21 Days in October (9 page)

“Leave me alone. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Get up. Follow us into the kitchen. We have some questions to ask you.”

As he speaks, the man switches on the overhead light. Blinded, Gaétan closes his eyes and then opens them again slowly. He's stunned. At the end of the bed, three police officers are staring at him.

I
t's been twenty-four hours!

Gaétan is sitting in a corner of his white-walled cell. Alone.

LWM23.

Left wing, mezzanine, cell 23.

He never, ever would have imagined he'd end up in the Parthenais jail. Why did he decide to go sleep at Luc's? It's two weeks later, almost to the hour, and now he's in the same predicament as his friend.

And he'd promised his brothers he'd spend Halloween with them … He's always loved trick-or-treating! Patrick is going as a cowboy and Richard as Zorro. On top of everything, he'd invited Louise to join them. What would she think when he didn't show up at the Chat Noir? He'll be standing her up again.

The silence surrounding Gaétan is strange. He almost misses his brothers' shouts and the racket of the factory. This silence is broken only by the slamming and creaking of metal doors.

When he got to Parthenais, a police officer took fingerprints of his five fingers. Then Gaétan had been searched, finding himself stark naked in front of a stranger for the first time in his life. An impassive guard asked him to spread his legs and bend over. The boy did as he was told, biting his lips until they bled from humiliation. He couldn't believe that he was being treated like a criminal. The guard handed him his prison uniform: a brown shirt, grey pants, and boots, all too big for him.

Immediately afterwards, he had been inter­­rogated by two police officers in a small office harshly lit with a neon light. One of them typed out his responses with two fingers.

“Family name?”

“Simard.”

“First name?”

“Gaétan.”

“Address?”

“1307 rue Sainte-Rose, Montréal.”

“Occupation?”

“Spinner at Dominion Textile.”

“Nationality?”

“French Canadian. No,
Québécois
!”

“Don't be a smart ass,” replied the officer.

Gaétan was scared stiff, sitting up straight on the metal chair facing these two men who were looking him over head to toe with all their arrogance.

He had told them the truth. But that hadn't been enough for them. They had decided to let him mull things over in a cell, confident that his memory would return and that they would get what they wanted.

Was he a member of the FLQ? What did he think of all the political violence? Did he know a certain Francis Simard or a Jacques Rose?

The questions seemed utterly ridiculous to him. He kept repeating that he had seen those names for the first time in the newspaper a few days earlier, that there was no family connection to Francis Simard, that he was just a factory worker at Dominion Textile.

On the wall above the desk, next to a map of Montréal, a poster with four headshots read:
$150,000 reward for any information leading to the arrest of Francis Simard, Paul Rose, Jacques Rose, Marc Carbonneau
.

Just like in the westerns!

Alone in his cell, he has time to rehash everything. He thinks about his great-grandfather. He thinks about the mansions in Westmount. He thinks about his father, about Louise, about the others being held in here like him, for no reason. Maybe Luc is in one of these cells, not far from him. But he doesn't dare call out.

A squeaky trolley makes its way over to his cell. A guard, flanked by two officers, opens the door and hands him his lunch.

“I'll come by to pick it up in twenty minutes,” he says, almost mechanically.

Gaétan takes the tin plate. There are four slight depressions to hold food. The sauce spills over onto everything; the bread is soaked, and the jello swims in the water from the beans that haven't been properly drained. The boy sets his tray down on the ground, disgusted, and goes back to sitting in his corner.

A guard drags his keys against the cell doors, a noisy way to announce his arrival and annoy the prisoners. His footsteps approach. To Gaétan, it seems that the jailer enjoys prolonging the prisoners' agony. Everyone is wondering which door he will stop at. And when someone is brought in, it's never clear if it's for an interrogation or for release.

This time, it's his turn.

“Let's go!”

As always, the guard is flanked by two officers. The small troop walks down the corridor in silence. Gaétan glances furtively into each of the cells, hoping to recognize Luc, who must be somewhere in this building.

A metal door opens onto a small room, identical to the one where he had his first interrogation. Gaétan's stomach drops.

“Family name? First name?”

“Here we go again,” thinks the boy, trying his best to answer their questions regardless.

“What were you doing at Luc's house?”

Gaétan can't hold back a smirk.

“I was sleeping.”

“Why didn't you go back to your own house? Were you planning on meeting someone?”

“I just wanted to sleep in peace. I didn't want my parents asking me questions.”

“What kinds of questions? About your terrorist activities?”

“That's ridiculous! I already told you, I'm just a factory worker at Dominion. I dropped out of school and I need my paycheque. I'm not crazy.”

“Watch it! We've been keeping our eye on Luc Maheu's apartment for the past week. We're concerned with the comings and goings of a suspect named Paul Dupuis. Then we saw you pass through the back lane several times. Don't tell us it wasn't to go see him!”

The boy feels trapped.

“What is the relationship between Paul and Luc?”

“I don't really know Paul. He's just helping Luc with union stuff.” The boy feels like the more he tells the truth, the less they will believe him.

“Did you know that Paul Dupuis has a police record?”

“…”

“What else do you know about Paul Dupuis?”

“Nothing. He's just a union leader.”

“Why are you defending him?”

“I'm not defending him, I'm telling you what I know.”

After two more hours of questioning, Gaétan is taken back to his cell. He walks mechanically, eyes straight ahead, not even trying to get a glimpse at the other prisoners.

He sits down on the side of the bed, completely defeated. He quietly tries to gather his thoughts and realizes that if he isn't released before tomorrow night, he won't be able to get to work on time. He'll lose his job. His mother won't be able to count on his wages to make ends meet. In a burst of energy, he pushes himself up and bangs on the door in a fit of rage.

“Goddammit! Let me out! I didn't do anything!”

“Calm down, kid! We didn't do anything either, and we've been here for two weeks. Get a grip. They'll let us out eventually. Save your energy.”

His whole world is falling apart. It's like he's in a car driving a hundred miles an hour towards a wall. He can't control anything anymore. He can see his life slipping through his fingers.

The boy bursts into tears.

Suddenly, he hears the voice of the prisoner in the next cell. He sounds serious. This man could undoubtedly be his father. He listens.

“Keep your head high, my boy. Gotta be patient. This is all just a little bad luck to shake our will. They're betting that we're gonna leave here frightened. Even if you're here for no reason, don't give them the chance to humiliate you. Don't show 'em your weaknesses. Keep it all inside.”

A ball of paper lands at his feet. He unfolds it and tries to read the cramped handwriting.

you need to understand

that freedom

is like breathing

it's only natural

you need to understand

that dignity

must overturn laws

when laws are disgraceful

the way is before us

simple as a path

the way is before us

waiting to be taken

And at the very bottom:

you need to understand

that the worst is over

and the best is yet to come

LWM21
^*

*
Free translation of a poem by Michel Garneau written while he was in prison.
AGM21
ce qu'il faut comprendre
c'est que la liberté
c'est comme le respir
c'est la moindre des choses
ce qu'il faut comprendre
c'est que la dignité
doit renverser les lois
quand les lois sont indignes
le chemin est devant nous
simple comme un sentier
le chemin est devant nous
il attend qu'on le prenne
ce qu'il faut comprendre c'est que la vraie justice doit abolir les codes

I
t's been forty-eight hours!

The bells in the neighbourhood churches are calling the 11 o'clock mass. Curled up on the narrow iron bed that is fixed to the floor, clutching the ball of paper in his fist, he finally falls asleep.

Two pieces of toast and a cold coffee bring him back to reality. It's a painful return. Gaétan sits motionless on the edge of his bed. He no longer struggles. He waits. He admires the blue sky from his tenth-storey window. It's a shame he can't see the city. From here, he would have quite the view of his neigh­­bourhood.

Suddenly, a guard opens the door. Gaétan didn't hear him coming. The police officers, constantly accompanying the guard, order him to get his things.

“Where are we going?”

“Hurry up!”

They march the length of the corridor in silence. A door opens, another door closes. A shiver runs down Gaétan's back. The hope he had when he was first let out begins to fade. The turnkey's silence bothers him. Not another interrogation! A door opens; another door closes. They stiffly turn down another corridor.

They leave him alone in a small white-walled room. He stands waiting for five, ten, fifteen minutes.

Two other police officers take over without a word. Their disregard for him is unbearable. They lead him from one room to the next without saying a thing.

They are in front of an elevator. They walk in and take it down several floors. The door opens. Gaétan can sense that they are in the basement. They walk through a half-empty parking lot.

Gaétan can hardly breathe. His heart sinks.

They enter another room with a small booth at the far end. He has to give his name and cell number. In exchange, the booth operator hands him a box. The boy opens the lid. Inside are his clothes.

Relief washes over him.

He's free to go!

One of the police officers heads back the way they came without commenting. The other one tells Gaétan to get dressed. He must do it there. Modesty will just have to wait.

“Sign!”

He does, without even taking the time to read the form. The officer accompanies him to a small metal door. He opens it.

The sun burns Gaétan's eyes. The door clicks shut behind him.

He takes a deep breath, a “breath of freedom,” as the poet wrote on the piece of paper that Gaétan has carefully slipped into his pocket.

He feels like jumping for joy and shouting.

He walks along Parthenais Street. Passersby walk on as if nothing had happened, without any idea that he has just spent the past forty-eight hours in jail. Life goes on.

He rushes to Louise's apartment.

He bounds up the porch steps two by two. When he opens the door, he is met with the loud sounds of violent rock music. A strange group is gathered in the dining room. Sitting on cushions, they are listening to Jimi Hendrix's
Hey Joe
religiously. Gaétan doesn't see Louise. He crouches down near the guy he recognizes from the other day.

“Have you seen Louise?”

The boy stares back at him blissfully. Gaétan shakes him out of his trance. He eventually puts together a few words.

“I'm not her mother. You wanna puff? It's good stuff!”

Gaétan is exasperated.

“I just want to know if she'll be back soon.”

“Lay back, man. It shouldn't be long.”

“Do you have anything except air between your ears?”

“Whoa, no need for insults! If you wanna stay straight, it's your business. Louise sure goes out with some real weirdoes,” he mumbles, letting himself fall back into the cushions.

Gaétan doesn't answer. He steps over a body or two and opens the door of Louise's room. Two girls are sleeping on the bed, but there's no sign of Louise. The smell of marijuana fills the room. He turns and walks out of the apartment.

He sits on the steps, sulking. He definitely does not like this place.

Suddenly, he can see the large black cape at the corner of Berri. He rushes over to her, forgetting his frustrations.

“What happened to you?”

The boy starts to tell her about his time in Parthenais.

“Wait, you were in jail? You have to tell me about it!”

Gaétan makes a face.

“There are too many people in your bed.”

“That's true!” she says, laughing. “We partied pretty late last night.”

“They're pretty messed up.”

“Let me drop off the milk and the croissants and we can go grab a coffee at the Fontaine à Johannie. Wait for me, I'll be back soon.”

Starving, Gaétan devours a hot dog doused in ketchup, just like he likes them, and tells Louise all about his forty-eight hours in jail. The girl listens to him admiringly as she sips her coffee. In her eyes, Gaétan is no longer quite the same boy she met a few days before. He has become the hero of an exciting story. Gaétan lays it on thick.

When he's done, Louise tells Gaétan that she spent Halloween with his brothers.