Following the actions of the UN, René finally, if grudgingly, sat down with Louis in an attempt to resolve their differences. The result of their negotiations was l’Ordonnance municipale 86, the English translation of which reads, “Public signs and posters and commercial advertising must be in French. They may also be in both French and another language provided that French is markedly prominent.” This legislation, passed in the summer of 1993, seemingly represents the end to the turmoil of the past thirty years, and one may well imagine that it also signifies a truly harmonious end not only for Louis and René but, symbolically, for all the citizens of Quebec.”
Arlen Green published The People of Quebec in 1994. Although widely praised by scholars, its concluding statement about the future of both the town and the province proved overly optimistic.
In September of 1994 Jacques Parizeau led the Parti Quebecois to victory in a provincial election, promising to hold a referendum on sovereignty. The specific question he presented to voters, modelled on the question originally set by René in the Harmonie referendum twenty-five years earlier, asked whether Quebec should declare independence, “after having made a formal offer to Canada for a new economic and political partnership.”
On October 24, 1995, Cree Indians in northern Quebec voted 96 percent in favour of staying in Canada if Quebec voted to separate, and the following day the Inuit of the province opposed separation by an almost identical margin. The referendum itself was held on October 30, 1995. The opponents of sovereignty won, but narrowly, capturing a mere 50.6 percent of the ballots. Echoing René Purelaine, Jacques Parizeau blamed the sovereigntist defeat on “l’argent puis des votes ethniques” and declared, “nous l’aurons, notre pays.” The current of xenophobia underlying his comments was quickly repudiated by many members of the PQ, and the following day Parizeau announced that he was resigning as Quebec premier and PQ leader.
Meanwhile in Harmony the provincial referendum revealed the village to be much less ambivalent than the rest of the province. The result, as reported by Louis, presiding mayor and officer in charge of election returns, indicated that 100 percent of the local residents were opposed to sovereignty-association for Quebec, with one spoiled ballot. René accused Louis of vote tampering, and upon succeeding to the mayoralty at the beginning of the new year, he changed the name of the village from Harmonie to Je-me-souviens. “Pour être certain,” he proclaimed, “que le monde n’oubliera jamais les injustices qu’ont subie les québécois à travers les siècles.” Outraged, Louis immediately sent off a letter to the editor of the PH newspaper (which the paper declined to publish since the communication was written in English): “And I will never forget the efforts of a militant fringe in this community to destroy the great Canadian experiment in harmonious coexistence that Providence has entrusted to us.” Then he posted a white sign with red lettering outside his pub, containing the message, “And I will never forget!” (Though mindful of the terms he had negotiated for l’Ordonnance municipale 86, he took care to write in larger letters underneath, “Moi, je n’oublierai jamais!”)
The next morning he discovered posted on his door an official notice from La commission pour protéger la langue française, bureau de Je-me-souviens indicating that the English words on his sign had been adjudged too large (or, alternatively, the French words too small). He was instructed to remove the sign or replace it with one in which the French message was at least twice the size of the English translation.
And so the next day a new sign appeared. As instructed Louis had written “Moi, je n’oublierai jamais!” twice the size of “And I will never forget!” However, while the English words were written in red again, the French words appeared in a cream colour barely distinguishable from the white background. Indeed, it would have been impossible for any visitor to the village to read the message in French (had there ever been a visitor to the village other than Charles de Gaulle).
The next morning Louis received another official notice from the commission, indicating that the French words on his sign had not been given sufficient prominence. There was also a new public ordinance stating that on any sign in which a language other than French was included, the shade distinction between the lettering and background must be more pronounced for the French words than for the words in the second language, and here “un coloromètre” was provided to help citizens quantify the distance between the principal tones represented along the colour spectrum. In cases where English has been used, the ordinance added, the English words and the background must be of an identical shade.
So that afternoon Louis erected yet another sign, this one with the French words in a pale yellow and the English in the same white colour as the background. However, each English letter protruded a full foot from the board. In the corner of the sign was a cartoon of René proclaiming, “Vive le Canada!!”
This brought yet another rebuke from La commission pour protéger la langue Française, bureau de Je-me-souviens, and yet another ordinance, this one stipulating, first, that on all signs any message in a language other than French must be flush with the background and, second, that anyone who took actions deemed to bring the mayor into disrepute was subject to a substantial fine, the mayor himself having the authority to determine what constituted “disrepute.” (The second provision was to lapse at the end of the current mayoral term.)
In response Louis built a metal frame from which he hung his English message and his French message. The French message was twice as large as the English, but the letters in the English words were illuminated by red and white light bulbs.
This tedious pas de deux came to a halt when Louis reclaimed the mayoralty and immediately rescinded all ordinances dealing with the public display of language on signs. However, it resumed on his brother’s return to office two years later, indeed escalated until, finally, René had to add a wing to City Hall to house all the legislation. Still it was only when René attempted to regulate messages in vapour trails used by skywriters—in response, it should be pointed out, to a Canada Day greeting by Louis—that awareness of the controversy reached beyond the boundaries of the village. It happened that the greeting was noticed by a producer for CBS News who was in northern Quebec on a fishing trip. Astonished that someone would go to the trouble and expense of arranging for such an extravagant demonstration of patriotism in a corner of the province where few people lived, he went looking for the individual responsible. It took some searching, but in time he found the brothers and learned from them—with René communicating in French, a language which the producer did not understand—about their ongoing feud. Being American and therefore having a rather adolescent understanding of freedom of expression, he was unable to appreciate, as Canadians do, that public debate over the configuration of words on signs and the colour of vapour trails serves an essential function in any mature democracy. He returned to New York and some months later produced a satiric segment on Je-me-souviens for 60 Minutes. This produced howls of protest from Ottawa (although the show received extremely favourable reviews in Alberta). And in turn, Michael Enright arranged for a phone interview with René and Louis on Sunday Morning.
Which brings us back to where we started this chapter. Because it just so happens that at the very moment when the interview began, with Louis responding to a question about the brothers’ family history, the Great White Moose emerged from the Ottawa River on the outskirts of Je-me-souviens. Normally he—the Great White Moose—was careful to keep to the woods, especially when entering unfamiliar territory. But in this case he was a little disoriented after his swim, and perhaps for that reason, or maybe just out of curiosity, he edged toward a clearing. There was not much to see. A couple of houses, an Irish pub, City Hall, a half-finished Olympic stadium, the roof lying in sections on the ground. No people, though. None in view, anyway. And, of critical importance to the Great White Moose, no spectre. And so he advanced down the main thoroughfare, though all the while looking warily from side to side. But just as he reached City
Hall, where the two brothers had come to take their call from Michael Enright, René happened to glance out the window. Catching sight of the moose, he blinked, rubbed his eyes, blinked again, then shouted, “Un orignal blanc. Voyez! Un orignal blanc! Sacrebleu!”
Now scientists have conclusively proven that a moose raised in captivity in Ontario will be unable to understand an imprecation shouted in French. And so, when the Great White Moose heard René cry out, he stopped and swung his head about anxiously. Perhaps he expected to encounter the spectre. Who can say? In any case, when he saw René emerge from City Hall, he stood still for a moment, as moose do when alarmed. Then he charged across the sections of roof lying next to the stadium, sending them clattering in all directions, stampeded past La famine Irlandaise, trampling a floral arrangement in the shape of the Canadian flag that Louis had recently planted (soon to be outlawed by municipal ordinance), then crashed through the framed “And I will never forget!” sign, setting off a recording of “O Canada” by the Barenaked Ladies, before finally plunging back into the Ottawa River. René chased after him, running right up to the water’s edge. But then he stopped. It was a matter of principle with him that he had not set foot in Ontario for more than thirty years. As for Louis, he remained behind in City Hall, standing at attention, his hand over his heart. The national anthem always stirred such powerful emotions in him.
______________
* Unbeknownst to Louis, Laurier never actually uttered the famous remark attributed to him. His exact words, spoken at the first annual banquet of the Ottawa Canadian Club, January 18, 1904, were “The nineteenth century was the century of the United States. I think we can claim that it is Canada that shall fill the twentieth century.”
XXV
There is little difference between the night and the day in the routine of a moose’s life. He travels and feeds at night as well as by day; he lies down to rest by day as well as by night. He usually browses until an hour or two before midday, and then for two or three hours is likely to lie down and chew the cud of idle contemplation.
SAMUEL MERRILL, THE MOOSE BOOK
From Je-me-souviens, Quebec, to Elk Lake, Ontario, is a mere 100 kilometres or so, as the crow flies (assuming the crow can be induced to fly in a northwesterly direction). It was a good deal farther than that for the Great White Moose, however, since he turned south following his escape from René Purelaine, tracking the descent of the Ottawa River along its western bank.
His second crossing of the river in under an hour had left him fatigued, but upon reaching the Ontario shore the residual effect of his panic attack gave him the energy to resume his gallop. After covering several kilometres, however, and satisfying himself that he had outdistanced anyone who might be on his trail, he settled into that shambling gait so characteristic of moose on their perambulations (as well as Abraham Lincoln). In the late afternoon he stopped to rest, falling into a deep and long sleep. When he awoke, at around ten o’clock at night, he felt uncommonly refreshed.
He made a meal of the leaves and smaller branches off an aspen sapling, then started south once more. After shadowing the Ottawa River for the better part of an hour, he drifted westward, following one of its minor tributaries. It was a very dark night, the moon hidden behind clouds, and the woods were thick and warm. There was no possibility to move rapidly here, but with an increasing sense that danger had passed, he was quite content to proceed at an easy pace.
A few kilometres above the small town of Balsam Creek, he arrived at a low bridge where the stream was crossed by the road between North Bay and Temiscaming. It was almost midnight now, and he stood there for some minutes deliberating (to the extent that we might call what he was doing “deliberating”) whether to cross the road and continue along by the water, or turn around and retrace his steps, or strike north through the woods, or, finally, to cross the stream and start off south once again. A cooling breeze blew up, and the cloud cover began to break, exposing the edge of the summer moon. Since being reborn as the Great White Moose he had shown an instinct for the road less travelled. But there were no markers here—no hint that other members of his species had passed this way before—and so his apparent predisposition to chart an independent course was effectively rendered beside the point. He stood by the road, passively taking in the monotonous chirp of a tree cricket, punctuated somewhere far off in the distance by the deceptively mournful call of a loon. Surely the setting for an existential moment, if existential moments fall within the experiences of moose.
Not sharing that obsession humans have with the measurement of time, he could not have said how long it was before he heard the metallic drone of the car. He knew the sound a car makes, having crossed many roads during the years since he began his journey, from muddy country lanes to the asphalt rigidity of northern highways. Indeed, he had heard many thousands of cars. He had witnessed many thousands as well, although usually at some considerable distance. The car approaching him now was travelling fast, faster than would be expected on a small unlit country road after midnight. Not that I can say with certainty that the moose had expectations. But he did have experience. And in his experience, the sound of a car in the night was invariably followed, sooner or later, by the appearance of bright beams. Beams that warned him to move to cover; beams that allowed him to identify where safe harbour could be found.
But in this case, as the car grew nearer, the moose saw nothing. He had no way of knowing that the driver, who was rocketing at speeds well over 160 kilometres an hour through this particular corner of the Ontario backwoods, had decided to drive without headlights on. “To escape detection,” as she had explained to her dazed, and dazzled, passenger. And so the car was practically upon him before the moose reacted. He dropped down into the middle of the stream, then tucked himself under the bridge. There he stood for maybe three, maybe five seconds, listening, concentrating, trying to take everything in. Then he heard it, rising somehow above the drone. Rising even as it dropped in pitch (malevolently, it must have seemed to the moose) in accord with the imperatives of the Doppler effect. It was the distinctive melody. The melody that so often stole into his thoughts and haunted his dreams.
He stood there under the bridge for some moments, breathing heavily, as moose, much like humans, are wont to do when they encounter phantoms in the night. And then he made—and here I admit to indulging my weakness for anthropomorphism—a bold decision. Rather than fleeing from the spectre, he would pursue it. He would pursue it, find it, confront it. So pulling himself out from under the bridge, he started off after the car, cantering down the middle of the road. He continued his chase through the night, stopping only for the purpose of eating and listening. But as time passed and he did not hear or see the spectre, his resolve began to diminish. And when, at daybreak, he found himself back on the western bank of the Ottawa River, he gave what among moose amounts to a shrug, then rambled off aimlessly toward the northwest.
A week later, after skirting the cottage community around Temagami, he found himself in the vicinity of Elk Lake. He felt an uncommon sense of relief among the red and white pines, a sense that in the heart of this old-growth forest he had found a place at least temporarily beyond the machinations of the spectre. We will take our leave of him now, comforting ourselves with the knowledge that, for the remainder of the summer at least, his life will be untroubled and he will have plenty of time for idle contemplation.
XXVI
Richard Hakluyt the younger returned to Saffron Walden, as he had promised he would, after a fortnight. He carried with him, in addition to the nine photographs of Yale Templeton and Bobbi Jo Jackson, various manuscripts, including a number of original works by French authors. As on the previous occasion he bowed on entering the cottage, and as on the previous occasion Yale Templeton’s mother received him with the dignity and grace expected of a queen. He began with some remarks he had prepared especially for the occasion, dropping his eyes out of modesty:
“Your Majestie, my devotion to the task
thou hath entrusted unto me has been ceaseless. What restlesse nights, what painefull dayes, what heat, what cold I have indured; how many long & chargeable journeys I have traveiled; how many famous libraries I have searched into; what varietie of ancient and moderne writers I have perused; what a number of old records, patents, privileges, letters, & c. I have redeemed from obscuritie and perishing; into how manifold acquaintance I have entred; what expenses I have not spared; and yet what faire opportunities of private gaine, preferment, and ease I have neglected; albeit thy selfe canst hardly imagine, yet I by daily experience do finde & feele, and some of my entier friends can sufficiently testifie. Howbeit the honour and benefit of this Common weale wherein I live and breathe, hath made all difficulties seeme easie, all paines and industrie pleasant, and all expenses of light value and moment unto me.”
She had not, however, taken in a word, as he realized to his disappointment when he looked up. “Before you proceed with your report,” she commented, “I should inform you that I have received a second communication from Canada.”
Then, as he puzzled over this latest news, she went to her writing desk and retrieved a letter. He saw immediately that it was written in the same obsessively regular hand as the note she had shown him on his first visit. It read:
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