Which brings them here again, to another political circus, which is really just an excuse for both sides to squabble and picket and rant. James couldn’t be more bored of the whole cycle.
Quebec’s premier, Bourassa, is the first one out, looking gaunt and exhausted. The scrum rushes at him, closing around him like wild dogs on an antelope. James thrusts his microphone forward and yells above the crowd, “What makes you think this referendum in Charlottetown will succeed where the last one failed?”
“These new proposed amendments were determined by public opinion, not by a small elite. We listened to the people this time,” Bourassa states. How novel, James thinks.
“It’s time to put an end to these interminable constitutional talks and focus on the economy,” Bourassa goes on. “So far, 1992 has been one of the worst years for us since the Depression.”
“Are you satisfied with the treatment of Quebec in this new accord? Is Quebec getting enough?”
“Yes, I believe Canada is finally willing to formally recognize our language, our culture, and our distinctiveness. As we all know, having two official languages and cultures is an asset to the country, not a detriment.”
The usual rehearsed bullshit. When his opponent steps out of the National Assembly, the mob of wild dogs abandons Bourassa and turns their greedy attention to the beleaguered PQ leader. “M. Parizeau, what’s your prediction for tomorrow?”
“I’ve said all I can say about this ad nauseum,” Parizeau responds. “I predict a resounding rejection of this pathetic ‘accord.’ We will never endorse it.”
“We who?”
“We the Parti Québécois and the French people of Quebec.”
Decent quote, James thinks. Having gotten what he needs, he heads outside, where a cluster of protesters has collected on the front steps of the Parliament Building. They’re milling around and chanting, a little lackadaisically, if you ask him, with their signs pumping in the air. VOTE NO TO CHARLOTTETOWN! NO TO A DISTINCT SOCIETY! YES TO AN INDEPENDENT QUEBEC! SAY NO TO MULRONEY’S DEAL!
James recognizes Véronique Fortin right away. Her face—delicate but hard—is not easily forgotten; he’s not above finding her beautiful. Back in the summer, he saw her from a distance, half blinded by the sun. Today, up close, he’s a little stunned by her. Pale skin, warm brown eyes, a tiny doll’s nose, the curve of her upper lip like a butterfly’s wing. Her hair is dark auburn, almost red, a little unkempt and wild. She’s wearing a plaid shirt and jean shorts with scuffed combat boots. Her legs, long and milky white, move up the front steps. He can’t look away.
He must be about ten years older than she. He knows she was an infant during the October Crisis, which makes her about twenty-two. There’s nine years between them. Reasonable, he thinks. He considers himself a young, slightly immature thirty-one. He can’t resist approaching her. “Mam’selle Fortin?”
She stops marching and eyes him with an expression somewhere between suspicion and disdain. And then, to his surprise, her face relaxes into a smile. “J. G. Phénix,” she says, which pleases him immensely.
“You remember me.”
“James Gabriel Phénix. How could I forget?”
“So you’ve traveled all the way to Quebec City to protest the referendum?” he asks her.
“I believe in the cause.”
“I know last time we met you threatened to call the cops on me,” he says, “but I’m heading over to the old town to grab a beer. Why don’t you join me and we can argue about the Charlottetown Accord?”
He’s sure she’s going to say no, rebuff him on all counts—personal and professional. But she hesitates. “I’ll even carry your sign,” he adds, trying to be playful.
Without a word, she hands him the sign. MEECH LAKE NO! CHARLOTTETOWN NO! SOVEREIGNTY YES!
He takes it from her and tucks it under his arm.
“You have to carry it,” she says, “and wave it around as we walk.”
He’s willing to do this for her—he’s not sure why. He holds it up like he’s picketing, and she smiles triumphantly as they set off along Rue Joly de Lotbinière toward the old town.
He realizes as he’s walking alongside her that, in spite of the separatist sign she’s forcing him to carry and the fact that she told him to piss off the first time they met, he’s in a great mood. The sun feels warmer; the fall foliage seems more vibrant, the cobblestone streets more enchanting.
“This part of Quebec City always reminds me of those miniature Christmas villages,” he says. “You know, with a train going through and the old Dickensian buildings? Like it should be Christmas here twelve months a year.”
She looks at him but doesn’t say anything. Her silence makes him feel like a blathering idiot. What the hell is she thinking? She’s young to be so poised, so confident.
When they turn onto Rue St. Jean, a group of young French guys catch sight of his sign and start high-fiving him in solidarity, shouting, “Quebec libre! Quebec libre!”
Véronique is laughing.
“Quebec libre!” he says back to them, fist-bumping one of the guys. Why not? She seems to like it. She’s having a good time at his expense.
“It suits you,” she tells him. “Being a nationalist.”
They come to the Pub St. Alexandre, and James stops. “I used to come here when it was still the Taverne Coloniale,” he says. “I was the National Assembly reporter in the mid-eighties.”
He can hear himself trying to impress her and realizes it just makes him sound old. She would have been thirteen or fourteen back then. “I know I’m old,” he admits, not bothering to mention the stints he did in Tehran in ’88 and Panama in ’89.
He holds the door open for her and they enter the pub. It’s exactly what you’d expect of a tavern in the old town—exposed brick walls, leather banquettes, carved pillars, and wooden tables. The only touch of modernity is the wall of international beers behind the dark mahogany bar.
They grab a seat in the banquette. He orders a Guinness, and she orders St-Ambroise.
“So what do you do?” he asks her. “You’re here on a weekday.”
“I do bookkeeping for my uncle. The hours are flexible.”
There’s a hint of a smile playing on her lips.
“A bookkeeper? Really?”
She folds her arms on the table and cocks her head. She’s playing with him, like he’s one of those annoying jingly balls that cats push around with their paws.
A Pearl Jam song comes on, and Véronique’s eyes light up. “I love this song,” she says, sounding more her age. “Do you know Pearl Jam?”
“I’m thirty-one,” he reminds her. “Not seventy.”
She jumps up and asks the bartender to make it louder. He does. Smitten, no doubt. Back at the table, she sings along in terrible English. “‘Son, she said, ’ave I got a little story for you . . .’”
She’s adorable. Those lips.
“Do you play pool?” she asks him.
“I play.” He waits a beat. “Is that a challenge?”
The pool table is on the second floor. She breaks, impressively. He’s suddenly nervous. His palms feel sticky. He imagines taking such a bad shot that the ball bounces off the table and rolls.