Suzanne Read online

  ‘I can’t decide … ’ you answer, smiling.

  You look at Claude, who is sitting at the end of the table. Beside him is Muriel, red-haired and wild. Claude is animated and suave and is devouring her with his eyes.

  ‘Forget him,’ Marcelle laughs.

  You can’t help but notice the round, enticing breasts Claude is taking in.

  Muriel is an actress. She is Claude’s raw material. When she is near him, she stops his fall. Without her, he is always off kilter.

  Being all woman, you have a hard time resigning yourself to this shadow cast on you. But it is created by a blazing sun, so there is nothing you can do about it.

  Marcelle asks you what you do. Where you’re from. She looks perpetually amused, has short, messy hair and keeps shuffling her feet under the table like a nervous child. You trust her. Is it because she smiles at you or because she is not threatening to you? Either way, you want to be her friend.

  You tell her you’re from Ottawa. That you are … a student. And that you write, sometimes. Your face gets hot.

  Marcelle is delighted with your answer. An Ontario poet. She thinks it’s exotic.

  She raises the only glass on the table in the direction of the Swiss manager and shouts to her, ‘Our glass is empty. Fill ’er up. It’s my round! To the little Ontario girl’s health!’

  The evening goes on. Censorship is put on trial for the umpteenth time, without anything new being said. They are content to criticize, and they do so enthusiastically.

  You don’t dare admit that you would have banned Maldoror too.

  Jean-Paul and Claude get angry, two cocks fighting, forgetting the reason, contenting themselves with snatching words and detonating them.

  They are handsome and proud. Their rhetoric is rich and profound. You are lightheaded and feel a touch of pride. You belong at this table.

  You turn toward Marcel, who is still silent.

  You tell him that you still have his drawing. He holds your gaze for a moment, and his eyes trail down your cheeks, over the outline of your lips, landing safely in the hollow of your neck.

  Marcel has a solid presence. Grounded. Nothing ephemeral. He is firmly rooted, yet remains elusive, deeply secretive.

  He is slender and moves with grace. He would like to be a shadow, but captures the light despite himself; it sprawls lazily over his angular body.

  Behind his pale skin, there is a gulf of tenderness.

  Marcel is a creature in glass.

  A November night, sharp and taut. A night so cold that movement becomes syncopated and slowed down.

  You abandon yourself to it with pleasure, following Marcel and Jean-Paul, who have invited you to join them on a mission in the port.

  Energized by your presence, the two young men initiate you to their nighttime rituals.

  You have to become invisible. Something you’re not particularly good at. You welcome the challenge.

  The metallic glint of the river, the looming silhouette of boats at rest, the quiet sound of the water, all create a humid, dream-like scene in which you blend perfectly. You tiptoe so as not to disturb the essence of the place.

  Marcel and Jean-Paul have a mission. They have come to get tarps, the ones that cover cars that have just been unloaded on the docks. They have done it before. They walk toward a large ship, waiting to be loaded. With smooth gestures, slowed down by the cold, they rip the jute blankets from the cars, wrapping them around themselves.

  They cover themselves in them. Every possible surface of their bodies helps transport the precious cargo.

  A roll around the neck, four under the arms, they become strange miscreants, eight-legged aquatic creatures, propelled by their grand plans.

  You grab as many rolls as you can.

  A dog barks in the distance.

  Your new friends, transformed into outlandish beasts, surreptitiously stop their synchronized movements.

  Then they get back to work. You end up fleeing through the metal cargo, in the belly of a glacial night, a dance you will become accustomed to.

  Because you will create your first paintings on these jute canvases.

  The dawn light blankets the city. It revives Marcel, who opens up and unfolds. Looking you almost in the eye, he asks if you would like to join them at the studio for a nightcap.

  The stairs creak. On the second floor of a small apartment, a garret. The space is minuscule, the ceilings high. Frost forms on the walls; the outside light shines through it.

  There are jute rolls everywhere, and you add the ones you are carrying to the pile. Painted canvases are pinned to the walls, like exclamation points, in stark contrast with the calm of the new day.

  Jean-Paul gets a fire started in the small, rusted potbelly stove, which sits proudly in the middle of the space. You notice three painted circles on the floor.

  He explains that the first one, the red one around the stove, designates the hot zone. The second, the green one, the temperate zone, and the third, the blue one, the cold region.

  And that it is best to paint in the temperate zone, unless one is going for high drama.

  Marcel, still bundled up, his head in a wool hat and leather gloves on his hands, serves wine in metal cups. The wine warms you a little. You sit in the hot zone of the small studio and shiver. Jean-Paul passes you a jute tarp, which you roll up in. The kindling slowly catches.

  Jean-Paul has been sharing the studio in the alley with Marcel for a few months now. He used to paint at home, until his family burned all of his work, which they deemed subversive. All that was left was half-charred wooden frames.

  Marcel takes out a can of paint, which he opens. It’s enamel.

  ‘This is what nice cars are painted with,’ he says, with a first, faint smile.

  He dips a brush in, and then he starts to spatter colour in front of him on a canvas hung on the wall, with sharp, arrow-like gestures. He dances, and red rain explodes on the former cover of a car in transit.

  ‘This is how he warms up,’ Jean-Paul whispers, throwing a big log on the fire.

  You finish your wine in silence. The day drifts gently toward you, sliding across the stained old wood that you are pleased to be sitting on.

  It’s the beginning of your first winter in Quebec.

  Jean-Paul is snoring at your side.

  Every afternoon, after his day at the School of Furniture, Marcel works with his Uncle Georges at the butcher’s. He cuts up poultry and pieces of meat. He likes this physical work and sees parallels between how he earns his living and intense moments of creation. His hands in the red flesh, he strikes blows with the knife, cutting at just the right place, slashing what was formerly alive to give it a new shape, one of his own making. He doesn’t overthink it and moves instinctively.

  In these hard times, his knife slices through older animals, brought to the butcher’s by their starving masters.

  This is what happened to Octave. A horse. Not purebred, but a good horse. Octave was an outstanding workhorse, earning him a great deal of affection from his masters, who were good Christians. Which is to say they had twelve children conceived out of duty, without looking each other too much in the eyes, children who now enjoy counting angels and multiplying prayers in math class, as prescribed.

  The picture of Maurice Duplessis was the first thing Madame Pion, Octave the horse’s mistress, would dust upon rising.

  She always offered him a submissive smile, tinged with desire. He was the love of her life.

  Obviously, the Pion family was upset when Maurice lost power in 1939 and had to relinquish his position to Adélard Godbout’s Liberals.

  But Maurice’s portrait never relinquished its place in the living room, and the Pions continued to live in awkward denial, taking pleasure in thinking that their king still reigned and Quebec was on firm footing.

  When a small Duplessist delegation came to visit the Pion family, one cold morning in the winter of 1943, Octave was bent over his feed, enjoying his breakfast.

&n
bsp; Steam was coming out of his nostrils; a fine frost had formed on the tips of his ears. He felt good.

  The three men stopped in front of him to eye him up and down, before going in to have tea in the Pion living room. Looking official in their ties, they confirmed to the Pions that they wanted Duplessis re-elected. Monsieur Pion searched for the right words to show his support. Madame Pion fluttered about, trying to find a few things to set on the table.

  The three men were serious in their role as investigators, smiles calculated and gestures precise.

  Then, reassured, they got up to leave. And, in the doorway, the tallest one asked Madame Pion if she had lost any children. Madame Pion froze.

  ‘Yes.’

  The man asked for their names.

  Madame Pion mumbled the names of the three children she had lost. The man noted them, barely hiding his satisfaction.

  Then came a final question: the old horse outside. Does it have a name?

  This time, Monsieur Pion answered.

  His name is Octave. He’s not that old.

  The man noted the horse’s name. On the same line as those of the children. Then, politely, the delegation slipped away. Octave watched them as they retreated into winter.

  On August 30, 1944, Maurice Duplessis was re-elected.

  Unfortunately, Madame Pion had refused to exercise her newfound right to vote, because her place, and she truly believed it, was in the home.

  Plus, Maurice had told her that the women’s right to vote is unconstitutional, since the Constitutional Act of 1791 stipulates that only ‘persons’ can vote and that the term ‘person’ applies only to men.

  People now say that the names of dead and buried children helped carry Maurice Duplessis to victory, artificially swelling the ranks of voters.

  We know from a reliable source that the list of electors included the name of Octave Pion. Workhorse by trade.

  Years later, having grown thin and useless, he was taken to the slaughterhouse, where his previously valiant body was cut up, then sent to the Boucherie Saint-Antoine, where, on that particular afternoon, young Marcel is working at a furious pace.

  He has to wrap up the pieces of an entire horse for a priest who is having company for dinner and then leave on time for the premiere of Bien-être. The entire group has spent months working on the play written by Claude, and that evening will be the first performance. Marcel has to help put the set together, and he is worried sick he won’t get there on time.

  You are waiting for Claude in the small room you rent. The walls around you are bare: you deny yourself any decor. You enjoy things in motion. So your suitcase is still open, your clothes folded inside, the drawers empty.

  Claude comes to pick you up in the afternoon. You are going to help him set up the theatre.

  On the way, you stop to pick up Marcel, his hands still bloody. It’s his set, his creation. It can’t be put together without him.

  Claude steps behind the counter. Marcel is wrapping large pieces of meat in newspaper. Easy enough. Claude imitates him to speed things up. You join them.

  First with your fingertips, starting with small pieces, which you gently wrap in the used paper.

  Claude is working with broad gestures, very much like him. He starts reading from the paper he is using to wrap a large thigh: ‘Whether one thousand years ago or today, the Church is the only thing that will save the world!’

  You smile, finish rolling a filet and grab the offal Marcel holds out to you.

  ‘Christianity can address the problems of any age: it is the only doctrine for man because it meets all of his needs and takes into account all of his weaknesses.’

  You grab a page from the paper and put the animal’s soft, warm heart on it. You like touching the meat with your hand. You can sense the life that was once there. You squeeze your fist around the heart before wrapping it up.

  Claude roars now, still reading from bloody pages: ‘Most importantly, Catholics, who are fortunate enough to know the truth, have the solemn duty to spread it.’

  Marcel laughs. He has a broad smile, with fine, well-shaped teeth. And his laugh is brittle. Rare and precious.

  Octave is wrapped in pieces. The priest comes in, looking jovial. He is a regular customer and greets Marcel like he knows him. Marcel hands him the butchered animal, wishing him bon appétit.

  Your hands are sticky. Claude asks you whether you want to read an article that is perfect for you, entitled ‘Ladies, your home is your empire.’

  You say no: it’s time to go. Marcel closes up the shop, leaving behind Octave’s blood and the words of L’Action catholique, required reading for his mother, written by Duplessis’s industrious secretaries.

  Awakening artistic sensibility is more important than technical training.

  Jean-Marie Gauvreau, Director of the École du Meuble de Montréal

  Borduas eats in his office, as he often does. With a sandwich made by his wife in hand, he paces while looking over his students’ drawings in gouache, ink, and charcoal.

  He occasionally stops for a moment to consider the intensity of an effort, the restraint of another. He notes what needs to be improved. He chooses words that provide the catalyst without dictating the direction. Sometimes he is moved. When that happens, he picks up the drawing, brings it closer to him, meets it halfway.

  But today, he is leaving school earlier than usual. He has to go to his students’ show. He helped them come up with the set and make the costumes. He thinks the play, written by Claude, is ambitious.

  He always locks the door. Out of respect for his students’ work. Convinced that he is leaving promising pieces behind him.

  In the hallway, he is waylaid by the school’s director.

  He asks him to come to his office. Borduas explains that he doesn’t have much time. But Jean-Marie insists: it’s important.

  Borduas sits down, annoyed.

  Jean-Marie appreciates Borduas and recognizes his talent. But teachers keep complaining that when they inherit his students, it’s as if they haven’t learned any of the basic techniques.

  Borduas has heard it all before. He regularly gets wind of the supposed failings of his courses.

  He stays calm; his teaching is oriented toward the individual, the creative process. His colleagues’ teaching is oriented toward the end product, the object to be manufactured. The two approaches should complement each other.

  Jean-Marie seems sorry.

  ‘This is the School of Furniture.’

  Paul-Émile replies, caustically, ‘We do drawing, decor, design – more than just furnishings. Many students want to get away from the world of geometry, which is in opposition to the spontaneity and generosity of the creative act, but … ’

  Borduas is interrupted by his superior: the decision to break with technique has people talking and hurts the school’s reputation. His teaching hours will be cut.

  Borduas curtly thanks the director and slips out. He doesn’t want to be late for the show.

  The play is being staged at the Congress Hall on Boulevard Dorchester. You iron costumes while Marcel finishes putting together the set.

  Claude is nervous, crouched in a corner, muttering his lines.

  Muriel, who is used to the stage, does a few vocal exercises. You like watching her. She is an open window, a choir, fireworks. You, who are more remote and secretive, magnetic from deep within, you envy her burning presence, giving everything she has.

  The play puts her onstage, dressed all in white. In it, she marries Claude.

  The house is almost full. The lights slowly come down, carefully filtered by Marcelle.

  The set rocks when Claude makes his explosive entrance, harnessing the power of the perpetual fall, giving himself completely to the audience, his entire body asking them to open their arms and catch him.

  You are sitting in the fifth row, beside Borduas.

  Muriel joins Claude onstage; she is radiant in her modest dress.

  Claude spouts his lines li
ke a hymn, savouring each word, aware of their fragility: ‘Hands in the abyss making leaves. That’s a wedding. The cup running over with love like seaweed on the steps. A stream of clouds dives into the hearts: king-fisher. Wreaths in cheeks, peace sculpted in the worried profiles of existence. Sugar woman.’

  And at that point, there is a burst of laughter. Quickly followed by more, as if, suddenly, permission has been granted to ruin everything.

  Thrown off, Claude puffs out his chest and squares his body, battle ready. He raises his voice, reciting his lines. Muriel looks at him encouragingly, supporting his monologue with her fiery presence, warming his fall.

  ‘Woman with chocolate nails, with eyelashes of armistice, you are mine. I am the seal that has plunged into the streams of syrup. Beaten unfeeling chopped like the notes of a flute.’

  Gradually the audience walks out. The house is emptying out. They leave with the scraps of a story, bits of lacerated text. They criticize the form, which is new to them and which they don’t understand. This uncertain attempt to liberate the language. Madness scares them. They need signposts. Heading into new creative territory and moving brazenly beyond the boundaries established by academics is a form of puerile indecency with no artistic merit.

  There are only about ten people left. Claude and Muriel keep going partly for them, mostly out of pride.

  You watch them falling in unison. You spot Marcel in the shadow of his sets. Looking out at the emptiness.

  You turn to look at Borduas. He hasn’t left. He is listening, his head tilted slightly. There is a softness about him, which you find unlike him. He seems to be receiving the moment whole, floating in Claude’s words, in the pair’s quiet strength, in the shadows supporting him and in the emptiness gradually gaining on the room.

  He feels you looking at him and he turns. His eyes are watering, the glare of a spotlight drowning in them. He is calm. The calm of a person who has just made a choice.

  The final words are sent out into the empty room, and the actors leave the stage as one would leave a battlefield.