Lincoln's Briefs

by Wayne, Michael

  She oversaw purchase of the Medical Affiliates Centre facing the entrance to the campus, ignoring opposition from a dozen or so dentists with offices in the building, as well as the proprietor of the neighbouring Hat Museum.

  She undertook negotiations with the Anglican hierarchy to acquire a historic church just across Greener Street from the high school. “A new and suitably godly home for the School of Theology,” she explained to the eminent bishop who served on the university’s Governing Council.

  Finally, citing the shortage of student housing, she arranged for the university to outbid the Hilton chain for a luxury hotel located just blocks from City Hall.

  These, as I said, are the known facts. But the increasingly extravagant allegations levelled against her were based on rumours, not facts:

  That she had commissioned an architect to redesign the Anglican church as an exclusive private club for men. It was even alleged in some quarters that she was making arrangements to have an escort service operate out of the church basement.

  That she had actually acquired the Medical Affiliates Centre not as additional office space for the English department, as legal documents submitted to the city claimed, but to gain access to the laboratory of the small pharmaceutical company in the basement, her intention being—and remember here, I am just reporting rumour—to employ chemistry graduate students who had failed their comprehensive examinations in production of drugs for the black market.

  That she had solicited bids from various Vietnamese and Chinese gangs in the city for operating a protection agency out of the former high school.

  And, finally, that she had begun negotiations with the provincial government to get a law passed allowing her to turn the hotel into a casino, the largest in Canada.

  “It would be easy to conclude,” said one of her most acerbic critics, “that she is acting under orders from the Mafia.”

  But that, responded the Dean for Laundering Money, was “a patently absurd suggestion.”

  XXIX

  Summer was also the favourite time of the year for Yale Templeton. It was during the summer that he hunted for those obscure bits and pieces of information that made the Civil War so much a present reality for him, and it was during the summer that he was able to return to Northern Ontario and resume his quest for the Great White Moose. Of course, summer had in effect come early this year with his suspension by Felicia Butterworth, meaning there had been nothing to keep him in Toronto on the day when Bobbi Jo Jackson reported that what had sounded to him like a bit of background static during a CBC radio interview was actually a man shouting in French, “Look! A white moose!”

  The ride north to Je-me-souviens had been an educational experience for both passenger and driver. After some initial terror Yale Templeton came to marvel at his companion’s ability to bring the rented Toyota Corolla to speeds technically impossible (at least according to the car manual) while deftly avoiding the bicyclists, porcupines, and gaping potholes that seem to appear out of nowhere on Ontario country roads. That she could maintain close to the same speed throughout the night with her headlights turned off was so beyond belief that he surrendered himself to the comforting suspicion that she had supernatural powers.

  As they approached North Bay, she asked him what they would do when they reached the town where the white moose had been spotted. He suddenly realized that he had not made all the necessary arrangements, and so he had her pull up to a general store, where he bought her a kazoo and an orange balaclava. Then, as they continued on their way to Quebec, he pulled out his own kazoo and began to play “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” (which in this case was quite fitting, since night had fallen). “This is the call moose use to signal friendship,” he explained, and then he repeated the melody over and over again so she could commit it to memory.

  When they arrived in Temiscaming—it was now approaching midnight—she suddenly cried, “Hey, I remember this place!”

  “You’ve been here before?” he said with some surprise, although by now surprises were more or less what he expected from her.

  “Uh-huh. A few years ago. On my way to James Bay.”

  “James Bay? Why did you go to James Bay?”

  “Oh, just one of my assignments. I don’t know. It was right after I got back from Senegal. I guess someone thought the French I’d picked up would be useful. The language they speak here is kind of like French.”

  “Really?” he asked. His colleagues in European history had assured him that there was no similarity whatsoever.

  “Oh, sure,” she replied. “Most people here even call it French.”

  She slowed down as they made their way through the town, then sped up once they were out in the countryside again.

  “You know, they never did tell me why they sent me up here,” she said. “In fact they never told me why they were sending me any place. It’s not like I wasn’t interested or anything. But they always said, ‘You’re doing it for the President. You’re doing it for your country. You’re doing it for God.’ I don’t know. I think they should have been more specific.”

  “At Fredericksburg, General Ambrose Burnside never told the soldiers in the army of the Potomac why he wanted them to charge Marye’s Heights.”

  “No?”

  “No. And by the end of the day, the Union army had suffered 12,653 or 13,353 casualties, depending on which source you believe.”

  “No kidding! Well I guess that proves my point.”

  They drove on more slowly now, and in silence. Bobbi Jo Jackson was wondering about her mission to James Bay. Yale Templeton was wondering whether, after he finished writing his article on poisonous snake bites at Confederate military hospitals, he might try to resolve the discrepancies between reported casualty figures for Fredericksburg. And maybe not just for Fredericksburg. Maybe for all deaths and injuries suffered in all the battles of the Civil War. “Now that would be a truly worthwhile project,” he said to himself. “Think of all the tables I would need to include. Think of the footnotes.” He had been trying for some time to come up with a topic for a second book. “This might turn out to be my magnum opus,” he said to himself, and he nodded with satisfaction.

  A sign on the town limits informed them when they had reached their destination:

  JE-ME-SOUVIENS

  La Belle Ville

  Maire: René Purelaine

  Population: 2

  With no evidence that anyone else was up at one thirty in the morning, they lay down under the stars and went to sleep.

  By the time they awoke the sun had already risen well above the horizon. “Not that much to see, is there?” commented Bobbi Jo Jackson, stretching and stifling a yawn.

  “No,” replied Yale Templeton, straightening his tie. “Although I imagine the Olympic stadium will be quite impressive once they put the roof on.” Then he went to the car for the balaclavas and kazoos.

  “I think we should get something to eat first,” Bobbi Jo Jackson said. “Anyway, at my briefing—you know, before they sent me up here—they told me the best place to get information in small northern towns is the donut shop. Have you seen a Tim Hortons?”

  But the only restaurant turned out to be La famine Irlandaise. Louis was just opening up when they arrived at the front door.

  “Bonjour,” he greeted them, smiling broadly.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” replied Bobbi Jo Jackson. “Good morning,” replied Yale Templeton.

  Louis looked him up and down. “Let me guess. You have come from Ontario, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Si,” said Yale Templeton.

  “Then we shall talk in English,” Louis whispered, looking around to make sure that no one was listening.

  He reached behind the counter and pulled out two copies of the menu. “Don’t let anyone know about these,” he said under his breath. “The mayor brought in an ordinance last week outlawing the sale of all potato dishes except for French fries.”

  “How extraordinary!” said Yale Templeton.

&n
bsp; Louis broke into a loud laugh. “Forgive me, monsieur. I’m pulling your leg. Around here we call French fries—”

  “Frites,” interrupted Bobbi Jo Jackson.

  “Frites, yes. Exactly, mademoiselle. Exactly. You’re a lucky man, monsieur, to have a companion who is as knowledgeable as she is beautiful.”

  Yale Templeton coughed weakly and looked down at his feet.

  Louis laughed again. “It is an unusual man who is embarrassed by his good fortune with women.” To which Yale Templeton responded by turning the colour of a ripe tomato.

  “But enough of this,” said Louis, although his laughter continued. “You have the look of hungry travellers. Tell me, what can I get for you?”

  Yale Templeton and Bobbi Jo Jackson studied the menu. There were a total of two items: boiled potatoes and French fries. Next to the listing for French fries was written “when in season.”

  “I think I’ll have the boiled potatoes,” replied Bobbi Jo Jackson.

  “Eh bien. And you, monsieur?”

  “I believe I will try the French fries.”

  “Alas, monsieur, the season for French fries ended two weeks ago.” And Louis erupted in laughter once more. “No. The truth is, I thought I had an agreement with a chef from Marseilles who is a wizard with frites, but at the last minute he decided to accept a position at a new private men’s club in Toronto.”

  “Then I suppose I shall have the boiled potatoes as well.”

  “A very discerning choice, monsieur. It’s the house specialty. ‘La spécialité de la maison.’ I have the potatoes flown in directly from Prince Edward Island, part of my commitment to biculturalism.”

  Louis collected the menus and disappeared into the kitchen. “What a curious fellow,” said Yale Templeton.

  “Yes,” agreed Bobbi Jo Jackson. “But very friendly, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, indeed. Very friendly.” (“But perhaps a bit too familiar,” he thought.)

  Louis returned after just a few minutes with some boiled potatoes.

  “You don’t mind if they’re cold, do you?”

  “Not at all,” said Bobbi Jo Jackson. “As it happens, we’re in a hurry.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “We’ve come to see Le Grand Orignal Blanc, the Great White Moose.”

  Louis looked at her uncomprehendingly.

  “We heard the interview you did on the CBC yesterday morning,” she explained. “With Michael Enright. Someone in the background shouted, ‘Un orignal blanc. Voyez! Un orignal blanc! Sacrebleu!’ I heard it quite distinctly.”

  “Ah. That would have been my brother. He did shout something about a moose and went running out the door. But there are no white moose, everyone knows that. My guess is what he saw was a white-tailed deer.” He paused. “Or maybe a white rabbit.” And he laughed at his own joke.

  “Interesting you should say that about the deer,” commented Yale Templeton. “Some of the early French explorers in Canada found fishermen here from the Basque country. According to the noted authority Samuel Merrill, when the explorers saw moose for the first time, they called them by the Basque word for deer, ‘orenac,’ so perhaps your brother was simply confused.”

  “My brother is confused about a great many things, I am sad to say.”

  “Still, we should talk to him,” said Bobbi Jo Jackson.

  “That may not be possible. He has not spoken a word of English in many years. And except on extraordinary occasions, he refuses to talk to Canadians from outside Quebec.”

  “But I’m not Canadian,” said Yale Templeton. “I’m from England.”

  “Tant pis. So much the worse,” Louis shrugged. “He definitely won’t talk to you.”

  “But I’m not English. Or Canadian, either,” said Bobbi Jo Jackson. “I’m an American.”

  “Ah,” said Louis. “An American. Now that’s entirely different. For some unimaginable reason, he seems to place great trust in Americans.”

  “Et je parle le français comme une parisienne et le québécois presque aussi bien.”

  “Très bien. René se fera un plaisir de vous rencontrer, mademoiselle, ou est-ce que je dois dire madame?”

  “Mademoiselle.” replied Bobbi Jo Jackson. Then she looked at Yale Templeton and said, “Au moins, pour l’instant.” And then she and Louis both broke into a laugh.

  Yale Templeton laughed, too, although merely out of courtesy, since he had no idea what either of them were saying. Then he asked Louis, “Might I inquire as to the course of action you propose we take?”

  “It’s really quite simple. Your lovely companion must go to see René alone. He’ll be arriving at City Hall shortly, and in keeping with local custom, will make himself available to the public for one hour. The daily meeting of La commission pour protéger la langue Française, bureau de Je-me-souviens does not convene until ten. You and I, monsieur, we will remain here. Although I acknowledge I have some limitations as a cook, no one in all the North makes a better cup of instant coffee. You will tell me all about this Great White Moose of yours and I will tell you all about this great nation of mine.”

  XXX

  And so Bobbi Jo Jackson went off to meet with René Purelaine while Yale Templeton and Louis Montcalm sat down over coffee in La famine Irlandaise.

  “I must say, this is the best instant coffee I have ever tasted,” remarked Yale Templeton, who in fact had never tasted instant coffee before (and very little freshly brewed either, coffee being one of the lesser temptations his mother had warned him about). He always made it a rule to be polite, however, and in any case he found the beverage to be a suitable accompaniment for cold boiled potatoes.

  “But we must not waste our time talking about something as mundane as food,” said Louis. “Tell me, monsieur, what is your occupation?”

  “I am a historian,” replied Yale Templeton.

  “Ah,” said Louis, “a historian. Herodotus, Thucydides, Sima Qian, Ibn Khaldun, Gibbon, Carlyle, Ranke, Burckhardt, Bloch, Braudel. You have many distinguished predecessors. It is a noble profession. And what is your particular field of study? The history of England, I suppose.”

  “No,” replied Yale Templeton. “American history.”

  “American history!” exclaimed Louis. “But the United States is too young to have a history.”

  “Many of the dons I knew at Cambridge seemed to think the same thing,” Yale Templeton commented a bit ruefully.

  Louis laughed. “Then they are fools. If anything, the Americans have experienced too much history. And of course, they have produced eminent scholars of their own: Prescott, Bancroft, Parkman, Turner, Beard, Schlesinger, Woodward …”

  “You seem to know a great deal about American history for someone from Canada.”

  “It is a necessity, monsieur. Living as I do in a nation whose continued existence depends on the sufferance of the United States, I must understand Americans better than they understand themselves. Which turns out to be not all that difficult. I mean, just look at the politicians they elect to office. Of course there are moments when even Americans make an inspired choice. Lincoln was truly a statesman of the highest order and a man of great compassion. I’ve always felt he would have made a fine Canadian. But enough of my foolishness. You’re the professional historian. Tell me. What is your opinion of the United States?”

  “Actually,” said Yale Templeton, who had concluded long ago that opinion had no place in history, “my field of specialization is the Civil War.”

  “Ah, yes. What else? The Civil War. Brother against brother. The most colossal of all the many American acts of insanity.”

  Yale Templeton always found generalizations distasteful, generalizations expressed with great passion especially so. And in an effort to drain emotion from their conversation, he entered into a monologue about his research. He described to Louis the work he had done for his doctoral dissertation, discussing in painstaking detail what he regarded as the more interesting facts and statistics he had managed to uncover ab
out the Civil War in the British press. He then went on to give a lengthy account of how he had realized that to be fully comprehensive, he would have to expand his investigation into ever more obscure British publications. “Louisiana State University Press wanted me to keep the book under 650 pages,” he admitted, “but I explained that it was my style to be exhaustive.”

  “He must mean ‘exhausting,’” thought Louis, who by now was struggling to keep his eyes open. But Yale Templeton plunged onward into a word-for-word recitation of his article on the boot sizes of Union cavalrymen, followed by a methodical explanation of how Mississippians used parched corn to produce a diverse array of less-than-satisfactory coffee substitutes during the Vicksburg campaign, and then an interminable summary of his investigation into the incidence of poisonous snake bites at Confederate military hospitals. He even spoke at torturous length about his plans, formulated just hours earlier, to produce a monograph on discrepancies in reported casualty figures for all the battles of the war. “Think how valuable it would be to know the precise number of soldiers who had their noses shot off during the fighting at Fair Oaks,” he commented with unvarnished sincerity.

  Louis, who by now had lapsed into that state of semi-consciousness where words mutate into hallucinations, instinctively reached for his own nose. Relieved to find that it remained in its customary place, he burst out. “Ah, yes! Fair Oaks! Riveting! Positively riveting! Your students must be transfixed when you lecture.”

  “I suppose they must,” Yale Templeton said with more than a little uncertainty.

  “But it is unfair of me to expect you to carry on this conversation all by yourself,” said Louis. “Although I do not pretend to have your erudition or your way with words, still there is some knowledge I have accumulated over the years that might yet prove of interest to you. I take it you heard the story of our little village on the radio yesterday.”