The Forgotten Daughter

by Joanna Goodman

  Pierre hoists himself onto the dock, and Véronique joins him. They lie side by side, shivering.

  “How much have you saved?” she asks him.

  “What do I have to save for?” he says. “I’m making three grand a week.”

  “The future?”

  He laughs, pulling a fist-sized chunk of hash from the pocket of his shorts, which are lying next to him in a heap. He rolls a fat joint and lights it. “I’m living my life now,” he says. “As it comes.”

  “What about when this ends?”

  “Why would I think about that now?” he says, sucking long and hard on the joint. “Things are good. I’m enjoying it.”

  Véronique takes a haul. She doesn’t know whether to be pissed off or feel sorry for Pierre. She worries about him. He thinks too small; he’s an underachiever. She wants him to want to be more than what he is. Pierre is lazy and lacks ambition. He grabs whatever is put in front of him, greedily and without forethought. Véronique is different. She’s no less a criminal, but she’s cautious and thoughtful; she has principles. She doesn’t squander the money she makes.

  She’s already saved $15,000 by her uncle’s accounting—that’s with paying rent, buying a car, and splurging on a few things she couldn’t resist: a necklace for her mom, a new TV with a built-in VHS player, a pager. Pierre has saved nothing. He’s too busy buying dope and booze and fireworks, which he sets off over the lake every weekend. Camil and Pierre are always throwing wild parties, buying expensive booze—wine and cognac and enough beer to get the whole town loaded—and thick slabs of meat, all of which cost literally hundreds of dollars a day. They’re rich. Why not?

  Véronique has a longer vision than drugs and parties and fireworks. She knows there’s a lot more to life than unfettered, instant gratification. She has brains and passion, like her father did at her age. She cares about politics and protecting the French language in Quebec. She cares about her people. She’s just waiting for the right cause. Her father had the FLQ. Hers is on the horizon.

  “Don’t you ever worry about anything?” she asks him, handing him back the joint.

  “Yeah,” he says, tousling her damp hair. “I worry about keeping you safe, cousin. That’s it.”

  The next morning, she sleeps in until eleven. It’s the best part of smuggling—her freedom. She can come and go as she pleases. Most people her age work crappy jobs in factories or retail stores; they have to answer to asshole bosses and have almost no free time, which is particularly miserable in the summer.

  She puts on a pot of coffee and pops a slice of bread into the toaster. Adds peanut butter and honey to the toast, milk and cinnamon to the coffee. She takes it outside to eat on the balcony. The sun is already white-hot, and the black iron steps burn her bare thighs when she sits. She’s wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Her hair is matted, starting to form little dreadlocks.

  St. Urbain Street is quiet this morning. She lives on the Plateau, around the corner from the mountain and just a few blocks north of the bar scene on St. Laurent Boulevard. She’s been living here ever since she moved out at eighteen. It’s a nice place, with high ceilings and hardwood floors and lots of sunlight coming in through the old windows, and the rent is reasonable. Not that money is a concern anymore. The concern now is that it’s not going to last forever. Smuggling contraband is not a career; it’s a gift. She’ll be lucky to get two more years out of it.

  “Excuse me?”

  Véronique looks down from her second-floor balcony. Balconville, they used to call it. All the wrought iron balconies lined up in rows. There’s a guy standing on the sidewalk, squinting up at her. “Are you Véronique Fortin?” he asks. He’s an older guy, late twenties or early thirties. Dirty-blond hair, slim. Looks good in those jeans.

  “Who’s asking?” she says.

  “Me.”

  “And you are?”

  He climbs a few steps, meeting her halfway. “J. G. Phénix.”

  “J. G.? That’s your name?”

  “James Gabriel,” he says.

  “James. That’s English.”

  “My grandfather was English,” he says in perfect French. No hint of an English accent.

  “And how do you know who I am?” she wants to know.

  “I’m doing a story—”

  “Ah. A reporter. So this is an ambush.” She’s used to this sort of thing. They always crawl out of the woodwork every time there’s an anniversary or a related death.

  “Not at all,” he says. “You’re listed in the white pages, and I live in the neighborhood. You probably know that François Tremblay died last week. I’m doing a piece on the October Crisis—”

  “How original. You and every other reporter in the country.”

  He laughs. “You’re right. We’re not very original. But people are always interested in the FLQ.”

  “Are they?”

  “They are. Especially your father.”

  It always comes back to her father. Two years ago, on the twentieth anniversary of the October Crisis, the press came beating down her parents’ door. Now they’re coming after her. The daughter of the infamous FLQ terrorist . . .

  “I’m a reporter for the Canadian News Association.”

  Véronique roars with laughter. “Goodbye,” she says, immediately dismissing him. Too bad, though, she thinks. There’s something a little seductive about him. Not just his looks, but the way he’s looking at her. He’s sexy. She likes a man with charisma, a little brashness. But he’s a traitor to his own people. What kind of Québécois journalist works for the enemy? The Canadian News Association is the biggest English news agency in the country, feeding stories to all the Anglo papers.

  “Why not tell your story to an English journalist?” he says.

  “No thank you,” she responds. “And it’s not my story.”

  “Do you stand behind what your father did? Do you support Quebec independence?”

  She seethes quietly for a few seconds, annoyed by his arrogance and sense of entitlement. Who the hell does he think he is showing up at her apartment to harass her about her father? And for an English newspaper? “Get lost,” she says. “Let me eat my breakfast in peace.”

  “I don’t represent Anglophones,” he tells her. “I’m French. I just happen to write for an English news agency, that’s all. My father was pure laine. He worked at Vickers. He was a nationalist long before October 1970.”

  Véronique’s interest is piqued. Vickers was a well-known airplane factory; it became one of the symbols of Québécois oppression back in the sixties.

  “He came from a family of farmers,” the reporter goes on, his voice turning emotional. “He drove a cab. He was no better and no worse than your father. You don’t know me at all.”

  “So why do you work at CNA? It’s almost worse, given where you come from.”

  “I was raised to understand and respect both sides equally.”

  Véronique rolls her eyes. “In other words, you were educated in English and you grew up middle or upper class and you’ve had all kinds of opportunities and choices, but you think because your daddy worked at Vickers thirty years ago you can claim to understand us . . . but only as a means to an end.”

  “Means to what end?”

  “Pretending you’re a separatist to get your story.”

  “I never said I’m a separatist,” he says. “I said I’m French. Last I checked those aren’t the same thing.”

  “I’m going inside,” she says, standing up. “Don’t come back or I’ll call the police.”

  “What could you possibly be so angry about?” he asks her. “You haven’t even lived long enough to be this angry!”

  “It’s none of your goddamn business.”

  She slams the door behind her, his question still drumming in her head. That same goddamn question her entire life: Do you stand behind what your father did?

  As if she could ever begin to answer that, for him or his readers. For herself.

  2


  OCTOBER 1992

  James Phénix is huddled in a scrum outside the National Assembly in Quebec City, with his tape recorder in one hand and the mic in the other, ready to shove it in one of the politicians’ faces. It’s the day before yet another vote on yet another round of proposed constitutional changes. James ostensibly made the two-hour drive to get a quote for his column, but the truth is he wanted to get out of the city on a road trip. Everyone knows this vote is futile. Trying to get all ten provinces to agree on constitutional amendments—let alone compromise or meet in the middle—is doomed to fail. It’s all bullshit. It’s Quebec versus the rest of the country like warring siblings. It always has been. The proposed changes don’t go nearly far enough to appease the separatists in Quebec. Nothing short of total independence from Canada will make them happy. James is fairly certain the outcome of tomorrow’s referendum will be all too familiar—a big SCREW YOU, CANADA from Quebec and a SCREW YOURSELF RIGHT BACK, QUEBEC from the rest of Canada.

  Which brings them here again, to another political circus, which is really just an excuse for both sides to squabble and picket and rant. James couldn’t be more bored of the whole cycle.

  Quebec’s premier, Bourassa, is the first one out, looking gaunt and exhausted. The scrum rushes at him, closing around him like wild dogs on an antelope. James thrusts his microphone forward and yells above the crowd, “What makes you think this referendum in Charlottetown will succeed where the last one failed?”

  “These new proposed amendments were determined by public opinion, not by a small elite. We listened to the people this time,” Bourassa states. How novel, James thinks.

  “It’s time to put an end to these interminable constitutional talks and focus on the economy,” Bourassa goes on. “So far, 1992 has been one of the worst years for us since the Depression.”

  “Are you satisfied with the treatment of Quebec in this new accord? Is Quebec getting enough?”

  “Yes, I believe Canada is finally willing to formally recognize our language, our culture, and our distinctiveness. As we all know, having two official languages and cultures is an asset to the country, not a detriment.”

  The usual rehearsed bullshit. When his opponent steps out of the National Assembly, the mob of wild dogs abandons Bourassa and turns their greedy attention to the beleaguered PQ leader. “M. Parizeau, what’s your prediction for tomorrow?”

  “I’ve said all I can say about this ad nauseum,” Parizeau responds. “I predict a resounding rejection of this pathetic ‘accord.’ We will never endorse it.”

  “We who?”

  “We the Parti Québécois and the French people of Quebec.”

  Decent quote, James thinks. Having gotten what he needs, he heads outside, where a cluster of protesters has collected on the front steps of the Parliament Building. They’re milling around and chanting, a little lackadaisically, if you ask him, with their signs pumping in the air. VOTE NO TO CHARLOTTETOWN! NO TO A DISTINCT SOCIETY! YES TO AN INDEPENDENT QUEBEC! SAY NO TO MULRONEY’S DEAL!

  James recognizes Véronique Fortin right away. Her face—delicate but hard—is not easily forgotten; he’s not above finding her beautiful. Back in the summer, he saw her from a distance, half blinded by the sun. Today, up close, he’s a little stunned by her. Pale skin, warm brown eyes, a tiny doll’s nose, the curve of her upper lip like a butterfly’s wing. Her hair is dark auburn, almost red, a little unkempt and wild. She’s wearing a plaid shirt and jean shorts with scuffed combat boots. Her legs, long and milky white, move up the front steps. He can’t look away.

  He must be about ten years older than she. He knows she was an infant during the October Crisis, which makes her about twenty-two. There’s nine years between them. Reasonable, he thinks. He considers himself a young, slightly immature thirty-one. He can’t resist approaching her. “Mam’selle Fortin?”

  She stops marching and eyes him with an expression somewhere between suspicion and disdain. And then, to his surprise, her face relaxes into a smile. “J. G. Phénix,” she says, which pleases him immensely.

  “You remember me.”

  “James Gabriel Phénix. How could I forget?”

  “So you’ve traveled all the way to Quebec City to protest the referendum?” he asks her.

  “I believe in the cause.”

  “I know last time we met you threatened to call the cops on me,” he says, “but I’m heading over to the old town to grab a beer. Why don’t you join me and we can argue about the Charlottetown Accord?”

  He’s sure she’s going to say no, rebuff him on all counts—personal and professional. But she hesitates. “I’ll even carry your sign,” he adds, trying to be playful.

  Without a word, she hands him the sign. MEECH LAKE NO! CHARLOTTETOWN NO! SOVEREIGNTY YES!

  He takes it from her and tucks it under his arm.

  “You have to carry it,” she says, “and wave it around as we walk.”

  He’s willing to do this for her—he’s not sure why. He holds it up like he’s picketing, and she smiles triumphantly as they set off along Rue Joly de Lotbinière toward the old town.

  He realizes as he’s walking alongside her that, in spite of the separatist sign she’s forcing him to carry and the fact that she told him to piss off the first time they met, he’s in a great mood. The sun feels warmer; the fall foliage seems more vibrant, the cobblestone streets more enchanting.

  “This part of Quebec City always reminds me of those miniature Christmas villages,” he says. “You know, with a train going through and the old Dickensian buildings? Like it should be Christmas here twelve months a year.”

  She looks at him but doesn’t say anything. Her silence makes him feel like a blathering idiot. What the hell is she thinking? She’s young to be so poised, so confident.

  When they turn onto Rue St. Jean, a group of young French guys catch sight of his sign and start high-fiving him in solidarity, shouting, “Quebec libre! Quebec libre!”

  Véronique is laughing.

  “Quebec libre!” he says back to them, fist-bumping one of the guys. Why not? She seems to like it. She’s having a good time at his expense.

  “It suits you,” she tells him. “Being a nationalist.”

  They come to the Pub St. Alexandre, and James stops. “I used to come here when it was still the Taverne Coloniale,” he says. “I was the National Assembly reporter in the mid-eighties.”

  He can hear himself trying to impress her and realizes it just makes him sound old. She would have been thirteen or fourteen back then. “I know I’m old,” he admits, not bothering to mention the stints he did in Tehran in ’88 and Panama in ’89.

  He holds the door open for her and they enter the pub. It’s exactly what you’d expect of a tavern in the old town—exposed brick walls, leather banquettes, carved pillars, and wooden tables. The only touch of modernity is the wall of international beers behind the dark mahogany bar.

  They grab a seat in the banquette. He orders a Guinness, and she orders St-Ambroise.

  “So what do you do?” he asks her. “You’re here on a weekday.”

  “I do bookkeeping for my uncle. The hours are flexible.”

  There’s a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

  “A bookkeeper? Really?”

  She folds her arms on the table and cocks her head. She’s playing with him, like he’s one of those annoying jingly balls that cats push around with their paws.

  A Pearl Jam song comes on, and Véronique’s eyes light up. “I love this song,” she says, sounding more her age. “Do you know Pearl Jam?”

  “I’m thirty-one,” he reminds her. “Not seventy.”

  She jumps up and asks the bartender to make it louder. He does. Smitten, no doubt. Back at the table, she sings along in terrible English. “‘Son, she said, ’ave I got a little story for you . . .’”

  She’s adorable. Those lips.

  “Do you play pool?” she asks him.

  “I play.” He waits a beat. “Is that a challenge?�
��

  The pool table is on the second floor. She breaks, impressively. He’s suddenly nervous. His palms feel sticky. He imagines taking such a bad shot that the ball bounces off the table and rolls.

  He takes his turn and sinks a few, including a bank shot. Nice one, he tells himself. He sneaks a sideways glance at her, to see if she looks impressed. He can’t tell with her.

  When it’s her turn, she takes off her plaid shirt and ties it around her narrow waist. She’s wearing a black tank top underneath. When she bends over the table, he notices a fresh tattoo on her back, right between her shoulder blades. The ink is still black, the skin around it swollen and puckered, red. It’s a fleur-de-lis.

  “You just got a tattoo,” he says, a bit choked up. He’s usually not the least bit open-minded about fate or destiny, but this—it’s hard to dismiss as mere coincidence and not at least consider that her tattoo might be a sign. Sign of what? he thinks. Before he finishes the thought, he stops himself. It’s embarrassing, even if it’s only in his head.

  “I got it last week,” she says.

  “A fleur-de-lis.”

  “Naturally.”

  “My father had the same one,” he says, lowering his eyes, staring at the eight ball until it blurs. Why can’t he look at her?

  “He did? Really?”

  “Yeah. On his arm.” He touches his biceps, remembering.

  “You said ‘had’?”

  When he finally lifts his eyes, her expression has softened. She looks absolutely angelic without her edge. “He died a few years ago,” James says.

  He doesn’t elaborate, just goes back to playing pool. He takes a shot, sinks it. Goes on an impressive run. She doesn’t press him about his father. She seems to understand a person’s pain points. She obviously has her own.