October 1970 (48 page)

Orange tongues and tufts of smoke leapt up from a pyramid of wood some four feet high between the Mono and the sea. The amps spat out the greatest hits from the seventies, and the fire attracted a bunch of people. Lying on the sand, wild dogs with flea-ridden flanks like washboards snarled at the shadows. Someone came to speak with Gode, and the bottle of mescal, passed from hand to hand, disappeared. Sam found the bar and paid for a few rounds of tequila for Gode and Marie-Québec. She occupied the stool between the two men, softly shimmying to the rhythm of the music.

Sam wanted to talk to Gode about
The Just
.

“Don't start with him,” Marie-Québec told the former FLQer.

“Why?”

“You won't be able to shut him up.”

“S'okay. The night's still young.”

She heard them talking. Her body followed the music.

“We've got all night,” he repeated. “But I thought you were the expert on
The Just
 . . .
”

“I'm an expert in nothing. Except maybe the sun. Or a drop of water on an inch of skin. How many bellybuttons can you fill with the sea? That's my specialty.”

Sam jumped to his feet and announced that he was going to go swimming. Gode turned his head a little to look at him, but all he could see was a small print dress suspended on two breasts large as a hand and as firm as mangos that swayed above her stool to the rhythm of the Mamas and the Papas.

Sam barely staggered as he strayed from the bar. He stopped at the fire for a moment, then walked away from the halo and continued to march toward the sea, in the dark.

Gode swallowed his tequila and followed it with a sip of beer, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He felt incredible. Marie-Québec lifted her glass.

“To our projects.”

“Do you know how old I am?”

“Over fifty. I hope you weren't keeping it a secret. You're part of history.”

“Exactly. Over fifty. Too old to tell lies, even for a good cause.”

“And what is it, your cause?”

“You.”

“Okay. And the lie?”

“I'm a director. I should have added a bankrupt movie producer. But to get into the good graces of an actress, it isn't the best line
 . . .
”

“So your Lynx Productions, it's done?”

“Finished, dead, kaput. Now you can stop talking to me
 . . .
”

They ordered more tequila. Their pesos were vanishing.

“Your boyfriend, I don't know if you know, but I can see him coming a mile off.”

“Really?”

“Really. Writers and scriptwriters, they're a dime a dozen between Carranza and Puerto Madre, and they all come and see me and they all want to know — guess what? They think they can soften me up with their bottles filled with drain cleanser. This place is the asshole of the great plumed serpent.”

Over Gode's shoulder, Marie-Québec could see Sam walking back up the beach, his dripping black and green shorts flattened against his thighs. He was drying his face and hair with his T-shirt. Gode followed her gaze.

“Come with me to Guatemala.”

“I didn't hear that.”

Gode lifted his two large paws to his eyes, as if seeing them for the first time.

“I saw a trapper strangle a lynx with his own hands,” he said, parodying the gesture. “Up there, up north
 . . .
You know what? I think every woman dreams of being caressed by a killer.”

“And that's what you are?”

“That's what the judge said I was.”

Samuel passed them and leaned against the bar.

“A drink,” he demanded.

Soon he was struggling with his small raw leather change purse that he carried on the beach instead of his wallet.

“Um, Sam
 . . .
where's the bottle of mescal gone?”

“Into hardened livers, old chum.”

“No problem, we'll buy some more
 . . .
”

“I'd be surprised if you could buy an entire bottle.”

“Not at the Mono, of course. I mean in some local restaurant, where the Indians sell it in old gas cans on the streets of Oaxaca. The local moonshine. In a shack not too far away from here you can buy it straight from the tap. Just be sure you're ready for it, because despite the crystal meth and all the other crap that's in circulation, it's still the strongest drug around here.”

Gode steadied himself with both hands on the bar and pushed himself to his feet. He laid what he thought was a light hand on Marie-Québec's shoulder, to avoid staggering too much. Straightening, he removed his hand. He and Sam were now face to face.

“I know you want to knock me down in the sand,” Gode managed to say, “but we'll see who falls first.”

“You hear that, Marie?”

“Where are you going?”

“To buy some mescal with Gode.”

GODE

HE'D GIVE EVERYTHING HE OWNS
for her — more than that
— the silence of the trees and every bird's song, the cry of the beasts he so wants to catch, the rustle of the wind in the branches of a forest a million square kilometres wide, to be in bed with her. To awake basking in the light of the peace on her face and to feel her warm breath and the heat of her womanly body.

Instead, he's on a couch in the living room, eyes wide open, awaiting dawn.

And so he climbs into his pants and tiptoes out.

The eastern side of Queen-Mary Road, just before the cemetery gates, is still dark. He takes a deep breath of the cold October air, the burnt orange of the leaves half-masked by darkness, turns left on Decelles, walks by Café Campus, climbs Decelles. The words of some idiotic song run through his head.

What's he doing

What's his beef

Tell me who is he?

He's funny looking

That man

He continues walking and reaches the corner of Côte-Sainte-Catherine, turns right, keeps moving, hands in his pockets, slightly bent over, his chin buried in the neck of his sweater. A bit farther on he catches the eastbound bus: a Sunday-morning bus, after the long Thanksgiving weekend. Inside, it's as quiet as a tomb.

The bus descends the flank of the mountain and Gode climbs out at the corner of Mont-Royal, heading east. He meets a few passersby, early birds, others still half-asleep walking on autopilot, a mix of insomniac maniacs and wound-up homosexuals with one destination in mind: the bushes on the mountain.

And while he carries himself through a field of calculating looks, a singular impression begins to come over him — a vertigo, a desire to scream his lungs out. He feels the nervous city begin to quiver around him, the same city as yesterday, but like new, in his own eyes, having become a place for questions: Who? How? Where?

And he
knows.

And the intoxicating fact that no one else is in his shoes, can see inside his head, propels him out of himself, over himself, and he feels, now, so much more alive.

We won't let ourselves be had

What's he doing

What's his beef

Wait now things are right

Young man

We'll put him behind bars

That guy

If he keeps on with his ways

On the corner of Saint-Denis, he walks into the Fameux, greets the owner with a nod, and sits at a table where he can keep an eye on the still-deserted street. The radio is on, the owner fiddling with the dial.

Even before taking his order, the forty-something rhinestone-clad waitress gives the table a perfunctory wipe and serves him a cup of coffee. Gode thanks her with another nod.

“What's the world coming to?” she says, then: “You gonna eat, hon?”

“Two eggs over easy, with bacon. Did they say who did it?”

“Not yet, but
 . . .
”

“Those goddamn FLQers,” a customer a few tables down throws out, “I'd line 'em all up against a brick wall, and
 . . .
”

Gode resists the urge to turn around. Must be seven or eight customers sprinkled among the huge pots of marinated red peppers soaking near the windows and on the back tables. Men with the faces of graveyard-shift workers, pitiful solitary partygoers still not in bed, and a few roomers minus a roof. Gode sees a man with a blue plaid shirt leafing through the
Journal de Montréal
's special edition, devoted to the kidnapping. Once again that strange awareness of himself. His scandalous anonymity at the heart of the event.

He hears on the radio that the abduction hasn't yet been claimed, which means that the previous night's phone call didn't have the desired effect. He devours his eggs and Wonder-bread toast and even swallows the half-dried slice of tomato at the edge of his plate, almost as if this were his final meal. Then he gets up, pays his bill, leaves a tip, nods to the owner once again, and walks out.

The sidewalk. The street. The subway right there. It'll be six in the morning soon.

For the first time since well before dawn, when he opened his eyes, Gode thinks of the man as an existence, like something alive, real. He remembers the feel of his knee against the hostage's back in the car. A living being. It's true. You're going to see him.

LAVOIE

HE'D LIKE TO OPEN HIS
EYES,
but he can't. He hears the radio, which tells him it's morning. The previous day, in the garage, they covered his eyes with a bunch of layers of Kleenex covered in tape. Then, holding him by the shoulders and pushing him forward, they brought him directly into a house through a hole dug in a wall.

He's in a room, lying in a bed, handcuffed to a metal dog leash whose other side is handcuffed to the bed. He slept by fits and starts, and now can hear his kidnappers in another room. Water boiling in an electric kettle. The hostage strains to listen, hears the kettle's whistle, somewhere behind him. There's a hallway, then the kitchen. He's thinking clearly; a man awake.

He moves, rolls over himself until he reaches the edge of his leash; the mattress creaks under him. He clears his throat once, twice.

Steps. Breathing, right next to him, next to the bed.

The man's voice wants to know if everything is “okay.”

“Last night,” he says, “when you took me, I was waiting for my wife, we were going to the restaurant
 . . .
”

“What a shame for you, but that's how it is. Change of plans. Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want eggs and toast?”

“Yes. How am I supposed to eat with these on?”

They take his handcuffs off, help him to sit up by pressing his back against the pillows, and Lavoie asks to see what he's eating.

“Take his blindfold off,” one of his captors says.

It hurts, as though they were scalping him. He opens his eyes, sees the duct tape with his hair on it; not doing his encroaching baldness any favours.

With the plate on his legs, he eats his breakfast, Wonder bread and scrambled eggs, under the supervision of one of his masked caretakers armed with an assault rifle. And Lavoie can't believe his eyes: they didn't even cover the window! He concentrates on every small detail, trying to avoid looking like a man scouting his surroundings while swallowing his meal. The window lets daylight streak into the room on the left side of the bed. Half a bungalow, a few vacant lots, a stretch of empty street, fields, a few buildings. Maybe half a mile away, a large hangar he immediately recognizes. Lavoie catches his breath. The old political hand, shaking hands and kissing babies; he's in his own county. He knows the place like the back of his hand. During the last electoral campaign, he used the landing strips on the other side of that hangar. The one with the big number 12 painted on the roof. The house where he's being held is right next to the Saint-Hubert airport.

The hostage lowers his eyes to his plate, breaks off a piece of scrambled egg with his fork, and places it on a slice of buttered toast, which he then brings up to his mouth. He chews, swallows, then turns his head toward the young masked man guarding him. Paul Lavoie looks at those dark slits of eyes, and smiles weakly.

“Thanks, the eggs are good.”

While he was eating, one of the kidnappers who'd jumped out of the car the night before came back. Lavoie can hear them in the next room, formulating aloud the wording of the communiqué that one of them then types up on a machine.

The Minister will be executed on Sunday, October 11, at ten o'clock at night if the authorities have not responded positively to all the demands expressed following Mr. Travers's kidnapping.

Sunday the eleventh. In other words, today. Lavoie realizes that he must get ready to die.

As his captor moves to handcuff him once again, he says:

“They're writing to the government, in the other room? I thought it had already been done
 . . .
”

“We wrote a first communiqué, but they didn't find it.”

“Could I write a letter to my wife? You know, while my hands are still free
 . . .
”

12 October, 1970. 7 a.m.

Dearest,

I'm doing well, I spent a good night, almost as if we'd been together, our little family. I constantly think of the three of you. And it helps me cope.

The important thing is that the authorities do something! For the rest, let's help ourselves, and perhaps Heaven will help us in return
 . . .

My love to all of you.

Paul

Avenue Savane is a bit further on. He can never recall the names of those two tiny isolated lanes that go through the fields. He knows the area, has already been through it, knocked on doors. He tries to remember, but fails. Just as he begins to despair, he receives unintended help from his kidnappers: he hears one of them pick up the phone, in the hallway between the room and the kitchen, and call a taxi without a care in the world! Motionless on the bed, Lavoie strains himself to the breaking point to hear what the unknown voice is saying into the receiver. The telephone table, he thinks, is just a few steps away from his room's open door, near the bathroom.

“A car for 140 Collins, please,” the voice says.

Thank you.

Later, he asks one of his captors if he can stretch his legs a little. After speaking with his comrades, the man comes back, removes the handcuffs that tie the leash to the bed, lifts the hostage up, and walks him through the house. A short bathroom break, and it's back to walking. The smells: frying, burnt bread. The kitchen is here. With only his ears and his feet to guide him, Lavoie's whole being becomes an antenna that moves through a darkened space and brushes up against the walls, attempting to obtain as much information as possible. He tries to recreate the configuration of the house in his mind. The television and the typewriter are in the room next to his own. His eyes are covered and his thoughts turn to death.

A communiqué is read over the radio.
The Minister will be executed on Sunday, October 11 at ten o'clock at night if the
 . . .
The terrorists congratulate each other in the other room, which must be the living room.

And Lavoie thinks: Collins, rue Collins. Saint-Hubert airport. Hangar number 12.

Around noon, they bring him a peanut butter sandwich.

“Sorry, but that's all there is
 . . .
we've only got bread left.”

“It's okay.”

“Would you like a nice cup of tea with that?”

“Yes, please.”

Shortly before one o'clock, another special bulletin. This time, the communiqué, written by hand, was found in a phone booth, accompanied by Lavoie's letter to his wife.

Again: if before ten o'clock tonight, both governments have not answered favourably to the FLQ's conditions, Minister Lavoie will be executed. If all conditions are fulfilled, Operation Deliverance will be terminated, and Lavoie will be released within twenty-four hours. Any hesitation by the authorities will be FATAL to the Minister. It's a large enough concession for us to be forced to return him alive and well. Do not ask too much.

Quebec Liberation Front

We shall be victorious
 . . .

A handwriting expert speaks to the authenticity of the letter to the wife. The newsreader speaks in a solemn tone. Now, for a commercial break.

Only nine hours to live
, thinks Lavoie.

The other man is back. The one who seems to be the boss comes to the house by taxi once in a while, and it sounds as though he believes they're being incredibly generous to let Lavoie live. He hears them type up another communiqué in the next room.

Lavoie calls to them. A kidnapper comes in.

“Can I write another letter?”

“Again?”

“Yes. I'll write to Vézina. I want to write to my premier. I can convince him. Let me do it, you'll see
 . . .
”

My dear Albert,

I feel like I'm writing the most important letter of my life. For now, I am being treated well, even politely
(
 . . .
)

We are witnessing a well-organized escalation that will end only with the freeing of the political prisoners. After me, there'll be a third, then a fourth and a twelfth.

My very dear Albert, what follows is very, very important: you must order the immediate cessation of all police raids. Their continuance will be my death warrant. On the other hand, if the release and departure of the political prisoners are brought to a good end, I am certain that my personal safety will be guaranteed. We are very close to a solution, I can feel it, because between my kidnappers and I there is no real animosity. My fate now collates with theirs. It is up to you to insure my swift return to Parliament Hill in support of you, like the faithful right arm that I promised you I would be. Your decision: my life or my death. I am counting on you, and thank you.

Warm regards,

Paul Lavoie

The hostage watches one of the masked men slip the letter into an envelope.

“What's in that envelope for it to be so thick?”

“Your credit cards. And you had quite a few, eh, you pig?”

“But why?”

“Identification.”

“Why send all of them?”

“We can't use them anyway, they're much too hot
 . . .
”

“You could've kept them for the next communiqué.”

“There's not going to be a next one,” the man replies dryly, and walks out.

That night, they serve him Chef Boyardee spaghetti in the can with a slice of bread. Lavoie tells him to take the money in his wallet, something like sixty dollars, and go and buy something to eat.

“You're very kind. But we're not in the habit of holding back.”

Are they getting ready to kill him? Do they already know how they're going to go about it?

Lavoie is lying on his back. He's got nothing to read, once again the Kleenex taped to his eyes.

At 9:55 p.m., just before the ultimatum expires, Vézina, also known as Little Albert, Premier of Quebec, reads his answer to the terrorists' demands over national radio and television stations.

The government
, he says,
cannot, must, will not remain passive when the well being of the individual is so threatened to its core. Indeed, the values of our people, its exceptional spirit of work and sacrifice, its respect for the Other, its tolerance and sense of liberty, are the best guarantees of justice and peace.
Blah blah blah.

“Just get it over with,” Lavoie murmurs under his blindfold.

A few more circumlocutions generously spread with good Canadian cheddar, then Little Albert, seemingly opening a door to concessions, claims that it is because his government so dearly wishes to protect the lives of Mr. Travers and Mr. Lavoie that he wishes to establish, as a preamble to official and direct negotiations with the FLQ, mechanisms that could guarantee that freeing the political prisoners would immediately lead to the safe liberation of both hostages. That this simple concession is a necessary one. “This is why we ask their captors to get in direct contact with us.”

“Did he just say what I think he said?” Lavoie asks himself.

Something in the pit of his stomach says yes. He cries out in relief. In the living room, his captors, seemingly as relieved as he is, are slapping each other on the back.

One of them comes and stands next to the bed. Lavoie recognizes his voice. He's the taxi man.

“Saved by the bell, eh?” the man says. “Is Vézina serious? Does he really want to negotiate? You must know him well, you can tell us
 . . .
”

“Albert is an honest guy. If he says he wants to negotiate, it's because he's going to negotiate.”

“Really?”

“I guarantee it.”