“What happens is Trump. The rise of fascism in the United States. And Doug Ford. Demagogues the world over.” Simon waited for a response, but Marie offered none. There was an awkward silence. Then he rose from the chair and sauntered back to his office, his load lightened perhaps, Marie thought. Once again, Marie felt so grateful for Roméo, even though he’d missed their Saturday night date, and he had yet to explain to her what fresh drama Sophie had concocted to ruin their night. Marie checked her watch and realized she had seventeen minutes to pick up a very necessary coffee before her next class.
Once the Motherhouse to the Gray nuns, the imposing
nineteenth-century greystone buildings at the corner of Atwater and Sherbrooke streets were sold to the Quebec government in the early eighties and turned into Dawson College—or CEGEP—as they are called in Quebec. The convent’s chapel was turned into a spectacular library. Few other traces of the nuns remained, but most significantly one did—the great dome—and at its apex, the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus in her arms. For some, this overt religious symbol on a public, government building should have been removed years ago. For others, it was an important historical landmark that preserved the patrimoine of Quebec. Quebec was once again flirting with laicité—the complete separation of church and state in terms of religious symbols, including personal apparel items such as the kippah, the crucifix, and the hijab. Many Quebecois supported this in backlash reaction to the past autocracy of the Catholic church. A minority (usually including minorities) saw this as overt xenophobia, and in the case of the public servants the hijab ban applied to, cruel and petty. Within minutes, Marie had passed several students, each wearing one of the controversial religious symbols as she navigated the main staircase down to the busy atrium of the school. She refused to be pushed and jostled by students, cell phone in one hand, Starbucks coffee in the other, rushing to class. She secretly loved all that teenage hormonal energy. She loved watching the confident girls strutting down the hall, the others who thumb at their phones to avoid eye contact, or to look like they’re never alone. She loved the gaggles of obstreperous boys, the sheer energy of almost ten thousand students on the move. Marie decided to cross over to the mall by the underground metro level, her preferred route in winter, as she didn’t have to actually go outside, and wouldn’t need her full cold weather regalia. Besides, the aftermath of the snowstorm—snowbanks three feet high and sidewalks still not fully cleared—made stepping out into the January air even less appealing. She emerged from the Dawson doors into the actual metro station and passed by the Jehovah’s Witness couple flogging their version of Christianity, who still looked so hopeful that she might stop for a little proselytizing. She could already taste that café latte with an extra shot of espresso. Maybe she’d treat herself to one of those blueberry oatmeal squares that cost a fortune and about eight thousand calories.
Between the metro turnstiles and the shopping center proper, this part of Alexis Nihon mall was known for its high concentration of homeless people. Marie recognized some of them from over the years, and some were more transient, their faces changing every few months. A few of the regulars were there, their empty Starbucks or Tim Hortons coffee cups held aloft, begging for a loonie or a toonie. A couple of them were passed out inside filthy sleeping bags, their few possessions gathered around them in tired plastic bags. Sometimes one would begin to shriek aggressively at a shopper, but for the most part they were harmless, too drunk or high or sick to be a threat to anyone. Except sometimes to each other. Marie always walked quickly past what she called the gauntlet of guilt on the way to her daily coffee. She passed the first guy who wished her “Bonne journée!” with a cheery wave and a snaggle-toothed grin. Another regular, an old woman swaddled in layers of mismatched clothes and a floral babushka on her head, lifted her cup and smiled weakly at Marie, mumbling something in a language Marie didn’t understand. She used to stop and ask how they were. She always used to drop some change into their cups and every now and then she still did. But over time, a feeling of frustrated helplessness had eroded her empathy. She wanted to ask what had happened to them that brought them to this state and this place. She wanted to ask what she could do. But she didn’t. Instead, she held her purse a bit tighter and hastened past them, making just enough eye contact to remind herself that they were human, too.
Just as Marie turned past the vegan burger shop, she heard shouts and then terrible screaming. Ahead of her, surrounded by a small group of onlookers, were two uniformed cops. One held a woman by the waist, and the shrieking came from her tiny body, as she tried to kick and twist herself out of his grasp. The other cop held the arms of a second struggling woman behind her back, and she seemed to be writhing in pain, screaming something Marie couldn’t make out.
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe? What’s happening?” Marie asked an older woman with a Pharmaprix uniform on, watching the scene unfold next to her.
“What do you think? The usual. They’re drunk, and got into a fight, and the cops are breaking it up. Les ostie d’Esquimaux!” She shook her head, gave a dismissive shrug and left. The crowd seemed to have lost interest as well, and started returning to their mall activity, one or two looking back to see if anything else might happen. The policeman finally wrestled the kicking woman to the ground very roughly, causing her to hit her head hard on the mall floor. The woman started to wail, holding her head and rocking back and forth.
“Hey! Qu’est-ce que vous faites là? What the hell are you doing?” Marie heard herself yelling. “You’re hurting her!”
The cop who had the other woman finally subdued and quiet was speaking calmly into her shoulder walkie-talkie. She looked right through Marie like she wasn’t even there. The policeman growled “Occupés-toi tes oignons! Mind your own business!”
Marie watched as they half-dragged the two women away, and then decided to follow them. The cops pulled them through the double doors onto Atwater Avenue, directly across from the old Montreal Forum. A couple of very rough-looking friends were waiting for them there out in the cold, their breath suspended in the frozen air, howling at the cops in protest. The injured woman patted at her head gingerly, while the other woman was pulled away by a different gang. The two police officers returned to the warmth of their squad car and watched impassively through the window. Marie hastened over to confront the police, then stopped herself. Was it because of her relationship with Roméo? Had he turned her into someone who tolerates police abuse? She checked her watch and realized she was already three minutes late for class. No chance for a coffee now. Marie ran back into the mall. She would definitely discuss this incident with Roméo as soon as possible. It was just fucking unacceptable.
Eight
“AH! BONJOUR, MONSIEUR ISAAC. Comment vas le Bon Samaritain ce matin?”
A very short and very wide bakery clerk beamed at him as she handed over the bag of freshly made sandwiches. She had a very pretty face that the severe hairnet she had to wear did nothing to enhance. Isaac took the bag from her with a quick bow.