Véronique has a longer vision than drugs and parties and fireworks. She knows there’s a lot more to life than unfettered, instant gratification. She has brains and passion, like her father did at her age. She cares about politics and protecting the French language in Quebec. She cares about her people. She’s just waiting for the right cause. Her father had the FLQ. Hers is on the horizon.
“Don’t you ever worry about anything?” she asks him, handing him back the joint.
“Yeah,” he says, tousling her damp hair. “I worry about keeping you safe, cousin. That’s it.”
The next morning, she sleeps in until eleven. It’s the best part of smuggling—her freedom. She can come and go as she pleases. Most people her age work crappy jobs in factories or retail stores; they have to answer to asshole bosses and have almost no free time, which is particularly miserable in the summer.
She puts on a pot of coffee and pops a slice of bread into the toaster. Adds peanut butter and honey to the toast, milk and cinnamon to the coffee. She takes it outside to eat on the balcony. The sun is already white-hot, and the black iron steps burn her bare thighs when she sits. She’s wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Her hair is matted, starting to form little dreadlocks.
St. Urbain Street is quiet this morning. She lives on the Plateau, around the corner from the mountain and just a few blocks north of the bar scene on St. Laurent Boulevard. She’s been living here ever since she moved out at eighteen. It’s a nice place, with high ceilings and hardwood floors and lots of sunlight coming in through the old windows, and the rent is reasonable. Not that money is a concern anymore. The concern now is that it’s not going to last forever. Smuggling contraband is not a career; it’s a gift. She’ll be lucky to get two more years out of it.
“Excuse me?”
Véronique looks down from her second-floor balcony. Balconville, they used to call it. All the wrought iron balconies lined up in rows. There’s a guy standing on the sidewalk, squinting up at her. “Are you Véronique Fortin?” he asks. He’s an older guy, late twenties or early thirties. Dirty-blond hair, slim. Looks good in those jeans.
“Who’s asking?” she says.
“Me.”
“And you are?”
He climbs a few steps, meeting her halfway. “J. G. Phénix.”
“J. G.? That’s your name?”
“James Gabriel,” he says.
“James. That’s English.”
“My grandfather was English,” he says in perfect French. No hint of an English accent.
“And how do you know who I am?” she wants to know.
“I’m doing a story—”
“Ah. A reporter. So this is an ambush.” She’s used to this sort of thing. They always crawl out of the woodwork every time there’s an anniversary or a related death.
“Not at all,” he says. “You’re listed in the white pages, and I live in the neighborhood. You probably know that François Tremblay died last week. I’m doing a piece on the October Crisis—”
“How original. You and every other reporter in the country.”
He laughs. “You’re right. We’re not very original. But people are always interested in the FLQ.”
“Are they?”
“They are. Especially your father.”
It always comes back to her father. Two years ago, on the twentieth anniversary of the October Crisis, the press came beating down her parents’ door. Now they’re coming after her. The daughter of the infamous FLQ terrorist . . .
“I’m a reporter for the Canadian News Association.”
Véronique roars with laughter. “Goodbye,” she says, immediately dismissing him. Too bad, though, she thinks. There’s something a little seductive about him. Not just his looks, but the way he’s looking at her. He’s sexy. She likes a man with charisma, a little brashness. But he’s a traitor to his own people. What kind of Québécois journalist works for the enemy? The Canadian News Association is the biggest English news agency in the country, feeding stories to all the Anglo papers.
“Why not tell your story to an English journalist?” he says.
“No thank you,” she responds. “And it’s not my story.”
“Do you stand behind what your father did? Do you support Quebec independence?”
She seethes quietly for a few seconds, annoyed by his arrogance and sense of entitlement. Who the hell does he think he is showing up at her apartment to harass her about her father? And for an English newspaper? “Get lost,” she says. “Let me eat my breakfast in peace.”
“I don’t represent Anglophones,” he tells her. “I’m French. I just happen to write for an English news agency, that’s all. My father was pure laine. He worked at Vickers. He was a nationalist long before October 1970.”
Véronique’s interest is piqued. Vickers was a well-known airplane factory; it became one of the symbols of Québécois oppression back in the sixties.
“He came from a family of farmers,” the reporter goes on, his voice turning emotional. “He drove a cab. He was no better and no worse than your father. You don’t know me at all.”
“So why do you work at CNA? It’s almost worse, given where you come from.”
“I was raised to understand and respect both sides equally.”
Véronique rolls her eyes. “In other words, you were educated in English and you grew up middle or upper class and you’ve had all kinds of opportunities and choices, but you think because your daddy worked at Vickers thirty years ago you can claim to understand us . . . but only as a means to an end.”
“Means to what end?”
“Pretending you’re a separatist to get your story.”
“I never said I’m a separatist,” he says. “I said I’m French. Last I checked those aren’t the same thing.”
“I’m going inside,” she says, standing up. “Don’t come back or I’ll call the police.”
“What could you possibly be so angry about?” he asks her. “You haven’t even lived long enough to be this angry!”
“It’s none of your goddamn business.”
She slams the door behind her, his question still drumming in her head. That same goddamn question her entire life: Do you stand behind what your father did?
As if she could ever begin to answer that, for him or his readers. For herself.
2
OCTOBER 1992
James Phénix is huddled in a scrum outside the National Assembly in Quebec City, with his tape recorder in one hand and the mic in the other, ready to shove it in one of the politicians’ faces. It’s the day before yet another vote on yet another round of proposed constitutional changes. James ostensibly made the two-hour drive to get a quote for his column, but the truth is he wanted to get out of the city on a road trip. Everyone knows this vote is futile. Trying to get all ten provinces to agree on constitutional amendments—let alone compromise or meet in the middle—is doomed to fail. It’s all bullshit. It’s Quebec versus the rest of the country like warring siblings. It always has been. The proposed changes don’t go nearly far enough to appease the separatists in Quebec. Nothing short of total independence from Canada will make them happy. James is fairly certain the outcome of tomorrow’s referendum will be all too familiar—a big SCREW YOU, CANADA from Quebec and a SCREW YOURSELF RIGHT BACK, QUEBEC from the rest of Canada.