Asylum

by André Alexis

– Daniel, enlève tes souliers, s’il te plaît. Bon, allons voir s’il nous reste du jus d’ananas.

  As they were walking into the kitchen, François noticed that his son’s shoes, one lying on its side by the front door, were as dark and crumpled as those in a van Gogh he’d seen, with Michelle, in New York. He no longer remembered why they had gone to New York, or when, but he recalled the painting as distinctly as if he’d seen it moments before. How strange that these unrelated things (Franklin, van Gogh, New York, his son’s shoes) should be so intertwined in his memory.

  {36}

  A COMMITTEE MEETING AND A SMALL SETBACK

  In April, after Rundstedt had met with the men from Corrections Canada to describe the kind of penitentiary the government wanted (“a new kind, one that embodied a bold new way of thinking”), Franklin took over. He met with this person and that, to see that Corrections Canada understood precisely what MacKenzie Bowell entailed. After that, the dates were set for the competition for architectural designs. And then, when the due date was past and the ministry had received and organized dozens of submissions (some of them quite striking), he sat on the selection committee assembled by the Department of Public Works and made certain that Reinhart’s work was on the short list delivered to Minister Rundstedt, who, in turn, presented the designs to Cabinet, downplaying the cost of MacKenzie Bowell.

  How quickly that last paragraph reads, but if you consider that each of its words represents hours or days, noon-hour lunches, evening cocktails, friendly cajoling, near bribes, bribes, finger-numbing paperwork, hastily met deadlines, finagling, haggling, posting, sleepless weeks, the arduous creation of an illusion of fair competition…if you consider how much patience, resolve, dedication, single-mindedness, humour, and humourlessness…if you consider that Franklin worked harder than anyone else to see that everything went according to design…then you will have an inkling of how powerful Alba’s hold was on Franklin’s imagination. And thanks to his hard work, the months and months that passed as he did his bureaucratic duty, things were going his way: the men at Corrections Canada were on his side when he explained the thinking behind MacKenzie Bowell, the men at Public Works were swayed by his ideas, which, in a way, was very like having them on his side, and the member from Hull-Aylmer, near whose riding MacKenzie Bowell would sit, was, especially after an expensive meal and good drink, favourably disposed to the whole enterprise.

  Franklin’s initial progress was not entirely unimpeded. One of the men from Public Works let it be known that, whatever the thinking behind the new penitentiary, he thought Reinhart’s plans horribly expensive and, though Franklin had spoken about culture civilizing criminals, he was not convinced. Had Franklin not heard of National Socialism? Ahh, he had. And had he heard of its love for Mozart, Goethe, the Icelandic sagas, all the highest culture? And yet, these same Mozartians had murdered millions. How did Franklin account for that? In 1939, the only thing civilization did was help vile men systematize their worst urges. Is that what the minister wanted?

  – Good point, said Franklin, but you don’t think Canadians are the same as Germans, do you? I just don’t think we’re like that. We’re different and our criminals are different too. They just want a chance to belong. Besides, if culture and art aren’t civilizing, what are they?

  – They’re window dressing, said Mr. Public Works, exasperated. It’s all window dressing and you don’t pay millions for window dressing.

  – That’s a little shallow, said Franklin. I don’t think you believe that. I know I feel changed when I read a great novel or look at a great painting. Don’t you?

  – I do too, said someone from Corrections. I think Mr. Dupuis is spot on. You get a troubled soul to read Wordsworth and you’ll save a life, I always say, and these designs by Mr. Mauer are just what I mean.

  In the end, Mr. Public Work’s feelings were immaterial. After Franklin admitted his own “qualms” about the cost of Reinhart’s plans and asserted that the minister would take these costs into consideration, the other members of the committee nodded in agreement and voted, with Franklin, to include Reinhart’s designs at the head of the short list.

  After that tricky and significant victory, it seemed almost certain that Mackenzie Bowell would see the light of day sometime in the not-too-distant future. There were, of course, other problems, but one in particular held Franklin’s attention, though he might have called it more of a distraction than a problem, as it was less about MacKenzie Bowell itself than it was about fidelity. Franklin wanted everything done just right, however, and as all true aesthetic visions demand purity, it would have to be dealt with.

  If Franklin, Reinhart, and Edward had approached the site in the Gatineaus in the usual way, that is, from the main road, they would have seen immediately that there were summer residences quite close to the proposed ground. As it was, they did not discover until much later that four men and two women, all of whom lived in Ottawa, owned land that abutted the site. Two of the men had done nothing with their property. They sold to the government immediately and for very little. But the four remaining owners had built small cottages on their land, places that looked like gingerbread havens, sanctuary from the city.

  Now, Franklin had sympathy for all who sought refuge. (At the time, the Vietnamese were still fleeing Vietnam, there were refugees from Iraq, and, of course, the memory of Biafra still haunted.) But buying a cottage was not, to Franklin’s mind, the act of a refugee. That is, he did not believe that men and women bought cottages in desperation, that they chose cottages over death. In fact, he felt that cottages almost inevitably despoil a land. (In this case, they were an eyesore, a blight that would mitigate the influence of Alba.) So, unable to grasp the significance of second homes or summer houses, he assumed the remaining owners could easily be persuaded to give up their properties, and he sent Edward to sound them (unofficially) out.

  Edward had no trouble finding their names:

  John Fields

  Colleen Thompson

  Robert Burr

  Marilyn McAllister

  All of them lived around or near the centre of town. All of them, thought Franklin, were estival do-nothings who headed to the Gatineaus in late spring, their gas ranges and Scottish terriers in tow. Moneyed enough to afford the near wilderness, they would no doubt insist on market value for their properties. On the other hand, it was likely the Fields, Thompsons, Burrs, and McAllisters were Conservative and, being Conservative, sympathetic to the ideals and aspirations of the party. Now, that was wishful thinking on Franklin’s part. The Fields, Thompsons, Burrs, and McAllisters were moneyed, yes, but not wealthy, and they were all Liberal. They did take their poodles and terriers with them to the cottage, but with the conviction that wilderness was ennobling, ecologically priceless, and in need of preservation. The last thing any of them would have done was to sell their properties to a government bent on using the land for a prison.

  Unaware of their attitudes and, so, unjustifiably confident, Franklin had Edward arrange to visit the McAllisters at their home in the Glebe, on the pretext that he wanted to buy the lot beside theirs, property that was unoccupied. The arrangement was easily made but, darkly, Mrs. McAllister let him know there were certain considerations of which he might not be aware.

  Considerations?

  Edward wore a charcoal-grey, silk and wool suit, a white shirt, a pale indigo silk tie, and new black oxfords. His coat was full length, light wool, navy blue. He had, perhaps, overdone the cologne: a citrus-based scent. However, before knocking at the McAllisters’ door, Edward stood at the corner of Clegg and McGillivray allowing the wind to dissipate his fragrance.

  Mrs. McAllister, a thin, birdlike woman, met him at the door, frowned, and thereafter treated him with excessive courtesy. She did not look him in the eye. She moved concernedly about within the bulky cage of her grey Shetland sweater.

  – Do come in, Mr….

  –
Muir, said Edward.

  – Muir, she repeated. If you just wouldn’t mind leaving your shoes by the door. Our floors are pinewood, you see.

  The floors looked newly waxed and strangely untrod, as if the McAllisters hovered more often than they walked. There were two dogs with Mrs. McAllister.

  – Oh, we don’t have to be formal. Call me Marilyn, please. There was a standard poodle, cream coloured, uninterested in Edward.

  – This is Lucy, said Marilyn.

  The poodle looked him over before padding away.

  – And this is our baby, Heraclitus.

  She leaned down to stroke a russet Havanese that wriggled happily and yelped as it began its inspection of Edward’s grey socks.

  The McAllister home was a curious meeting of land and sea. There seemed to be an aquarium in every room. There were two in the living room: one for the gouramis, another for the loaches and the green terrors. On the other hand, the armchairs in the room were covered in studded leather and, over the back of the chesterfield, there was a sheepskin. On the walls, there were paintings of fields, streams, dogs.

  – Would you like some tea? Marilyn asked. We have oolong, Prince of Wales, chai, Earl Grey, and, let me see, Russian black, chamomile, mint, peppermint, and morning glory. My husband’s just on the telephone. He should be with us in a second.

  As if on cue, Mr. McAllister entered as his wife spoke of him.

  Mr. McAllister…

  – Doug. Just call me Doug

  was, like his wife, barefoot. He wore a bleached blue shirt and black jeans. He had one hand in his pocket and his eyes seemed impossibly wide apart on his narrow face. It gave the impression of a man looking in two directions at once.

  – You get some tea? he asked.

  – I was just asking him, said Marilyn.

  – Well, does he want some?

  – No, thank you, said Edward.

  – So, said Doug. Mar told me you were looking to buy land in the Gatineaus.

  – Yes, said Edward. I’m interested in –

  – Look, I’ve got to tell you straight off we’re against it.

  – It isn’t anything personal, said Marilyn

  – ’Course it’s not personal, said Doug. We don’t even know you, do we? I’m sure you’re a great guy and all, but we talked to the other owners and, to tell the truth, we all pretty much decided it would be a bad idea for there to be another cottage out there.

  – I don’t understand, said Edward. If I wanted to buy the property, how could you stop me?

  Doug McAllister sat in the armchair facing him.

  – I don’t like the way this is going, he said. I don’t want you to take this personally. It’s not about you personally, and I don’t want you to take it personal the way I’m telling you all this. I’m telling you straight up, ’cause I think that’s the best way for both of us. But, listen –

  – Just hear us out, said Marilyn kindly.

  – That’s it. Just hear us out. I don’t think you’d want a place out there if it was the same as the city, would you?

  The question was not rhetorical. They waited for his answer. Edward said

  – Well, no, I guess not.

  – There, you see? said Doug. The more people that build out there, the worse it is for everybody.

  – It would be terrible for the environment, said Marilyn.

  – And that’s another reason, said Doug. It’d be hard on the ecosystem.

  – The ecosystem? said Edward.

  – You don’t look like the kind of person who cares about the ecology, said Doug. Maybe I’m wrong, but if you do care about it, you’ll want to build somewhere else anyway, won’t you?

  Bewildered, Edward said

  – I’m not sure I understand what you’re…

  Doug stood up, put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  – Look, Mr. Muir, he said, we’ve been really straight with you, and maybe this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but let me answer your question. You wanted to know how we could stop you, and the answer is we can’t stop you, except that the lots left up there you have to go through our property to get to. And the only road in there doesn’t belong to the municipality. It belongs to us. It’s private property and you can’t use it. You can pay to have your own road put in, but it’d be pretty expensive, if you get permission, and you’ll have to pay to maintain it. Well, maybe you’re rich and you can afford it, but we’ll fight you all the way.

  Edward stood up.

  – I see, he said.

  – That’s the spirit, said Doug. You know, there’s lots of places in the Gatineaus just as beautiful. You’ll find something.

  It had been a miserable skirmish. Edward had not even managed to make his real intentions known. The McAllisters had dismissed him so completely, he felt abashed as he walked from their home. He had let Franklin down. He had not been able to accomplish even this small, easy task. It would serve him right, if Franklin were to chastise him.

  But Franklin did no such thing. He listened sympathetically to the details of Edward’s failed mission and asked questions about the McAllisters: the kind of people they seemed to be, the way they lived, the strength of their convictions, etc.

  Here, too, Edward felt he had let Franklin down. He had been so overwhelmed by the McAllisters he’d given little thought to the kind of people they were. Although, when he actually thought about their behaviour…They were arrogant, certainly. Malicious? No, not particularly. Cunning? Not at all, unless their directness was meant to mislead.

  – So, normal? asked Franklin.

  – Yes, I guess they were, answered Edward.

  – Good, that’s good, said Franklin. Maybe we can use reason.

  {37}

  PHANTOM MORALS

  The Stanleys made no secret of the wealth they stood to inherit. So, the friends and acquaintances who did not hear of it directly learned of the Stanleys’ good fortune from those whom they had told. Naturally, the thought of so much money brought serious questions.

  Should Stanley keep his job?

  Should Mary keep hers?

  Should Gilbert pursue his education?

  Should they buy a new home, or two, or even three?

  The advice the Stanleys received was both varied and consistent. It was varied in that it was often contradictory: Some advised them to stay where they were and invest their money, while others, believing money was meaningless until spent, urged them to buy whatever they wanted. Some believed wealth would bring joy, others that the Stanleys were now as likely to enter Heaven as a camel was to pass through the eye of a needle. Some revealed their own pressing needs, others pleaded on behalf of those who could use a hand. The advice was consistent in that it was all based on an idea of wealth the Stanleys themselves shared. Being lower middle class, and having assumed it was the duty of “the wealthy” to be responsible, humane, and generous, they found themselves constrained by a morality they had created for others, for “the wealthy.” That is, they believed it was their duty to help the “less fortunate,” but had no idea where or how to begin.

  This phantom morality, a moral code they had built for those “above” them, certainly influenced their decisions. For instance, almost everyone felt the Stanleys needed a new house. Now that they had money, it made no sense, it seemed, for them to remain on Spadina. Spadina Avenue was not where the wealthy lived. None who knew them well wished to see them leave, but none could stand the thought of their staying, either. In urging the Stanleys to leave, their acquaintances drew the darkest picture of the neighbourhood in which they themselves were confined. Spadina was crime-ridden, drug-ridden, dilapidated, and fading. They would stay, because they had to, but the Stanleys could not stay without, whether they meant to or not, rubbing their neighbours’ noses in the dirt that was Spadina Avenue.

  The Stanl
eys, being faithful members of their community and class, felt similarly. If sudden wealth had afflicted someone of their acquaintance, they would have suggested Rockcliffe or the Glebe as more appropriate neighbourhoods while secretly shuddering at the thought of lavish homes and snooty neighbours. So, though they found it painful, they understood why, in a remarkably short time, men and women they had known for years began to take leave of them. The Stanleys were now the kind of people who could live “elsewhere.” Wasn’t it only a matter of time before they got gone?

  For Stanley and Beatrice, the most peculiar thing, more peculiar even than having to adjust to a morality they had themselves created for the people they now were, was the awareness that they had become exiles in their own city. Without changing language, habits, or outlook, they were on the other side of a border, looking back on friends and the familiar, and it was as if they now had to consciously create “home.” But how was that done? Their first home had evolved from who they were and where they’d felt comfortable. This was different. The new life started from different principles, first of which was the assumption they could consciously create a better home for themselves.

  They tried to be optimistic, but it was difficult to tell from what side this “new life” should to be approached.

  It was not as traumatic for their children.

  Spadina Avenue represented their childhood and, as so much of childhood is in the turning away from childhood, it was inevitable that both would, sooner or later, turn away from Spadina. Their friends were envious, but they were not resentful. They had not yet lived lives that led to unelected termini. So, it was amusing for them to think of Mary or Gilbert with money, amusing to imagine it could happen to them as well.

  Mary’s parliamentary friends were pleased for her and sensible about the problems she would face. But talk of her wealth took up less time than did speculation about the scandals and doings of the government. Then there was the election. It was a year or so hence, but it was still of greater moment than Mary’s money.