My October (24 page)

Luc laughed again.

“Seriously. I've been on the other end. And it was hell. Believe me.” He began again to recount the story of his marriage, or at least the end of it. It had been someone at his wife's office. Someone they'd both known for years.

“There's no going back once it's done,” Vien said, shaking his shaggy head. “We tried, believe me. You don't throw out ten years of marriage just like that. She broke it off with the guy and we started going to counselling. For months in that therapist's office, she talked about her father, who'd also been unfaithful. She wept over him. I wept over her. I took her to Italy, a trip she'd always dreamed of. Venice, Rome, the works. None of it made the slightest difference.”

Luc listened in silence, his sympathy not quite equal to his irritation. He felt bad for Vien, sure, but he had nothing to learn from the story of his silly ex-wife and her middle-aged gropings. This thing with Marie-Soleil wasn't like that. It wasn't just a piece of mid-life craziness. Luc looked out over the vacant tracks. It was far more elemental.

The word tolled inside him like a bell. It sounded dramatic, but now that he had allowed himself to formulate it, he knew it to be true. What was going on between him and Marie-Soleil was elemental. It went to the core of him. It had to do with language and culture, with his identity. He'd felt a profound and instant kinship with the girl, a feeling he had never experienced with Hannah.

Vien was making an irritating snapping noise, flipping the buckle on his briefcase with his thumb. Luc cleared his throat and the noise stopped, but Vien didn't look at him. He kept his eyes resolutely down. Even when they said goodbye, he didn't raise them.

17

H
ugo made it to the classroom on time for once. He was tired today, fed up with these after-school meetings. He wanted to go home and sleep. He rapped loudly, three decisive knocks, to show Vien he meant business. The sound of his knuckles striking wood reverberated through the empty hallway. He knocked again, then tried the door, but it was locked. He knew how to open it; he carried a small flat comb in his knapsack for just such occasions. All you had to do was slip the comb in the crack below the bolt and jerk upward. They'd done it hundreds of times last year, tormenting Madame Martel, the art teacher, stealing her art supplies and writing obscenities on the board, until finally she took sick leave. He felt bad about that. She'd been too nice, really, to teach in a high school.

The comb would stay in his knapsack this afternoon. Hugo couldn't afford any trouble. He leaned against the wall and slid into a crouch. Goddamn Vien, late himself, after all the times he'd lectured Hugo on the subject.

He reached into his knapsack and pulled out a ball of Kleenex.
It opened like a flower when he gave it a poke, exposing a plastic dime bag stamped with a seven-pointed leaf. Bought today from a kid in his class who had a junior grow-op in his basement. Death if he was caught. Hugo was on parole. Carrying a dime bag of dope into a meeting with your supervisor was courting disaster, but some part of him needed to do just that. Fuck them all.

The door from the stairs opened and Vien stepped into view, huffing and looking more dishevelled than usual. He'd obviously just run up the stairs. He raised his hand.

“Sorry, sorry.”

Hugo stuffed the Kleenex back inside his knapsack and zipped the pocket shut as Vien came striding up.

“Sorry,” he said again, wiping sweat from his brow. Pathetic. “Give me a minute.” He fished in his pocket for his keys, found them and fumbled with the lock. He was a clumsy man, prone to flusters, not at all like Hugo's dad, the master of smooth. Vien grunted and muttered, forcing the key repeatedly until he realized he was using the wrong one.

More apologies. Inside, all the windows were closed; with the radiators blasting, it felt like they'd been closed for months. Vien swore, yanking at his tie. Then he did a quick striptease, ripping off tie and jacket as if they were on fire, picking up his hair to air his neck. His face had turned red. He instructed Hugo to pull up a chair and spent long minutes struggling to open all the windows.

“Bon,”
he said, coming back to Hugo's side. He sat down, heaved a dramatic sigh, and smiled. “So,” he said, “how are you?”

Something had changed. Vien's eyes actually looked interested.

Hugo shrugged.

“Everything okay today?”

Hugo averted his gaze uncomfortably. The tree in the yard out front was clinging to the last of its leaves.

“It's not an easy time, I know,” Vien said, his eyes big and receptive. To Hugo's astonished dismay, he reached out and touched his forearm.

Hugo jerked back in his chair. The door was ajar. His whole body tensed, ready to bolt.

Vien withdrew his hand and put it safely on his own knee. “I know what it's like. My dad walked out too, Hugo. I told you about it, remember?”

Hugo stared at him in surprise. So he knew. His father must have talked. Who else had he told besides Vien? Was it common knowledge now?

“I was just about your age,” Vien continued. “It was the most painful thing I've ever experienced. Worse than when my wife left me.”

Hugo shifted in his chair. Too much information, but Vien kept right on talking. His eyes were slightly unfocused, as if he were in a trance. “I woke up one morning,” he said, “and he was gone. Just like that. No warning, no note. He just left.” Vien removed his glasses and started rubbing them with great thoroughness.

“That's when I met your dad,” he said after a pause that had grown uncomfortable. “But you know all that. We talked about it.” He put his glasses back on. “Fathers.” He sighed. “They can be complicated.”

Hugo was looking at Vien's hands. He'd never noticed how ragged his nails were. The skin between the top knuckle and the
cuticle was bumpy and red on nearly every finger. Close-bitten. What a sad, sad man.

“Any more thoughts on your paper?” Vien asked.

Hugo didn't reply.

“I hope you've opened Vallières,” he continued. “
Nègres blancs
is critical. Anyone who wants to understand the 1970s in Quebec has to read it.”

The air in the classroom was still hot. It pressed in on all sides. And it smelled stale, as though his classmates' lungs had been recycling it all day. Hugo was overpoweringly sleepy. And hungry. His stomach was making noises.

He
had
opened Vallières. He'd stayed up late again last night trying to read it. But he wouldn't admit it to Vien. Thinking about it made him sleepier. He didn't want to discuss Vallières or anything else. When this sad man and Hugo's father had been boys, they had stood by each other. But they weren't boys anymore, and as far as Hugo could tell, neither of them was making any effort to stand by him.

What Hugo wanted right now was food. Nachos and cheese, to be exact. He could picture the melted cheese, which bubbled and then turned rubbery when you poured on salsa from the fridge. Not that the fridge at home usually contained anything half as good as this. Still, he salivated thinking of the salt and spice.

Vien stood up, jolting Hugo out of his reverie. He reached, with some difficulty, into the pocket of his too-tight grey flannel pants. “Here,” he said, pulling out a flyer of some sort. “Someone just gave me this. It's a happy coincidence. I thought immediately of you.”

It was an invitation.

“It's a benefit event,” said Vien, beaming. “For Jacques Lanctôt. He'll be there tonight. So will your dad, by the way. He's one of the readers.” His smile widened. “We could go together if you wish. I could talk to your mom, tell her that I'll drive you.” He paused to take a breath before pressing on. “Your dad could introduce you to Lanctôt. It's a great opportunity, Hugo. I bet he'd give you an interview, if you asked. The son of Luc Lévesque? For sure he would.” He stopped suddenly and frowned, struck by a thought. The frown cleared. “We'll let Luc know you're coming. Best to avoid surprises.”

Hugo mumbled something about being grounded. A lame excuse, but there was no way he was going to this thing. No way in the world.

Vien didn't get it. It was as if he hadn't even seen Hugo's sneer. The man was bent over his desk, scribbling down his cell phone number on a slip of paper. Jesus. He was serious about this. Vien looked up as he handed the number to Hugo.

“Try to come. I can convince your mom, if you want.”

Like he really wanted Vien telephoning his mother. The skin of Hugo's chest and face prickled with heat. He shoved the flyer and the slip of paper into his pocket. “That's okay,” he said, although the situation was as far from okay as he could imagine.

18

A
ll the way home on the metro, Hugo couldn't push Lanctôt out of his mind. He'd kidnapped a man, and yet his dad and Vien and all kinds of other supposedly sane and thoughtful people were throwing a party in his honour? And then there was his dad, revered by all of Quebec, and yet such a prick. The world was a truly messed-up place.

It was rush hour. Hugo got caught in the throngs at the Guy-Concordia metro station. On the train, he was forced to squeeze in beside a guy whose headphones bled music so loudly Hugo felt it shaking in his bones. Most of the riders were students. Somebody had dropped a bottle of iced tea, which rolled back and forth under the seats, splattering the floor with sticky brown liquid. People stepped over the puddles as they entered and exited the car, but no one thought to pick up the bottle.

Hugo's sneakers made faint sucking sounds with every step on the staircase at Lionel-Groulx. Iced tea syrup. He looked at the stream of people on the escalator and remembered the physical shock of seeing his father.

When he got home, his mother was reading on the couch. She was always there now, glued permanently to the cushions. She blinked as if she wasn't sure who he was and spoke his name in a dreamy voice.

He didn't answer.

Her books and some pillows were scattered beside her on the floor. A couple of Kleenexes too. The place was a pigsty. And there was no whiff of food coming from the kitchen. She'd probably forgotten about dinner. Again. The fridge had been empty for days. The kitchen, when he entered it, had a sour smell. He walked to a window and yanked it open.

“Hey, summer's over,” his mother said, coming into the kitchen and rubbing her arms. But neither of them made any move to close it.

He made Kraft Dinner. She wasn't hungry, so he took the whole pot for himself, upending it on his plate and dotting the bright orange noodles with splotches of ketchup. She sat across from him, elbows on the table, and watched him eat.

He couldn't stand her long, mournful face, the greasy smell of her hair. This thing with his dad was killing her; anyone could see that. And yet she was the one who had given everything up, handing him her language, her culture, even her name, as if none of it meant a thing. How had she thought it would end? He couldn't even feel sorry for her.

He needed a strong parent right now, not this beaten-down person. He needed to ask her things. About his father. About
her
father.

Vien had said that Alfred Stern had been a Crown prosecutor. Hugo was confused. He'd thought his grandfather had defended criminals, not prosecuted them. And he'd played some
kind of role in the October Crisis. An important one, Vien had suggested. This hadn't been mentioned when Hugo had done the project in grade six. Hugo did know that his grandfather had left Quebec shortly after René Lévesque came to power, giving up his house on the mountain and ending up in Toronto with all the other Anglos.
The Exodus.
His mother had told him that soldiers had guarded their Westmount home. There were two of them, only a few years older than she was. Hugo had seen a photograph of her, at age twelve, posing between two guys with helmets and C7s.

So many questions. Hugo was lost in his thoughts when the telephone in the pantry rang. His mother made no move to get up. After five rings, the answering machine clicked on and a woman's voice spoke. “Hey, Hannah. It's Allison at the Word.” The voice sounded pissed. She'd already left two messages and asked to be called back. His mother made a face as the woman hung up.

“You could've taken it,” Hugo said, swallowing the last of his macaroni, which was now cold.

His mother smiled her weary smile, which he found hateful. He was about to say as much when the phone rang again. And again his mother just sat there. By the third ring, he couldn't stand it anymore. He stood up, but she shook her head. He stayed where he was.

From the pantry came a woman's voice.

At first, Hugo didn't recognize it. “Is that Oma?” It sounded too feeble to be his grandmother.

“Where are you?” it asked.

“I'm done,” said Hugo. He pointed at his empty plate. There was a house rule about dinner and telephones. You didn't answer
if there was food on your plate. But this, quite obviously, had nothing to do with rules.

His mother sat there, slumped in her chair. Hugo sat down again and the answering machine clicked off.

He addressed his plate. “Vien knows your dad.”

She lifted her head and nodded. She was still wearing her nightgown, the same one she'd had on when he left for school that morning.

“He said he was a prosecutor.”

She blinked. “That's not quite true,” she said. “He was a defence lawyer.” She frowned and then continued. “But the government made him a special prosecutor.” She pressed her fingertips into old crumbs on the table. “In 1970. To deal with the people who'd been arrested under the War Measures Act.”

“Is that why you hate him so much?”

“Who?” She looked up in surprise. “My father?”

“Because he put them all in jail?”

“He didn't put them in jail, Hugo. The police did that.”