
– It’s a wonderful idea, said Reinhart, and I suspect it will be difficult to find someone like that, but, you know, me and architecture…
He took Franklin’s empty shot glass, filled it with rye, then said in an atrocious accent
– Und jetz mussen wir trinken, Herr Dupuis.
Both of them downed their ounce of rye. And, after this second round, Franklin felt as if he’d missed the right words, because there were surely words to convince an artist like Reinhart of the significance of what he, Franklin, wanted. He would try again, another evening. It made no sense to harass the man in his own studio. He wandered around, quietly looking at paintings, as Reinhart puttered about the studio cleaning up.
– It’s a beautiful night, Franklin said, finally.
– So it is, said Reinhart.
Franklin turned his back and looked out the windows, up at the sky. After a while, he said, more to himself than to Reinhart:
– And yet, there’s no such thing as night.
Meaning: it had occurred to him, just then, how arbitrary it was to give such weight to the distinction between light and darkness. It’s true there were times when you bumped your head going in or stumbled going out but, really, the bright blessed day and the dark sacred night were one and the same. Or so they must be for the stars or the gods. It was only man who needed the distinction. There was a melancholic thought.
But it was as if Reinhart had been stung.
– What did you say? he asked.
– Nothing, Franklin answered. Nothing.
– You said there was no such thing as night.
– Yes, I guess I did.
– What a thing to say.
– I didn’t mean anything by it, said Franklin.
– No, you don’t understand, said Reinhart.
Which was true because Reinhart himself didn’t understand. Franklin’s words had entered his consciousness at an odd angle. They’d clicked against a hidden and vague inspiration and knocked it momentarily into the light. On hearing Franklin’s words, Reinhart had felt elated and then unsure why he’d felt anything at all.
– Here, he said
pouring Franklin another shot.
– What were we talking about, again?
– A prison? answered Franklin.
– Hmm, said Reinhart, maybe that’s got something to do with it. Why are you so interested in prisons?
For the next few hours, during which they finished the Crown Royal ounce by ounce and Reinhart listened closely, rarely speaking, Franklin gave rein to his enthusiasm for this grand penitentiary, for the prospect of building something of lasting value and ongoing effect, a prison that, in itself, might soothe the savage breast. By the end of the evening, you wouldn’t have said Reinhart had been impressed by anything Franklin said. Reinhart wasn’t easily impressed by ideas. He could be moved by the slightest display of genuine emotion, though, and as Franklin’s emotions had all been genuine, Reinhart had been moved.
But then, though he’d been moved by Franklin’s passion, he couldn’t see its connection to him. Why should he, Reinhart, care about Franklin’s concerns about penitenti
aries and penitents? Then again, something in Franklin’s words had struck him and gone deep.
– There’s no such thing as night?
Long after Franklin had wobbled out of his studio, Reinhart grappled with the idea of nightlessness, intrigued and, as it happened, taken.
– What an idea, he thought.
* * *
—
Once the commission’s report was printed and sent out to interested parties, Rundstedt liked to call Franklin his “author,” a true compliment because, although Rundstedt was intimidated to the point of dislike by “real” authors (he had once been introduced to Robertson Davies and had perspired for hours afterwards), he did, in fact, have deep respect for them. He was not intimidated by Franklin. Au contraire, it was as if he could relax in the company of a talented collaborator. More than that: the commission was a Rubicon of sorts for both Franklin and Rundstedt. Once it was forded, their acquaintance became a friendship. The feeling both had was of mutual understanding. Rundstedt allowed himself to speak of his personal life and of the concerns he had for his family. This was something he shared with few people in Ottawa. Franklin reciprocated by listening to Rundstedt and offering mild advice, when it was solicited, and commiseration, when advice was not wanted. Also, Franklin openly voiced his (rather good, thought Rundstedt) ideas about a new penitentiary, going so far (too far, in fact) as to admit that he had already spoken with an artist (Reinhart Mauer), a true artist, one with a degree in architecture.
Something bristled in Rundstedt at mention of this “true artist.” Who was Franklin to speak to outsiders about a project that did not as yet exist? Should he, Rundstedt, not have been told of this collusion before it was begun? He chided Franklin for his lack of discretion, but once Franklin apologized and assured him his talk with Reinhart had been vague and theoretical, it occurred to Rundstedt that Franklin’s mistake had been made through exuberance. And though exuberance is political poison, it is a desirable quality in one’s collaborators, yes? At least it was desirable to Rundstedt. So, in the end, he did not hold Franklin’s little “transgression” against him.
For his part, Franklin was exasperated, believing he should have known better than to mention Reinhart when he did. It was the kind of mistake a neophyte might have made, and he resolved not to make it again. So, though his friendship with Rundstedt was not damaged by his indiscretion, he became a little less open, with everyone, not just Rundstedt.
Despite their misunderstanding, Franklin and Rundstedt spent the months following the release of the commission’s findings in intense collaboration. Edward did not really understand what Rundstedt and Franklin were going on about. It seemed to him that, if great Art could tame vicious men, it would have done so by now. (It was either that or admit that no Art had, as yet, been great enough, an idea he found easier to accept than the one at the heart of this new prison.) Still, he was swept up in the enthusiasms of Rundstedt and Dupuis and flattered to be let in on their plans, to be a junior member in a society of three, an underling, yes, a mere research assistant, but one who had the consideration of his superiors. He hid his doubts about MacKenzie Bowell Federal Penitentiary (as Rundstedt believed it should be called). In fact, after a while, Edward even came to agree that the worst criminals, being uncouth, were helplessly criminal-minded, and that MacKenzie Bowell penitentiary was, in so far as it could change those minds, a step in the right direction.
The three of them met, now and then, at one of the bars in the Market and, after discussing some point of theory (for instance, the idea that criminals can be identified from the shapes of their skulls) or some point of procedure (for example, Rundstedt had begun to solicit the opinions of other Conservatives and was pleased to discover the amount of support there was for a MacKenzie Bowell penitentiary, Sir MacKenzie Bowell being a Conservative prime minister whose name was on very few federal buildings), they would drink (modestly), and then go home warmed by the company and by the thought they were working for good.
The problem with this camaraderie was that it hid their differences. Edward, of course, did not share either Rundstedt’s or Franklin’s belief in MacKenzie Bowell. But there were differences between Franklin’s belief and Rundstedt’s as well. For Rundstedt, a house of correction was simply an appendage of the Ministry of Justice. A prison was a building whose primary function was to keep those who were a menace to their fellow citizens apart from the law-abiding majority. It was wonderful to imagine MacKenzie Bowell pen as a civilizing influence, but one had to see to its practical function first.
For Franklin, the “practical” prison simply did not figure. The place where men and women suffered, deservedly or not, for their crimes was a detail, trivial the way all details are. Moral significance is what gave meaning to any building, especially a prison. So, a prison was important only in what it represented: the idea of order, the force of law, the way to community. In so far as the idea of order is metaphysical or sacred, so, too, was Alba, and Franklin thought of himself (and Rundstedt and Edward) as the prison’s acolyte. Alba meant more to Franklin, of course, in that it provided him with purpose, but prisons had not, since his childhood visit to Kingston pen, been the simple bricks and mortar they were to Rundstedt.
Despite their differences, or because their differences were hidden, Rundstedt agreed when Franklin proposed he speak again to Reinhart Mauer. Nothing official was to be put on offer. It was, rather, a delicate exploration, a gentle probing, a feeling out. Franklin should be cautious in his approach to Reinhart: lead the man gently, until you were certain he was the one.
And, in fact, Rundstedt’s caution was well placed, because, where Reinhart was concerned, Franklin was somewhat naive. Franklin admired and respected Reinhart’s talent, but he did not understand that Reinhart was not, ultimately, master of his own artistry. Once in the grip of an idea or a vision, Reinhart was lost. He entered a place where success, failure, money, attention, and affection ceased to matter. In this state, Reinhart could not be made to do what was wanted, in part because Reinhart himself, try as he might, had no idea how to get to the place or, again, how to leave it; no way to rise above himself, or away from himself, no way to do anything but what the vision demanded. He was, indeed, an artist and, as such, faithful to the chaos from which all Art springs. So, he was not, strictly speaking, an ideal government appointee.
{15}
A SENSE OF PURPOSE AND A CLOUDY MIND
It seemed to Mary that Franklin had become more focused. You could see he was pleased to be in the office of the Right Honourable Councillor to the Secretary of State, but his focus narrowed as he dealt with the tasks Rundstedt assigned him.
The election had, to varying degrees, changed all the Conservatives. During the early months, some of them had grown giddy and overassertive. Not Franklin. Franklin became something like an idealist, not confident in the rightness of power, exactly, but willing to believe in its rightness. Things had worked out well for Franklin but there wasn’t an arrogant bone in his body. Franklin was loyal to Rundstedt and loyal to those he trusted. (The cloud on this silver lining was named Edward Muir. Because the department had the funds, Franklin also found place for the morose and unappealing Muir.)
Rundstedt also became, unexpectedly, in Mary’s eyes, a man to respect. You couldn’t exactly say why but, suddenly, there he was: upright in demeanour, serious in intent, forthright, and impressive. Wasn’t it odd how some men rose to the dignity of power, as if their better selves had only been lurking, lying in wait for elevation? Mary had never suspected Rundstedt of dignity. She’d always thought him a man on the verge of fondling someone, although, to be honest, in prurience he was so like his peers (Franklin excepted) you couldn’t have called him exceptional. No, what was exceptional was his rise to propriety. And how was Rundstedt’s propriety expressed? As Mary saw it, it, too, was expressed as loyalty. When Rundstedt took over his portfolio, he immediately set aside a part of his budget f
or the creation of an independent commission that would look into the prospects for new prisons, and the man he chose to head the commission was Franklin himself, his own policy adviser. Franklin had told her all of this himself, in confidence, and Mary, instinctively protective of him, imagined the worst: that the commission was a make-work program for Rundstedt’s department, that it was only for show, that, in the event its findings proved controversial, Franklin was there to take the blame. It did not take much presence of mind to question Rundstedt’s motives. For Mary, there were two possibilities: either Rundstedt was conniving when he chose Franklin to head his commission or Rundstedt was loyal and generous. (It did not occur to her that these were not mutually exclusive.) But here was the post-electoral Rundstedt: well spoken, well dressed, and smelling of vanilla. Gradually, after a few months, Mary began to accept that, whatever her initial doubts, this plum appointment was, in the end, good for Franklin. It was a small honour, a recompense for his time in the trenches of the Conservative Party. Perhaps, after all, politics remade men in its own, mysterious ways, leaving some hollow while renewing others.
Franklin’s strong sense of purpose was all to the good but, through no fault of his, Mary began to feel as if it would be wrong to speak with him as they used to. He listened to whatever she had to say, fully there in their conversations, interested in the details of her life, but she felt, now, as if her life were petty compared to the business of state, that it was wrong to divert him from his work.