“Understood,” James says, settling in for a long and lively conversation. He can see why Léo Fortin was so revered back in the day. He’s not just some bandwagon fanatic. Imagine what he could have accomplished if he hadn’t gone down the path he did.
Part II
October 1970
OCTOBER
I will join my burning companions whose struggle
breaks and shares the bread of our common lot
in the quicksand huddles of grief
we will make you, Land of Quebec
a bed of resurrections
and a thousand lightning metamorphoses
of our leavens from which the future shall rise
and of our wills which will concede nothing
men shall hear your pulse beating through history
this is us winding through the October autumn
the russet sound of roe-deer in the sunlight
this is our future, clear and committed
—GASTON MIRON, TRANSLATION BY D. J. JONES AND MARC PLOURDE
24
The sky through the small window of their second-floor apartment has quietly turned dark, a languid, moonless blanket over the city. Fall has crept up on them over the last couple of weeks. Léo can’t believe it’s already October. Noticing the sudden absence of daylight in the room, he reaches over and turns on a lamp. The apartment is messy, neglected—empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays on the coffee table, pizza boxes stacked on the floor. An earlier version of their manifesto, with Léo’s notes scribbled across every page, is strewn at his feet. The radio is tuned to CKAC, and they’re listening to that very manifesto being read on the air.
“‘The Liberation Front of Quebec is a group of Quebec workers who are determined to use every means possible to ensure that the people of Quebec take control of their own destiny. We want total independence . . .’”
They’re known as the FLQ: three letters that inspire terror, confusion, pandemonium. There are multiple cells of the FLQ, each one acting on its own, communicating through a network of supporters, under one unifying mission. Last night, one of the other cells kidnapped a British diplomat, James Cross, and as a result, the FLQ is finally getting some serious attention. Which is why their manifesto is getting some airtime tonight.
Léo stubs out his cigarette and immediately rolls another one. He looks over at the other four guys. They’re all serious, dead quiet. The room is a fog of smoke and nervous energy. It’s happening. Goddamn it, it’s finally happening.
“‘Workers of Quebec, take back what belongs to you! Your jobs, your determination, your liberty. Make your own revolution in your neighborhoods, in your places of work. Only you are able to build a free society.’”
They’re asking for what they believe they’re owed, especially in light of what’s been done to their people over the years. They want the release of two dozen political prisoners—among them some of their friends—enough gold to live off, safe transport to Cuba, and the broadcast of their manifesto. But Léo is a skeptic. He doesn’t think the government will cave to all their demands. More will have to be done, this time by their cell. Léo is ready to do whatever it takes. He’s been ready for a long time.
Léo grew up in a dirt-floor apartment in the East End. His father was a foreman at the CN factory, and his mother was a presser at a textile factory. She suffered crippling back pain, the result of having to stand hunched over a pressing table for ten hours a day. Léo stopped school at grade six so he could start working at CN, joining his father as slave labor for the English upper class.
He met Lisette in 1966, when they were nineteen. She was pretty and vibrant, and had also dropped out of school at a young age. He thought she was above cleaning houses for rich Anglos, but with no education, neither of them had ever had any choices.
At that time, Léo was already involved with a political group that had deep French Canadian, working-class roots. These were his people. (He used those words with great reverence, speaking of them in a way that elevated their plight to something noble. His mother’s mangled back was not pitiful but heroic, their lack of education valorous.) To that point, his group’s efforts had been mainly symbolic. Everything that had happened so far in Quebec—specifically the bombings that had killed five people in as many years, gaining some notoriety for the cause—had been the work of the FLQ, a much more radical group.
Léo felt sidelined and ineffectual until a turning point in the summer of 1968. At the St. Jean Baptiste Day parade that summer, a riot erupted between the separatists and the cops, and Léo wound up in jail for throwing a broken bottle at a mounted policeman’s head. He got a taste for violence—he called it “action”—and it made him feel purposeful, so he left his group and joined the FLQ. His politics quickly flamed into fanaticism; he was involved in the bombings at Dominion Square, the Montreal Chamber of Commerce, and Eaton’s department store. Everything he did was with the clarity of focus that comes from living by your convictions and being willing to go to any lengths. He never wanted to hurt another human being—he wasn’t a monster—but the alternative was the status quo, and that was no longer acceptable.
When the radio announcer finishes reading the manifesto, Léo turns it off and they all sit in silence for a while. He’s a little drunk and he can’t remember the last time he slept. He downs his beer, fingers wrapped tightly around the bottle neck, smoke wafting from the collection of cigarettes in the ashtray. He’s aware of Lisette watching him from the kitchen. She looks nervous. He looks away.
“They’ve broadcast the manifesto on the radio,” one of the guys says. “Let’s see what else they offer.”
The next night, October 8, the manifesto is read on television, another attempt to placate the FLQ without really giving them anything meaningful. The news anchor reads in a somber tone, reflective, he says, of the mood of the province. When he finishes, Léo stands up, even more pissed off.
“They’re not taking us seriously,” he fumes. “They’re not doing enough. The only reason they broadcast the manifesto on TV is because they think it’s so idiotic it’s actually going to discredit us.”
“They’re so goddamn privileged, they have no idea what kind of support we have in this province from our own people.”
“This is a rejection of our demands,” Léo states, pacing around the room. “Trust me, they won’t offer anything else. They’re stalling. The other cell is going to start backing down on these demands one by one. The government is still in total control here.”
“It’s still early,” Bernard says. “Let’s see what happens tomorrow.”
But nothing happens the next day, just more stonewalling. On October 10, at five thirty in the evening, the justice minister holds a press conference on Téléjournal.
Jérôme Choquette represents everything Léo despises about politicians—the perfectly coiffed hair, the buttoned-up suit and tie, the pompous gesticulations, the steady regurgitation of bullshit.
“As a concession to save the life of Mr. James Cross,” Choquette says, facing a frenzy of flashbulbs and microphones, “the federal government has informed me that they will offer safe passage out of the country for the kidnappers only, but not for the twenty-three prisoners in question.”
“Arrogant shit!”
“To be clear,” Choquette continues, “the federal government will not release any of the political prisoners mentioned in the FLQ communiqué, since they are not political prisoners at all, as the FLQ would have you believe. They are convicted terrorists charged with murder and attempted murder in numerous bombings.” He pauses and looks directly into the camera—right at Léo—with a smug grin. “The FLQ’s demands are preposterous and far-fetched, and there will be no further negotiations.”
“Screw them,” Léo cries, turning off the TV, not even waiting until the end of the speech. “So that’s it then.” He takes a long, deep drag from the nub of his homemade cigarette. “They’d rather let the diplomat die than address our ‘p
oor people’ problems.”
“Léo’s right,” Paul says. They’re all still camped out on Léo’s couch—Paul, Jacques, Bernard, Francis—where they’ve been for days, waiting for something to happen. Now it looks like they’re going to have to make something happen.
“We need to do what we talked about,” Francis says. “Something that will show them we’re serious. They don’t think the FLQ will follow through with any of these threats. And frankly, the other cell might not.”
“We need to hit them harder,” Léo concurs, his entire body throbbing with adrenaline. “Another kidnapping. We need to show them our manifesto wasn’t just theoretical bullshit,” he says. “It’s time to walk the walk. We need to show the people that they don’t have to settle for welfare and unemployment. This is our obligation to them.”
“I have to put the baby down,” Lisette murmurs, rushing from the room.
Léo waits a few minutes and then follows after her.
“You’re leaving us,” she says.
He nods gravely.
“Are you sure you have to do this? What about Véronique?”
“She’s six months old. She won’t even know I’m gone.”
“I will.”
“We’ve come too far to stop now,” he says. “I want to show our people that progress is possible, that we can use our pain and poverty and triumph over it. You know I was always meant to do this. Remember where we come from, Lise. I don’t want our daughter to ever know that life.”
Lisette nods solemnly. He lifts her chin and kisses her hard on the mouth.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“Léo, why does it have to be you? Can’t you leave this to the others? You’re a father now.”
“All the more reason for me to do this,” he says. “So that Véronique has a better life than we did.”
Lisette lights a cigarette from the pack she keeps in her bedside drawer. She smokes Du Mauriers, never hand-rolled like the men. “I hate being sidelined like this,” she says. “Trapped in the apartment by myself.”
“I need you here.”
“I used to contribute. Bonnie and Clyde, remember? Now I’m just a fetcher of beer and sandwiches. Waiting around.”
“Your job is being a mother to our daughter.”
There’s a tumult of noise outside the bedroom—the men collecting their things, finishing their beer, plotting and strategizing in adrenaline-charged voices.
“I have to go,” he says softly. He stands up, wipes away her tears with his fingertips. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. I love you.”
She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look up.
The next day, they drive in silence all the way to the South Shore. No music, no conversation. Jacques is driving; Bernard is next to him in the passenger seat. Léo is squeezed into the back with Paul and Francis, staring out the window like he’ll never see the trees or the sky or the outside world again. His muscles are taut, his breath shallow. In front of him, he can see Bernard’s neck vein pulsing.
The six p.m. deadline to meet their demands has officially come and gone. Earlier, they went out and bought wigs and fake moustaches. Bernard is dressed like a hippie now, the rest of them as businessmen in trench coats and fedoras, wire-rimmed glasses and moustaches. If they weren’t all so goddamn scared, it would be funny.
They chose Pierre Laporte, the labor minister, mostly at random from a list of politicians. He makes sense because he’s the one directly responsible for the exploitation of the Québécois. He also happens to live in St. Lambert, just over the Jacques Cartier Bridge in Montreal’s South Shore, which is very convenient. They looked him up in the phone book, and he was listed, like any ordinary person. Léo called his house, and the wife answered, said he was home but not available. Just like that. Léo and the guys were stupefied. It seemed impossible they would be so careless. She may as well have invited them over for tea.
They waited until six p.m. for the press conference, quietly hoping they wouldn’t have to go through with the plan. For all Léo’s bravado, it’s not his first choice to kidnap someone and put his own life in jeopardy. But the deadline passed and Léo is a man of his word.
He gazes out at the St. Lawrence River as they cross the bridge, wondering if he’ll ever see his wife and daughter again. He feels completely alone, even though his four closest friends are right here with him. It’s a strange feeling, being on the cusp of committing a crime of this scope. It’s a hell of a lot more terrifying than bombing an empty building.
Kidnapping a man is different. It’s using a human being as a bargaining chip. Léo is not doing this lightly. He’s gone over it again and again, but he justifies it by reminding himself that the people in power—the people who have always been in power—have even less regard for human life than the FLQ. Haven’t they shown their indifference for far too long? They’ve never had any regard for his life.
“Maybe they’ll change their minds,” he says, his gaze still transfixed to the river as they cross into the South Shore.
“You think the government is going to change its mind and release our guys?” Bernard laughs, craning his neck to look back at Léo. “Come on, man. Get serious.”
“Let’s see what happens when we kidnap another one of theirs,” Francis says. Léo is suddenly aware of how young he is, how young they all are.
“So we know what we’re doing?” Paul asks.
“We get inside his house and hold him there until the police surround us,” Léo says. “Just like we planned. The media and the reporters will show up, and that’s when we’ll start negotiating with them. The cops won’t have to look for us anymore. We’ll be right there in front of them.”
The guys all nod, and then fall silent. If only it goes that smoothly, Léo thinks.
When they reach St. Lambert, Bernard follows the streets he took earlier today on a practice run. It’s a short drive from the bridge to Pierre Laporte’s house. When they turn onto Robitaille Street, Bernard gasps. “Holy shit. That’s him.”
“Where?”
“Jesus Christ,” Jacques says. “He’s playing football with someone in the middle of the goddamn street.”
“Now what?”
“We grab him and throw him in the car,” Léo says, thinking fast.
“And then what?”
“We’ll take him to the house in St. Hubert,” he says, sounding more confident than he feels. “Move fast.”
They all reach for their guns and fling open their cars doors. It’s surreal. Léo isn’t in his body anymore. “Just get him inside the goddamn car as quickly as possible.”
Jacques barely comes to a full stop as Bernard and Paul jump out of the Chevrolet, followed by Francis and Léo. Laporte is in the middle of the street, tossing a football with a teenage boy.
Léo raises his machine gun, and the others follow. Nothing was really planned, so they’re all going on instinct. The teenage boy notices them and starts to approach, but Léo turns his machine gun on him. “Don’t fucking move!” he screams.
The kid stops, terrified. Bernard points his gun at Laporte as Paul grabs him by the arms, drags him to the car, and throws him down on the floor of the back seat. The others pile in, and Paul grinds his knee into Laporte’s back to keep him from getting up.
“Go!” Léo cries, and Jacques speeds off, screeching around the corner. Léo pulls the scarf from around his neck and blindfolds Laporte.
After a few minutes of silence, the shock breaks and they all explode. Swearing and yelling, releasing tension. They light smokes. “We did it! Goddamn it, we did it.”
Laporte doesn’t say a word, doesn’t try to move or escape.
“You’re going to drop me off in a few blocks,” Léo tells Jacques. “I’ll deliver the communiqué and then join you at the house tomorrow.”
Léo has scribbled a short note claiming responsibility for the kidnapping, and now he has to get it to the media without getting caught.
“What
do we do with him when we get there?” Paul asks him.
“Go in through the garage. Keep him blindfolded and handcuff him to one of the beds. Leave him like that until I get there.”
“Do we feed him?”
“Yeah, you fucking feed him. We’re not trying to kill him.”
Léo takes off his disguise, shoving it all on the floor at his feet, close to Laporte’s face. After a few blocks, Léo gets out of the car and starts walking. He’s nervous as shit, but tries to look casual. He needs to get across the Jacques Cartier Bridge and back to the city before the cops discover Laporte’s been kidnapped and close down access to the bridge in both directions. He flags down a taxi on Victoria Avenue and jumps in. “Downtown,” he says calmly. “Queen Mary.”
The driver nods, not in any rush. He’s eating a hot dog. “You in a hurry?”
“Not at all,” Léo says, smiling. Inside, he’s panicking. His armpits are soaking wet; his heart is racing. He lights a smoke, then another. Chain-smokes the entire way back to the city.
The first thing he needs to do is get a message to the cell that kidnapped James Cross. There has to be at least some level of coordination between them; otherwise the whole thing will come off looking haphazard and amateur—exactly what the government expects of them.
He gets out of the cab and heads up Queen Mary to see a guy named Antoine, the liaison between all the cells. Léo pounds on the door, desperately wanting to get inside and out of sight. A guy answers—a hippie in bell-bottoms with a guitar slung across his chest.
“Antoine?”
The guy nods.
“I’m with the Chénier cell,” Léo says. “I need a safe house.”
Antoine lets him in, offers him a beer.
“I need to get in touch with the Liberation cell,” Léo says, gratefully accepting the beer and dumping half of it down his throat in one gulp. He doesn’t say a word about the kidnapping.
“I don’t know how to get in touch with them,” Antoine says. “They call me when they need to.”
The Forgotten Daughter Page 21