by André Alexis
And so their travels began with a parade, Fellini, and longing for a city (London) that was not yet nameable in Stanley’s soul.
{50}
A PARTING OF THE WAYS
Where Edward was concerned, Franklin was no longer kind. He was friendly, but distant. He was not reserved exactly, but neither was he open. It had been months since he’d invited Edward for drinks after work. The few times Edward had suggested they go for drinks, at Wim’s or the Mayflower, Franklin was inevitably occupied or preoccupied. It wasn’t difficult to trace Franklin’s change to its source: the moment Edward had called St. Pierre and Mickleson “animals.” What had possessed him to do that? If he could call a moment back, it would be that one. Franklin had summoned him for a dressing down and things had not been the same since. But no animosity could spring from anything so minor, could it?
On the other hand, the things on Franklin’s mind were onerous. Rundstedt’s departure had left a vacuum at the ministry, a vacuum that would be filled by God-knows-whom. They’d been waiting a month and there was no hint of who would take Rundstedt’s place. They were all in political limbo, Franklin in particular: advisor to a minister who had resigned, kept on because he might be useful to Rundstedt’s successor, if there were one. This limbo was, no doubt, excruciating and Edward chose to believe it was the pressure of the lull, the panic at drifting that led to Franklin’s sour mood. Moreover, there were other signs that he had taken this instability to heart. Franklin was, at times, almost scattered, a touch disorganized, perhaps even slightly confused.
And then, one day, it was as if distraction or frustration got the better of him. He called Edward into the office, ostensibly to talk about Rundstedt’s replacement.
– How are you, Eddy? Sit down.
And Edward, having been summoned and addressed as Eddy, had the feeling that here was a break in the clouds.
– I’m good, Frank.
– Good, good. There’s news. I heard Cabinet is leaning towards a friend of the party, someone named Planchette or Rivette. Have you heard anything?
– I haven’t heard a word, answered Edward. No one knows anything.
– I think it’s bad news, said Franklin. Better to have a real politician than a crony.
– Yes, I suppose, said Edward. Look, why don’t we go for a drink after work?
Franklin frowned.
– No, Eddy, I’m afraid not. I’ve got too much to do.
– A drink might help relax, don’t you think?
He meant the question respectfully but, for some reason, Franklin took offence.
– That’s all you think about, isn’t it?
– What? asked Edward. What do I only think about?
– I’ve worked hard. I haven’t stopped working for four years. For more. There’s never been the same commitment from you, Edward. You’ve been a drag on me the whole time.
– I’m sorry, Frank. I never meant to be. I’ve been pretty devoted. I thought.
– You don’t know a thing about devotion. You just do what you’re told.
– I don’t think that’s fair, said Edward.
– You didn’t hesitate to forge Mr. Rundstedt’s signature, though, did you?
Edward was genuinely puzzled. He heard Franklin’s words but did not understand their tone or their sense.
– What are you saying? he asked. How could I not have done what you told me to?
Ignoring him, Franklin took a blue folder from out of a bottom drawer and pushed it across the desk. The folder held some half-dozen documents Edward had signed in Franklin’s name or Rundstedt’s. There were requisitions, a memo, and recommendations.
– I signed those things because you asked me to, said Edward.
– But you didn’t think twice about it, did you?
Stunned, but unsure if he’d understood Franklin’s words correctly, Edward laughed.
– I’m glad you find this amusing, said Franklin.
– For a second, there, I thought maybe you were hinting I should leave.
– Well, as a matter of fact, I have been wondering about your judgment lately. I don’t know if there’s room for you here any more. It’s something you should consider.
The only thing Edward could think to say was
– This is a mistake. Really, I think this is all a mistake.
Franklin looked at him as if expecting more, but what more could he say? He stood up and walked out of Franklin’s office.
As Edward walked home, disbelief and a sense of inevitability fought it out. It had all sounded so reasonable. Or, rather, Franklin’s tone had suggested reason, but underneath it all how little reason there was. He should, he thought, have seen this coming. Franklin had changed towards him and this change had, as he’d feared, signaled something troubled in his friend’s soul. It had been a long time coming, and yet it was still incredible. He had been devoted. He had worked hard. Why should he resign? It seemed entirely unjust, but then the thought of justice, the naïveté of it, almost lifted his spirits. Who in the world had ever seen justice?
The day had turned its back on him. The sun was somewhere behind the tall buildings. He’d had a shock, but then a numbness gradually set in. There was simply too much for him to deal with: the possible loss of his job, an inexplicable betrayal and, worst of all, the vertiginous feeling that Franklin had perhaps never been his friend.
Faced with such overwhelming ideas, Edward’s psyche seized up. Wouldn’t it be better, he wondered, to kill off the things one loved, rather than risk a shattering like the one he’d just suffered. But what would that leave? It would leave something unimaginable, or at least unimaginable to him. No, he preferred the world as it was.
As he walked along Somerset, then Bronson, he thought how deep his brotherly feelings for Franklin actually ran. They were not easily dismissed. Though he knew resigning would liberate him from a poisoned atmosphere, he struggled with the idea of resignation, unsure if it would be best to abandon Franklin when Franklin was so clearly in distress. It was only much later, while distractedly turning the pages of an oversized book, that he accepted his presence only made things worse for Franklin. Something between them was irreparably damaged. Given the circumstances, the honourable thing was to leave.
The following day, Edward handed his resignation to Franklin, the moment between them as awkward as if they’d had sexual contact they now regretted.
Franklin thanked him for his service and said with (was it?) a hint of regret
– It’s your decision, Edward. I hope this will work out for you.
Edward thanked him for thanking him.
– I hope it’ll work out too, he added.
And as he emptied his desk, throwing countless packets of salt and sugar away, keeping an eraser in the shape of a Mountie and a pen from Iqaluit, Edward was almost overcome by sadness. So few moments in life made any sense at all. Or, rather, life seemed a constant alternation of sense and obscurity. One moment every aspect of the universe seemed clear and simple, the next all was murky. It was like walking through innumerable rooms, some of them brightly lit, some of them so dark you couldn’t see your hands in front of your face. Or, perhaps, one entered the same room over and over again: sometimes it was darkened, sometimes lit. Then again, men like him came to different rooms and imagined them the same, while great men, men like Newton or Pericles – now that was another story. Great men could enter the same room over and over and see it anew every time, could tell one darkness from another, one light from the next. And what was it like to be great, instead of plain and faithful, as he was plain and faithful? This, he would never know.
His feelings were, curiously, like those at the end of an affair. No one emotion dominated, or dominated only briefly. He felt resentment, loss, sadness, humiliation, concern (for Franklin), concern (for himself), bewilderment, and (yes, even) a slight op
timism. It is true, he was not the kind of man to make friends easily or lightly, so the situation was painful. But if he was mistaken about Franklin’s friendship, there was still, as there had been since childhood, Reinhart. And that thought was consoling.
Edward sighed.
– Too bad I’m not homosexual, he thought.
– Not even a little? a voice inside of him asked.
But it was no use. He could no more fuck men than he could a house or lawn furniture. On the other hand, this barrier was only a dull aspect of himself and, so, only one of the many elements of which their friendship was composed. He did not wish Reinhart different. Why should he wish himself other? Had he been different, their friendship would have been altered, and it meant so much to him just as it was.
He had been walking towards the Mayflower and a drink when, as he approached the restaurant, he realized he didn’t have the heart for drink. It suddenly seemed too early and too predictable a thing to do. So, instead, he did something he had never done before: he went to a movie on his own. He went to the Elgin Theatre, this though it was daytime and the only thing starting was called Distant Voices, Still Lives, which, from its poster, looked a little, what was the word? Artistic?
Yes, it looked artistic. Not the kind of thing he usually liked at all, but he went anyway, nourishing the small optimism within him.
* * *
—
For Franklin, the departure of Edward Muir was a moment of mixed emotions. He had not really meant to drive Edward to resign or, more truthfully, he had not been conscious of any such desire. Why would he choose further isolation or greater unhappiness? He was not in the habit of punishing himself, and yet he had lost control.
He felt pangs of conscience when he thought about the way he’d handled matters. He had lost reason. However untrustworthy and distracting Edward had become, Franklin thought briefly of asking him back, but there was, despite the prick of remorse, an almost inadmissable relief that Edward was gone. Edward’s absence might allow him to deal with the other irritants in his life: the coming departure of Mary Stanley, the ongoing silence about the fate of the ministry, the nagging suspicion that MacKenzie Bowell was the gift of a spiteful God.
But then, days after Edward had gone, as he was contemplating his own resignation and wondering what his future could possibly hold, there came a change in the weather. Rundstedt’s replacement was appointed: J.P. Manchette, a lifelong Conservative who, along with his other responsibilities, would see to the completion of MacKenzie Bowell penitentiary. Franklin, if he cared to stay on, would be Manchette’s policy advisor, but Manchette let Franklin know that he was not interested in the day-to-day details of MacKenzie Bowell’s construction.
– I know you’ve been involved with all this from the beginning, so I’ll leave the management to you and the quantity surveyors, okay? Dupuis? T’es francophone?
– Oui.
– Encore mieux. Je sens que t’es débrouillard. S’il y a des problèmes tu m’ gardes au courant. Mais, à part ça, vas-y toi même, okay?
That is, Manchette was exactly the raft Franklin had hoped for. Franklin would have a light hand in the penitentiary’s construction.
There was also interesting news from the construction site itself.
The company that had won the bid for MacKenzie Bowell, Construction Potvin-O’Reilly Ltée, had managed to secure all the marble needed for the project at a discount. Someone who knew someone knew a further someone who had on hand a quantity of marble that was surplus, a surplus very close to the modest amount needed for MacKenzie Bowell. The only condition was that the marble be taken within days. This was an inconvenience, but as it was one that would save thousands of dollars, the marble was bought and brought and was now stacked in a corner of the site.
When he heard all this, Franklin felt that what he needed most was to take the place in: the river, the marble, the promontory, the land with which he’d felt such a bond.
And it was, in fact, on the day he visited the site that he would experience his deepest release, his spiritual moment.
As he approached the construction site, Franklin felt how true it was that, at times, even austere men attain pleasure, even Avvakum, say, had had instants in which, however briefly, poetry changed place with the world, so that the clouds above were like a turn of phrase, or the land an epic in which Odysseus comes home again and again.
On this day in the Gatineaus, everything came together at once for Franklin. There was sunlight and a warm breeze to melt the snow at his feet. It seemed, as he walked through the woods toward the clearing, that his behaviour (the man he had been, the man he was, perhaps even the man he would be) found justification in this one accomplishment that he had, as he modestly thought, helped into being. MacKenzie Bowell would not be all he had wanted, and yet, he was exquisitely pleased. For one ecstatic moment, it did not matter what he’d called into being. On the other hand, he was no artist. No, he was a socially minded man, and for him it mattered that this would be a prison: a beautiful prison, a wedding of art and retribution.
As if prompted by these thoughts, it was at this moment Franklin Dupuis “saw” Alba. He looked up from the ground along which he walked and found himself at the south-most edge of a massive clearing: miles in diametre. You could feel and hear the wide and tidy river before you saw it, a mile away, passing through the clearing on its way west. The sky above was the timid blue of early spring, and there was still snow on the ground beneath the evergreens. The most striking aspect of the scene was the marble, pallets and pallets of white marble all precisely arranged.
For a moment, Franklin could imagine he was looking onto a beautiful city; the blocks of stone heaped high enough to suggest buildings. The illusion made him feel as fever does. He was curiously aware of the hardness of the marble and the softness of the ground, as if he had bitten a pillow only to discover it was a brick. More than that, the city felt familiar, like one in which he’d spent so much time he could navigate its streets by instinct alone.
From noon until two, Franklin wandered about the clearing, undisturbed by the cold, listening to the river, walking around and among the pallets of marble, as happy as he had ever been, at home in a world of his own imagining.
{51}
NINETEEN EIGHTY-NINE
Though it had been years since his mother’s death, Stanley still, at times, imagined she was alive. He had, at times, to consciously dismiss her voice and presence. But the difference between himself now and the man he had been was that he could dismiss her, without rancour or guilt.
(Ah, what a monster the old girl had been…)
Months after suggesting he and Beatrice should travel, Stanley finally did what he had long been unable to conceive of doing: he made arrangements for himself and Beatrice to go abroad. The travel agent politely asked
– Where would you like to go, Mr. Stanley?
And, after some consideration, he chose Venice, largely because he liked the poster on the agency’s wall, and on the understanding that they would spend time in Rome first.
Pleased that her parents had decided to travel, Mary made all further practical arrangements. She saw to their passports, traveller’s cheques, and travel insurance. She went with Stanley as he shopped for luggage, light clothes and a small but powerful shortwave radio.
And it was Mary who arranged their farewell party.
You are most cordially invited to the home of
STANLEY AND BEATRICE STANLEY
128 3rd Avenue
on the evening of
July 10
at
8 PM
to wish the Stanleys bon voyage
on their European trip,
to drink to health,
and happiness
Gil would not be going with them. He might have been interested in Europe if the trip had not involved h
is parents, but for now he preferred to keep company with his friends and, in particular, with his new girlfriend, Chantal. When he came into his own money, in a year or so, perhaps he and Chantal, who had family in Brussels, would go together and do the continent properly.
As for Mary: her parents encouraged her to come with them. But she had only just begun to settle in her home. The house was almost exactly as she wanted, but it needed this and that, so she did not want to travel just yet. Besides, when she thought of travel, it was not necessarily Europe that came to mind. François had, one evening, mentioned how much he wanted to see South America, Argentina in particular, and it seemed to her that Buenos Aires is where she would choose to go first.
* * *
—
July 10, 1989:
The Stanleys had been living in their new house for some time, but this was the first occasion on which they invited neighbours (as well as friends) to celebrate the good fortune from which they continued to recuperate. Beatrice was indiscriminate in her invitations. Everyone on 3rd, east of Bank Street, was invited to see them off.
By nine o’clock, the first stars of the evening took their places in Cygnus and Hercules. Family and friends had made their appearance along with a dozen strangers, most of whom lived on the same street as the Stanleys, many of whom stayed when they discovered their hosts were pleasant people and generous with libations.
The guests were loud but relaxed, neither aggressive nor disagreeable. From time to time a laugh broke out, then trailed off or provoked more laughter. A wind shook the bushes at the back of the yard and rustled the branches of a willow that hung over their fence like a long-haired woman searching for something on the Stanley’s lawn. Here and there, people moved together, then separated, then moved together again in other parts of the yard in what, from far above, might have resembled cell migration.