21 Days in October (2 page)

“Nah, I went by Luc's.”

“You weren't hanging around the tavern, eh?”

“Come on, Ma, you know me.”

“That's just it—I know them, the neighbourhood lot, inside out and backwards. Not even a hair on their chins before they're drinkin' beer.”

The boy feels the bitterness in her voice. He wishes she could be proud of him. After all, now that he's working he can help out with the household expenses. But she wanted him to stay in school, to learn English and take a business course. She's told him often enough.

“You'd find a good job with more math and English. You could get out of here, move up the hill. There's nothing but the poor around here, baking in the summer and freezing in the winter in these slums. Drapeau said it: just a lousy neighbourhood that should be torn down. You'd have the chance to get out if you finished school.”

Had his mother always been so bitter? No. When he was little, she had been full of smiles and cheer, singing often. But that was before the two younger boys, the demolitions, and especially her husband's accident. Life had ground down her youth, and with it the joy of being a mother.

Gaétan's father had always worked down at the docks. A bad fall five years before had left him with a broken vertebra, putting an end to his days of carrying heavy loads. The company had found him a temporary position in an office, then sacked him. Since then, it had been difficult to make ends meet.

“Here's my first pay,” he says, changing the subject. “I'm keeping five bucks.”

“I'll finally be able to pay the grocer. So what'll it be, pancake or shepherd's pie?”

“Shepherd's pie.”

The boy sits and bolts down his portion in silence. He doesn't want to talk about the morning's events; it might worry his mother.

“I'll have some more.”

“Your wages will go to ground beef!” she smiles at him. “You'd better get to bed, rest up from your night of work.”

“Nah, I've got things to do.”

“What things? You should get some sleep.”

“My week's over. Don't worry. Tomorrow I'll sleep all day.”

He gets up from the table without waiting for his second helping, takes two slices of white bread and rushes down the stairs.

He feels guilty about leaving his mom standing in the middle of the kitchen. He didn't even say goodbye. But then again, he has his life to live!

Luc is lucky: he might be in jail, but he's no longer under the constant gaze of his mother. Six months earlier, his friend finally moved into the apartment he had spent a year saving up for. He couldn't take living alone with his mother, her watching his every move. One day, not too far in the future, Gaétan hopes, it will be his turn. That's another reason he's started working.

He walks along Dorchester. Four huge cranes stand upright on the other side of the wide boulevard. Three concrete mixer trucks wait in line to fill the wooden formworks. Winter is right around the corner, and the men are working day and night to erect the Radio-Canada tower before all construction stops until spring.

Québec libre!
A new slogan decorates the fence. He likes this one. Now that he's working, he understands how Luc's desire to fight for his language is justified. At Dominion, all the workers are French Canadian and all the bosses are English. The French-speaking foremen speak English to the bosses. Real bootlickers, as his father would say.

He's deep in thought when three army jeeps appear in front of him. They race past at full speed, followed by four trucks covered in camouflage. It feels like a war movie; it's the first time in his life that Gaétan has seen such a parade of army vehicles. The convoy passes under the Jacques-Cartier Bridge and turns left on De Lorimier. He can almost see Colonel Vandervoort ahead—Gaétan has always loved John Wayne's character in
The Longest Day
.

He quickens his pace and turns onto Champlain. Then he's facing the steps that lead to the semi-basement apartment where Luc's mother lives.

“Hello, Madame Maheu!” the boy shouts as he walks in, looking as carefree as he can manage.

Her reaction is immediate.

“Where's Luc?”

It's the first time he's been to see her without his friend. She knows instinctively that something is wrong. The radio crackles in the kitchen, announcing a special program. Mme Maheu tries her best to adjust it. Gaétan takes a chair and sits facing Luc's mother, who motions for him to be quiet, forgetting her question. Both pay close attention.

“
Around four o'clock this morning, the government took exceptional measures when it announ­ced the implementation of the War Measures Act. Seven battalions of the Canadian military were deployed to Québec to protect both the public and government buildings from terrorist activities. Many searches and arrests are pending. The Premier of Québec will hold a press conference in the afternoon.”

Mme Maheu rises to turn off the radio. A heavy silence fills the room. The boy doesn't know where to begin. After a moment, she says:

“It's been on loop for hours now. Reporters are talking about the searches. They're saying the police are stopping anyone and everyone.”

Gaétan nods with a sigh, then briefly recounts the arrival of the police and the arrest of his friend.

“The police were just doing what they were told. But why did they arrest Luc? He's not a terrorist!”

When Gaétan admits that he doesn't understand why, anger flashes in Luc's mother's eyes. As soon as he finishes, she gets up, throws a sweater over her shoulders and heads for the door. Then, she turns back to the boy.

“I'm going to Parthenais. They won't keep my son for long. Coming?”

Gaétan hesitates, surprised by this sudden revolt, but he gets up and follows her. After all, she's right. Luc is innocent. There's been a mistake. They just have to go explain to the police and he'll be let out.

Both walk resolutely up Champlain, then take Ontario to Parthenais Street. Before them rises the massive Sûreté du Québec building, its fifteen floors towering over the neighbourhood houses. It is brand new, huge, and imposing. Halfway up are two floors without windows.

“That's where the prison is,” explains Mme Maheu. “The rest is offices.”

“It sure takes a lot of pencil-pushers to deal with the bandits,” Gaétan says sarcastically.

“It seems like these days they're more interested in the poor than the criminals. I guess they have to get their money's worth and show that it's being put to good use…”

In front of the entrance, a dozen soldiers pace up and down, machine guns in hand. The neighbourhood kids observe them from across the street, impressed by their combat clothing and weapons. They stand frozen between brazenness and fear.

Luc's mother walks up to the front gate. Two soldiers bar her path with their guns. She explains to them that her son has been arrested. That there's been a mistake. That she wants to see their superior. Nothing works—the soldiers don't budge. Mme Maheu runs out of patience and raises her voice.

“Is my son here? I want to know! You've got no right to keep him!”

The two guards remain impassive. Several policemen leave the building. Gaétan doesn't want the situation to get out of hand. He tugs her by the sleeve.

“Come on, Madame Maheu. We can't do anything here; they won't tell us anything. Let's go.”

“I've got a right to know where my son is,” she insists.

“No, ma'am,” one of the policemen snaps back. “It's the War Measures Act. We can keep whoever we want for as long as the investigation takes. There'll be no contact with the prisoners.”

“But my son is innocent.”

“Says you. If he was arrested, there's a reason. Now go.”

“Where's my son?”

“Ma'am, this is the last time I'm telling you. If I take you inside, it won't be to see your son.”

His voice is hard and his gaze unyielding. Madame Maheu can see that all is lost, but she continues to protest.

“Damned mongrels! You heartless bas­tards!”

The guard is no longer concerned with her. He walks over to the gathering group of children.

“Clear out! Go away! There's nothing to see here.”

The soldiers threaten a move towards them, and panicked, the children scatter like a flock of sparrows taking to the air.

The police walk back inside the building. Mme Maheu tries to regain her composure, and Gaétan takes her by the hand.

“Come, I'll walk you back. We can't do anything else here.”

The woman says nothing. But her anger growls, waiting to explode at the first turn.

Gaétan thinks of Luc and how the apple didn't fall far from the tree.

It's almost five o'clock in the afternoon when Gaétan finally gets back home. The living room is packed to the rafters—it looks as if the whole neighbourhood has shown up to watch television at the Simards'.

Gaétan's father is fiddling with the notorious rabbit ears he's cobbled together for the TV, trying to chase the static from the screen.

“That's good, Pierre! Don't move!” says one of the neighbours.

“Hey! I'm not staying like this!”

“If you let go, it goes fuzzy.”

Finally, his father gently places the antenna on the windowsill. The black and white picture suddenly clears up.

“Bravo, Pop!”

“Be quiet, it's going to start! Shh!”

The screen registers the stiff expression of Robert Bourassa, Premier of Québec. Every­one quiets down.

“Over these past few days, events in Québec have proven beyond a doubt that there must be limits to exercising our fundamental rights, at least on some occasions, to ensure the normal functioning of democracy.

“I waited until this limit was reached before calling on Ottawa to invoke emergency powers, but just as the risk of anarchy seemed to take on a new dimension, I decided to act quickly and firmly. It was with a heavy heart that I resorted to extraordinary measures. I had no choice. The FLQ is preparing for a massacre, their fourth step in a predetermined plan.”

A journalist asks how long the measures will be enforced.

“Naturally, it all depends on the results of the intervention, but I hope that the measures will be as short-lived as possible.”

“Unbelievable…our own premier calls up the Canadian army because three nut jobs screwed around. If we get our independence, what then?” his father grumbles.

“Your three nut jobs
did
just kidnap a diplomat and a minister,” replies a neighbour.

“A dirty scoundrel working with the mafia.”

“Whoa, Pop, you with the FLQ? Careful, or they'll come after you,” laughs Gaétan.

“Watch what you say,” his mother murmurs, distressed.

The press conference is over, and now they are showing soldiers on duty in front of government buildings.

“That's City Hall! They're scared that we'll come after Drapeau,” sneers his father. “They're smart to protect him!”

“I say he should be scared, the bastard! I won't cry for his lot. He destroys our neighbourhood and we're supposed to make nice? At any rate, he won't get my vote, that guy,” says another neighbour.

“Kidnapping people, it's ridiculous,” mutters his mother.

“And what for? We're just a bunch of cowards. Look at Bourassa, he went crying to Trudeau for help. Can't even take care of his own business himself.”

“Pierre, don't be ridiculous! We're talking about two men's lives. Imagine their families.”

“And us, our families, when we're out of work and run out of our neighbourhood, who cares then?”

The tension rises and Gaétan knows it'll end badly once again. That's why he doesn't get involved in politics. Gaétan's father has a short fuse and there's always an argument on the other end. Since he lost his job at the port, he blames the whole world.

The room begins to clear out. Gaétan's father and three neighbours decide to move the discussion to the tavern, much to the relief of his wife. The children go back to playing in the lane.

“I'm going to bed,” Gaétan tells his mother. “I'm beat.”

He's decided not to say anything about Luc's arrest. There's been enough bickering for one day.

G
aétan is woken violently by his father's shouting. The two bunk beds are empty. His brothers are nowhere to be seen. He didn't hear them go to bed or get up. It's light outside. He's definitely slept around the clock.

He can hear a nasal voice coming from the television.

The kidnappers could have abducted anyone: you, me, or even a child…

Who is saying such things? The boy pulls on a t-shirt and jeans and makes his way into the living room. His father is already on the couch, a beer resting between his knees.

“Can you believe this? The idiot that's supposed to be governing us decided to frighten everyone. He's saying we might have an uprising on our hands.”

Gaétan recognizes Trudeau in the centre of the small screen. In his cold and cutting voice, the Prime Minister of Canada is defending his decision to invoke the War Measures Act.

“
Tomorrow, the victim might be a bank manager, a farmer, a child…”

“He doesn't know what he's talking about! The FLQ is going after the politicians, not just anyone.”

“You know them, Pop?”

“No, but I know a bunch of guys who're damned worked up. They're frustrated by the lack of progress. Last election, the PQ won hardly any seats compared to the votes they had. It's just like Lévesque said; we're in a madhouse and they're laughing at us. We're sick of always having to go crawling to Ottawa.”

Gaétan can't handle his father's tantrums. But the haughty, arrogant, insensitive man who's speaking on the television irks him even more. He has the look of a snake, and Gaétan has no idea where he gets all those well-turned sentences—certainly not from the
Faubourg à m'lasse
.