Heroine

  I have to be careful about thoughts like that. The comrades are suspicious of over-involvement in art. On that trip back from Vancouver, one of them said in a Regina living room: ‘You’ll never be anything but a fellow traveller.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked in a small voice (my lip twitching like Hers on the veranda). Through the window I saw his babushka working in the garden.

  ‘Because you’re an artist. The way you mother that little Chilean kid makes us also think you have parenting ambitions. Tandis qu’un vrai révolutionnaire appartient 100 pour cent au groupe.’

  Sitting there in the blue café, I’m thinking: ‘This affair will improve my revolutionary image.’ When the door opens against the grey, wet sky. My nostrils fill with the smell of damp leather and the incredible provocation of spring. N enters. You stand, my love, out of discretion. Gathering your things to move to the next table. I could never be that cool. A courteous European in plaid shirt and lumberjack boots politely picking up his papers.

  We beg you to stay.

  We’ll be three, like in the Patti Smith song. ‘We Three,’ the greatest love song of the century. About a woman, her lover, and his brother. With the woman of the triangle as free as a fluffy cloud floating back and forth in the blue sky. The shadow on the ground meaning that at her highest point she’ll see far enough to know who lied. An apex that probably represents the moment of creation where art is a flash of understanding in service of the future. Quickly she flips through the pages in her diary. Highlighting the allegro notes with a marker in preparation for a novel.

  Oct. 15: Something is snapping at my heels. I feel like on the edge of a precipice where you jump. If the currents are right you float. Otherwise you don’t. The other choice is staying where I am and choking. Except when I try to explain this, everybody says yes but WHAT’S THE PROBLEM?

  Oct. 20: On a slip of paper I found in La Librairie Arsenault it said: Tout risquer. C’est le temps. C’est le temps. A black priest was waiting for me outside (one of F-group’s fellow travellers), the end of a striped toque wrapped around his neck. We started walking. I was trying to explain how, in order for the revolution to succeed, we had to change not only the outer system but also the inner person. For example, total equality of women on all levels including sexual. He said: ‘Oui, mais après la révolution cubaine, ce n’était pas le moment de parler de liberation sexuelle. Le peuple n’était pas prêt.’ In silence we passed Arsenault’s windows, a Chinese restaurant sending out the faint smell of egg roll and fried rice into the crisp air. The sun was setting on Phillips Square. Despite the cold, people were panhandling. A bag lady with swollen legs wrapped in yellow stockings. I couldn’t look. I wondered if the priest thought white women revolutionaries were obsessed with sex.

  Nov. 15: Just a small entry to talk about the white light outside. I felt so good after N squeezed my hand under the table. Then he took his girlfriend’s, too. I dreamed we climbed the mountain outside, a high hill pointed. And sown with trees which cast their shadows like telephone posts in diagonal rows over the green earth. Just over the top was a comfortable white house containing a couple of families. After that a path led into the woods. Transylvania. Vampire Land? Get serious. Opening our little family to new sensations can’t be that dangerous. A second word association gave ‘transiting silver.’

  When you awoke in our white room, my love, I whispered in your ear: ‘This time, together we’re crossing the bar of light.’

  Jan. 13: Forty below. This room has an old beige rug and blue cushions on the floor. J’écoute Aragon, sa période surréaliste, communiste, et pense à un ancien chum. You came in and said: ‘I’m going to the bar to meet my friends.’ I wondered, the girl with the green eyes? Soon you were back. They weren’t there. Immediately I felt better again. I won’t be like this as soon as we have symmetry. I mean, as soon as something happens with N.

  Feb. 14: A boat sank off les Îles de la Madeleine this morning. Out for its last run in more ways than one. Because of pollution, shellfishing has been forbidden all along the gulf. I was explaining to Comrade X the relation between industrialization and the disappearance of the puffin bird. Such a marvellous bird. And now it’s only a word. We were sitting in a snack bar at l’Université de Montréal. Outside were sidewalks shadowed by huge stucco walls. No windows. The university goes on like that for a block, after which there’s a minuscule patch of grass surrounded by high-rises. ‘Look,’ I cried, waving my arms. ‘Could a puffin bird live there?’ He looked at me, blinking, as if I were crazy.

  March 28: It’s not really spring. The snow’s up to my knees. But the sun is shining madly. You can smell the freshness. You can feel the knife in the stomach. Fanned by what’s insidiously suggested in the sound of water running office. Through streets of people all stratified and staccato. I won’t let N put off this affair any longer.

  Through the telescope, the eye sees an icy wind and rain blow the garbage down The Main. The grey woman opens the door to Cookies’ Restaurant. Its Coca-Cola sign is sagging. The grey woman walks in and sits at the counter. ‘… only twenty-four,’ she hears the waitress say. ‘I heard they strangled her. Lived at 24A St-Sauveur. ’Twas Silvano the storekeeper told me. She used to work here. Said she was Polish. Came in the other day about her phone bill. Her mother died and they sent it to her. No money you know.’

  The grey woman sits silently. Beside her, a man with a face like a crazy-house mirror says quickly: ‘They threw me outta the institute.’ (The grey woman averts her head.) ‘Eight years and they got me for good behaviour. I didn’t wanna go. What’ll ya give me for these shoes? Top quality. Got ’em out of a garbage can corner of Cavendish. Good English neighbourhood. You’ll be needin’ them now that winter’s here.’

  Behind the low green window, my tub is warm. And outside, still, the safety blanket of snow. At the clinic they said this little depression won’t last too long. Meanwhile, I’m fine in the Waikiki Tourist Rooms, even if Marie thinks I should move. I could see it on her face this afternoon when, sitting on my sofa, she said (with her sad eyes): ‘When you said the Waikiki Tourist Rooms, I thought it was a joke.’ She means last spring. April 1980. I saw her then. As I was standing on the corner after coffee with you, my love, in your flat on Henri Julien. Feeling kinda funny. Over my head the very early buds were trying to become green lace trim. The birds were chirping as if the future - - -. I couldn’t stand to think and couldn’t stand not to. Unable to grasp if you’d really said: ‘Let’s face it, it’s over. For me the seventies spelt personal and political disaster. I want another program for the eighties.’ Your voice growing authoritative. I looked up from the fragrant coffee in the white cup. Wanting to hug your warm body in the blue shirt. The calendar in the sunlight said: APRIL 1. Waiting for you to say: ‘April Fools,’ the silence was unbearable.

  So I’m leaning that day against the stones of la Bibliothèque Nationale trying to focus on what’s the truth, when Marie (in a beautiful crocheted scarf) wades up through a pile of pamphlets left by a recent demonstration and says: ‘Bonjour, qu’est-ce que tu deviens?’ Kissing me warmly on both cheeks. French people always say that. What are you becoming? And I don’t know what to answer, the question is so precise.

  I shake my head, almost crying: ‘Rien.’

  But she won’t have the melodrama. She’s a woman about to make it. A producer wants her film script. This very minute she’s on her way to see him. She’s so excited she’s almost jumping up and down. When I ask if she thinks what you said is true, if you’ll ever call me again, if you don’t what will I do, all she says is: ‘Si c’est fini, tant mieux … Peut-être commenceras-tu à vivre.’ Then she’s turning on her heel. My hand is reaching for her plump white arm. The older she gets the silkier it feels. I shout that my temporary address is Seville Street. The Waikiki Tourist Rooms. She doesn’t seem to hear. Her body undulates down the street as if she doesn’t care.

  It’s a fact I’ve had a little drink. But she doesn’t need to run.
I’m not an alky like that aunt she loved so much. The one with the big hats who used to dance at weddings. Marie took me once to visit her. I waited on the sidewalk while she went in to see if the old woman wanted company. In the July heat wave the huge black leaves leaned low over boulevard St-Joseph. After a while Marie came into the lobby crying. ‘Elle fut l’amour de ma vie. Si belle, la plus belle des soeurs de ma mère. Maintenant elle prend le lit avec son gin. On ne la voit plus pendant des jours.’ We left. I seem to remember a Haitian mural and brass curtain rings.

  Shhh, this isn’t the right attitude. If I keep up like this, there’s going to be a problem with the heroine. For the inside’s too black and narrow. And which persona for the exterior? Not that I want to over-emphasize appearances. On the floor by the tub the olive jumpsuit is so faded you can’t tell if it’s old or dirty. Wearing it, I could almost get taken for Zelda Weishoff, the homeless woman. Don’t exaggerate. Sitting in her grey rags on that cement block by The Main. Waiting for the return of her man. Actually, others say she’s like that because she’s a victim of the Holocaust. Some are saying no one’s heard her speak. Walking by her the other day, I couldn’t help wondering what she does for sex.

  I have to admit my mind also turned to my own slight lack. And I said: ‘I’ll never write a word untouched like this.’ But ’twas only a passing moment. The heroine wouldn’t have this problem, having gained a certain flair (example: the way she combs her hair or wears a sweater), by coming up to Montréal. Yes, she views the savoir-vivre as a part of her struggle against whatever she hated back in Lively. This vision of a future where everyone is beautiful buoys her determination to live each day as the perfect revolutionary. Striving constantly to combine the political with the personal.

  1 p.m. We’re sitting in the restaurant with the blue floor. We three. Each time the door opens, the spring breeze ruffles the space between the hair on my arm and the hair on N’s. Leading to incredible sexual tension. I keep writing my article just the same. On why women should join the left. In order to change the economic system, permitting them equality, not to mention collectivization of household tasks. Even if the left doesn’t directly deal with these issues now, they’re all in the program for after the revolution. (It feels weird telling women to be patient. Once more.)

  I hurry, because the rubby with the shopping bag sitting in that shaft of light makes me think of poetry. Maybe I could write some before, before - - -. You and N drone on about moving from the periphery (student issues, the women’s question) toward the centre (workers’ issues) in the revolutionary movement. Under the table, my love, I put my hand on his leg. Inching it up higher, higher. Thinking about how I’d hate it if the situation were reversed. And you were doing the same thing to some woman in my presence.

  2 p.m. I’m so horny I can’t think. I can’t stand it. My hand’s right on his crotch and it doesn’t matter who sees. I just wish he’d get up and walk out of here now with me. I’ve always been like that. When I want something, especially sex, I can’t wait. I have to have it now, or sooner. My love, I’ve been known to call you at noon at the wedding photo studio where you work part time to pay the rent. Ordering you home for ‘lunch’ immediately. We all think it’s hilarious you work there, given our opposition to the bourgeois couple. But it’s convenient because at night you can develop the pictures for F-group’s paper. If the studio owner knows, he doesn’t let on. He’s a nice old guy.

  3 p.m. N and I rush along Marie-Anne. Unable to wait another minute. The street rises gently through low red houses leaning against each other toward the mountain. On top is the cross. The street opens bulb-like into the side of the cliff. Two gay men step out. Trilliums are pushing through the melting snow. N finally puts his arms around me.

  4:30 p.m. He’s leaving my flat. I try to focus. But the air is exploding in bright flashes. So I can hardly make clear the edge of his thighs encased in his tight jeans. The euphoria is as though I’ve crossed the bar of light.

  6 p.m. You come home and I’m lying on the sofa, kind of sheepish. What a day. The sun shining on the floor. That recurring image of N’s and my body tingling until they dissolve in the dazzling air. After I wanted to play poker. Anyway, he’s gone and you’re here and I say: ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’ And you say, smiling a little: ‘I think I can guess.’ And I say: ‘It’s N.’ And you say: ‘I think I can appreciate his qualities.’ Without showing any jealousy. At that moment I look up at the photo of you, my love, and me in black leather in Ingmar’s courtyard. It’s sitting on the table. And I want N to be in it instead. You’re being so nice, I have to fight to keep from saying something mean. Like: ‘It wouldn’t matter what you think, wild horses couldn’t drag N and me apart.’

  On the mountaintop, the Canadian Olympic rowing team leaves the chalet. Way down below. Cookies’ Restaurant back door swings open and the grey woman steps out. The courtyard is shaped like an onion. Hoarfrost forming on the fence. A buzzer rings. ‘No, Tommy, I can’t,’ says a woman’s voice from some slightly open window. ‘I’m waiting for a phone call.’ The grey woman leaves Cookies’ and keeps walking. Leaning into the diagonal fall of snow. So damp and cold.

  Then it’s really dark. Never mind, I’ll put this pretty soap Marie brought to my nose. A lesson in perception. People who enjoy the little things don’t get lost in melodramatic considerations. They’re too busy breathing each day in deeply. In that respect I was doing great all that spring when I was loved by two. No longer the sad bird, singing sweetly but hidden in the grass. Nor its painted reflection fluttering kite-like in the world. Loved by two, I could almost sense the essence of the third bird in the dream, sitting calm and silver on the branch with its back turned to me.

  Oh, the sweetness of the period was overwhelming. You watched me move from room to room, admiringly, almost shyly. Or I’d come home from N’s to find you sleeping heavily after drinking too much beer. Your unhappiness could be measured by the empties around the bed. I’d remember the hunger in your eyes before I left, dressed in clean jeans, clogs, and a Swedish flowered shirt. With Serge, Bertrand, and the rest of the workers’ commission from F-group all giving me appreciative glances. Knowing I was perfumed like that because I was on my way to see another man. N and I were going to listen to David Bowie records. It was nice lying on his expensive sheets. Drinking brandy in the proper glasses. Revolutionaries could have these things if they got them from their parents. I’d leave (reluctantly) when D phoned to say she was coming home. Once I said to N: ‘But she’s not jealous?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re not possessive.’

  Other times the sweetness was in the anticipation. A beautiful spring night and after a meeting we’re sitting in Le Pavillon. It’s full of cops so we can’t talk politics. Instead (to bug them) we argue loudly how to deal with la misère sexuelle in this society. Comrade C (she has short fuzzy hair and a Jagger mouth) stands up and reads a poem mocking bourgeois love: Approchez, approchez, mesdames messieurs. C’est le sexpo permanent du capitalisme. Ses ruelles sont congestionées par des spectateurs payants, nerveux, fébriles. lls attendent. L’on examine les autres concurrents, évalue ses chances de gagner. On jette un coup d’oeil hystérique dans le coin. On s’achète un vibrateur. L’ami à côté n’est plus qu’un autre adversaire …

  N has his hand on my knee. With the other he tries to catch a chiffon scarf waved near his cheek by D. French women know a million ways to get a man’s attention. Suddenly she stands and says: ‘C’est le temps de se coucher.’ N kisses me and goes, too. My love, you wouldn’t do that for me. That’s okay. That’s okay. We each have our way of dealing with priority and secondary relationships.

  Suddenly I’m the-so-restless. Leaving you there with the other comrades, I step out into Park Avenue. Over the Greek restaurants, bakeries, and the laundromat run by born-agains, the sky is black but very starred. Heading toward N’s place I count fifteen stray cats. Under his balcony
(slightly crooked iron railings and red brick) I hear rock music coming from his window. What are they doing? Does she fuck him right after he’s been with me? Without even a little twinge of acidity in the stomach? From N’s neighbour’s flat comes the smell of Greek cooking. N told me that one night the old Greek gave him Metaxa. Then they discussed things like doing it from behind.

  Walking back under the dark trees toward Esplanade-surle-parc, I think: ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want.’ But a woman owes it to herself to at least take what she can. As I open the door, you look up from your desk. Quickly lighting a Gauloise cigarette. Your small smile indicating you’ve been wondering where I was. But I don’t have to tell you if I don’t feel like it. Those were the rules. I wonder what you’d feel if you knew I loved N nearly as much as I loved you. Retreating from your warm hug, I wrote in the black book: C’est très très dangereux maintenant. S’il rencontre quelqu’un et je freaque, il ne saura accéder à mes demandes de la lâcher. Heureusement je crois avoir profondément changée.

  Damn. Is that someone at the door again? Just when I’m feeling cozy. With the warm towel waiting on the radiator. I have to think, I mustn’t be disturbed. For sure it’s not Marie. She’s pissed off because I can’t receive her in the style to which she’s used. Back when I struck a better profile, I’d go to her place and her friends would be waiting with good food (canard laqué, fondue chinoise, etc.) It didn’t cost much because everyone brought something. But what I liked best was walking into the room. White with a long table and plants under the window. And everyone would kiss me so I really felt present. While the corks were popping and the details of dress assessed thoroughly yet subtly. Puis Hugues, par exemple, dirait: ‘Es-tu d’accord avec la discussion sur l’inconscient dans le dernier Deleuze?’