River City (77 page)
“Father, where were you the night that Roger Clément was murdered?”
The priest looked at him, his eyes level, his expression indicating neither surprise nor concern about the question. “I guess you have your duty to perform.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
The older man sighed. “I was nearby, relatively. Attending the riot.” An odd choice of word, Cinq-Mars thought—
attending.
“Did anyone see you?”
“Thousands.”
“Anyone you might remember? Who might remember you. Corroborate.” “Émile, you’re more insulting by the minute. Are you aware of that?” “Sorry, Father. I have to ask everyone I interview. I’m to build a file.” He sighed again. “I had a conversation three blocks from where Roger was killed, in Phillips Square, during a brawl between the police and demonstrators.” “Do you recall with whom?”
“Pierre Elliott Trudeau. He’s somewhat well known now.” Once more, he looked squarely at the young man. “At the time, he wasn’t our prime minister. I’m convinced that I was one of the first to discern his potential.”
Cinq-Mars stood again, this time to leave. “If anything comes to you that may help us, that perhaps you’ve forgotten for now, please don’t hesitate to call.”
Father François breathed heavily, and stood as well. “Émile, if you decide to marry the girl, I hope that you’ll think of me for the wedding.”
Although the remark was intended as a pleasantry, neither took sufficient notice to smile.
Anik was not amused. “You went to see Father François? Why?”
Cinq-Mars enjoyed the sombre, poor, elegance of her mother’s place. The patina of the home had acquired what convention termed
character,
but he often experienced an inherent grace. In its every nook and cranny, the house spoke to a sense of perseverance.
“Who told you that?” he asked.
“He did.” She and the priest were lifelong friends—he would have to keep that in mind. Anik was cross with him, brittle, and he didn’t know why. Her dog, given to her by Mayor Houde and named after one of her father’s
old teams, collapsed upon her feet, a ruse to encourage her out of the house. “Émile, what are you up to?”
“Doing my job. You know I’m working the case.”
“I gave you information from a deathbed confession.”
“So? I didn’t tell him that. I wouldn’t.”
“But—it’s why you went to him. Admit it!” “I don’t see the problem.”
“Émile! Admit it.”
“What’s to admit? What’s the big deal?”
“You’re using me. That’s the big deal.”
“I’m not using you.” But he had his own doubts. “How am I using you?”
She released a noisy, frustrated sigh and moved away from him—first to the hall, then down to the kitchen where she collected a beer from the fridge and slammed the door shut with a sharp poke of her hip. Ranger nearly had his nose squished. Émile lazed in behind her and leaned against the jamb, hands in his pants pockets. She cracked off the cap.
“Anik, I’m investigating your dad’s death. We’re on the same side here.” Taking a swig from the bottle, she slightly contorted her body, which seemed to concede the point. “One of the things I’m
assigned
to do is talk to anybody who might have known anything—”
“Father François wasn’t in the park,” she burst out.
“He was three blocks away.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“He told me. That’s not very far away.”
Upset, she pushed past him and returned to the living room, where she slumped onto the sofa. He reappeared and sat opposite her. “What’re you saying?” “Calm down. I’ll explain.”
“Just fucking explain it,” she told him, and started scratching on the label of her bottle. “I don’t have to fucking calm down.”
“Father François knows everyone involved. Your dad. Your mom. Houde.”
“I know them, too. So interrogate me. Ask
me
where I was that night. Or have you been doing that secretly, you shit? Do you browse through my closets when I’m not looking?”
“I know where you were. You were a kid at home. Will you let me finish?”
“Finish.”
He released tension by blowing air out of his lungs, like a whale surfacing. “Father François also knew Pierre Trudeau back then. He still does. He was involved in the de Bernonville affair, as was your mother, working to have the man deported back to France to face war crimes charges. He either worked politically with the people involved or found himself aligned against them. He knew all the players. He also knows, because you told me, that Trudeau acquired the knife. Now, he could have told me that in our conversation the other day, but he chose not to do so.”
“He’s a priest!” she burst out. “He can’t talk about confessions.”
“Houde didn’t confess that part. Houde wanted to know if a transaction for the dagger had occurred. Father François was in on that part, Anik. Face it.”
She held her hands apart, yelling at him as if trying to berate the wall behind him, the beer bottle in one hand as though she might throw it. “He wasn’t in on it. He just happened to know about it.”
“Knowing about it means he was in on it. In some way.”
“Oh, balls!”
“It’s my job to ask questions. He’s key. It’s not because I know you.” “It
is
because you know me! I trusted you, Émile. The only reason I told you about Trudeau and the dagger is because we sleep together.” “Occasionally.”
“What? What was that? A complaint?”
“You’re out a lot, that’s all. It’s not a complaint. That’s just how it is.” “Hello? Who here works the night shift? Who plays detective on his days off?” “Okay, okay.”
“So, what’s your complaint?”
“It’s not a complaint. I’m not complaining.”
She sighed heavily again. Having lifted the edges of her beer label, she ripped it clean off, dropping the debris beside her on the sofa. “Just spit it out, Émile.”
He sighed, too. “You’re out a lot, that’s all.” “That’s not all. Say what’s on your mind for once.”
He had a notion to do that, but he found the going difficult. “Your friends don’t like me much.”
“You
are
a cop. It comes with the territory.” “I’m not so crazy about them, either.”
That made her think. “True. They talk about overthrowing the government. In that situation, you’d have to shoot them, right? Won’t that be fun for you?”
Their quick smiles acknowledged that their differences felt odd, even to them.
Ranger’s nails were clicking on the kitchen floor as he paced in circles. “I wonder,” Émile said. “Did your mom and dad have conversations like this?”
Often Anik wondered something similar. According to her mom, Roger didn’t often voice contrary opinions. He just made sure that he knew which strike she was supporting that day.
“I’m not very confident,” Anik said quietly, slowly, measuring her words, “if I can live with our disparities as well as they did.”
“Anik—”
“Let’s just … I don’t know.” She inhaled. “Take a breather.” “Anik—come on. It’s not that bad. We can work this through.” “Can we?” She sipped her beer, but could scarcely taste it. Her chin quavered. “I’m not so sure. For now, Émile, for today at least, I need room.” “What are you saying?”
“Nothing—definitive. I’m just saying, I’d like to be alone today.”
This was hurting. Émile accepted her resolve and crossed the room to kiss her. Their lips touched lightly. When he left the room, and the house, and shut the door behind him, he felt as sad as the rain beginning to fall. She hadn’t said so, but this felt terminal. An ache pestered his back. He wanted to turn, to see if she had come out to watch him go, but he could not fully twist himself around. He didn’t know what to say that would be new or beneficial, so he walked on.
All day, the part of him that was a policeman wanted to ask why she had cried the day she ran from the old mayor’s house after hearing his final confession. She’d made a point of telling him that. She had wept uncontrollably. Was
it the old mayor’s imminent death causing her to weep? Or had she overheard something she had yet to reveal? Émile would become cross with himself, for always he faced this dilemma. Was he her boyfriend or her inquisitor? He supposed, as he took the corner and looked to see if a bus was in sight, that Anik probably had to struggle with the same issue.
The nature of the question seemed to carry its own response.
From the living-room window, Anik watched him go, stopping herself from rushing out and offering an umbrella. Ranger wanted to dash out, too, but she squeezed him to her side and rubbed behind his ears. “Later,” she said. “Soon.” This hurt. She felt awash, sad, unable to determine what to do next. She went through to her room and plopped down on the bed. She hugged herself, then her dog. A while later, she napped. Waking, she knew she had somewhere to go, people to see. Time for a quick bath and a change of clothes, a scoot around the block with her pet, then she’d be off. Another late night. Which is what Émile resented—the late nights made him suspicious. As she dressed, her sadness weighing upon her, she wondered if she’d be coming home that night. She’d leave her mother the usual note, advising her not to wait up. Her mom would think she’d be sleeping at Émile’s, but she wasn’t planning on it. And if she didn’t sleep there, or here, that might at least resolve a few matters in her life. Or, if not resolve them, abruptly end the discussion.
“Okay,” she told her dog, “we’ll do better than around the block.” She locked eyes with Ranger. “The park!”
The terrier jumped three feet.
Hours later, her usual bar was lively as she entered. Parallel to a brick wall, a long table was crowded with young people. Others pressed in close, standing with their beers in hand. Anik tried to get near to see the principals, going around to one side and elbowing her way through the throng until she could catch a friend’s attention. When she did so, she was signalled to the table. A spot had been held for her. Dozens of young people looked her up and down, wondering why she was important. The older man at the table had seen her coming, and signalled others to move, and after this sport of musical chairs had played out, the free seat that awaited her now appeared, magically, beside his.
Anik squeezed her way through. She smiled at the man. He kissed her on both cheeks before continuing with his general conversation. He was addressing the group, and the young people listened, enchanted, enthralled. This was the second such gathering. At the first one, Anik and the politician had hit it off, unexpectedly for her. She listened, evaluating. Could it be possible? Could they really create an independent country for their people? Could a way be found? And she thought about Émile, wondering how they had come to love one another when that love felt impossible. If Émile were here, he’d be arguing each point. He would not sit in thrall, basking in the glory of the moment.
What’s up with me?
Was she destined to inhabit a relationship similar to that of her parents, and shouldn’t that be an ugly thought, or at least off-putting? Had she been searching for a man who could attract her, yet whose politics were opposite her own? Wasn’t that unfair to everyone? She wondered if she shouldn’t go home, or over to Émile’s, rather than carry on into the wee hours in this rapt discussion and into the arms, perhaps, of this renegade, magnetic leader, for that was the danger, even now, as his hand delicately touched her knee, her thigh, her wrist, for she had yet to pull away from him. She watched, and listened, and waited, and wondered, and bickered with herself, trying to decide.
O
N THE FIRST DAY OF SEPTEMBER IN 1939, THE PREMIER OF THE
province of Quebec lay sequestered in mid-debauch. He declined to be distracted by the news that Hitler had invaded Poland. Over the next few days, he maintained his public silence on world events. Not an uncommon tactic. Let others surrender their positions, then see what voids remained for him to wisely inhabit. Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King had backtracked on his longstanding rhetoric and declared that Canada would fight on the side of Great Britain, and the House of Commons was called to address the issue on the fourth.
Duplessis, nonplussed, drank on.
He had retreated to a room in the Château Frontenac, high above the St. Lawrence River. To ease a vexatious spirit, he had invited a series of consorts to pass through his suite. Business and news were periodically brought to him, which he perused while the damsel of the day bathed or took a nap.
Then King invoked the War Measures Act.
Officially, King’s premise was the defence of the nation in the aid of France and Great Britain against Germany’s aggression, yet the first casualties of his legislation were the premier of Quebec and, by extension, the bombastic mayor of Montreal, Camillien Houde. These were his true political foes. He needed them out of the way to properly conduct a military campaign. He could not rally the nation if two adversaries, each of whom enjoyed strong populist sentiment, were strategically aligned against him. So he went after their Achilles’ heel: both men were running their governments into bankruptcy. Houde had
the city forty million in debt, and a trio of banks had cut the city off from further advances. Houde had already stated that Quebec should fight on the side of Mussolini, which had helped the banks reach a determination regarding his civic management. Now he was assailing them. “I won’t allow the people to die of starvation to please a pack of bankers.” The pack hardened their hearts and sealed their vaults against him.
Duplessis felt King’s squeeze. He had the option of raising government money in the United States, for Americans were accustomed to many of their own states being in worse fiscal straits than Quebec. The banks had bailed him out in the past, but now the War Measures Act forbade any borrowing by cities or provinces unless approved by the federal government.
All vaults were closed to him. He sent a man to Ottawa to beg funds from the federal government itself, only to be stiffly refused.
The Opposition took heart. Godbout, the Liberal gnat, declared, “With each beat of your heart, Duplessis extends your debt by two bucks!” In the past, the premier could have countered the accusations with wild spending sprees calculated to buy votes. He could have ordered the building of roads or bridges or wharves, but with empty coffers he was stymied, and from his room in his drunken spree he sent notice that he was calling an election for October. When he awoke to sobriety, he discovered that, compounding his dilemma, King had also instituted censorship. Duplessis could not campaign over the radio without first submitting his speech to federal censors, whose red pencils and snipping shears were kept especially sharp for him. His first reaction was to refuse to speak on radio altogether, and to disallow anyone in his party to speak, effectively surrendering the airwaves to the glory of his silent sulk. And to his enemies.
