River City (58 page)

He would not stand down. This was the fight of his lifetime, between those who believed that Quebec rightfully belonged in Canada—the elegant destiny that he believed the country had prepared for itself—and those who vied for an independent state dressed in its full, mythic glory. His astonishing rise to power, his unprecedented popularity, had led to this moment and this conflict. The history of the Quebec nation had moved inexorably towards this quarrel. Trudeau’s words and position provoked rocks and bottles, and now he would stand and see if such actions could break him.

On television, the country watched.

She kicked, and flailed her legs. He had her, the bastard, and God, he was strong. Then she was free again. The young rock-thrower didn’t know how it had happened. She was running again. She looked back. Bystanders had jumped in, taking the side of the girl against the cop, and now he fought off those who’d jumped him, but instead of arresting the ruffians, he was running after her once more.

He’d catch her, too.

In the end, she didn’t want to be caught. So she surrendered. The better option. Her lungs were desperate for air, her whole body was rebelling. She slumped to her knees and waited. Momentarily, the cop was upon her, locking her hands behind her back.

“You got me,” she said, breathing heavily.

“Piece of cake,” he said, and they both laughed lightly.

Both of them needed a respite, and once she was cuffed, Cinq-Mars put his hands on his knees and caught his breath. He looked at her, and she returned his gaze. Captor and captive, each curious about the other. She seemed stretched to him, her neck elongated, her nose as slender as a knife. Her brown eyes were wide-set, but the face itself seemed pinched, so that her eyes stood out all the more. Her eyebrows, light and gently curved, were the most perfect of angel wings. She was so pretty, he wanted to stop all this and let her go. He wanted to run after her again. To look at her eyes was easier, and more polite, but he wanted to observe her mouth, and, pretending to breathe extra heavily, he looked down between his feet, then back up again, his glance crossing her lips. Slender also, not the full lips of so-called great beauties but he found her lips inviting. Under the left side of her mouth, a quartet of faint spots. A sprinkle of fine freckles across her nose, falling slightly onto the soft rise of her cheeks.

He was the captor, but he knew that he had been disarmed.

She was just so pretty.

“Do you know Captain Armand Touton?” she asked as he pulled her up to her feet.

He was thinking of her legs. They were beautifully long. He was looking forward to the walk in search of a paddy wagon. He reached out to guide her away and was astonished at how easily his fingers encircled her wrist.

“Heard of him.” Touton was the most famous and feared cop in the department, yet although both men worked out of downtown headquarters, Cinq-Mars had not been around long enough to make his acquaintance. “You want to tell me a story? How he’s your uncle?”

“He’s closer to me than any uncle.”

“I don’t care if he’s your father—is he?—you still threw the first rock.”

“Eighteen thousand rocks have been thrown so far. I’ve kept count. Why do you care so much about the first one?” He was leading her towards a paddy wagon down the block. She feared it, for she was mildly claustrophobic and it looked as though they were packing the rioters in tightly. She might not be able to endure that confinement without losing her cool.

“You started it.”

“The English started it when they invaded us in 1759. That rock’s been waiting to be thrown for over two hundred years.”

“Tell it to the judge.” He had to wait with her in a line with other cops leading their prisoners to the paddy wagon. Standing beside her, he did not mind the delay.

“You tell it to Armand—Captain Touton,” she said. “Treat me badly, and you can kiss your career goodbye.”

“There’s nothing at all charming about threatening people.”

“You haven’t treated me badly yet. I’m not asking for special treatment.”

“I don’t have the energy to treat you badly.”

They laughed briefly again, and Cinq-Mars couldn’t help but wish that they had met under different circumstances. In the larger scheme of things, throwing a rock might not be the most heinous crime on earth.

“Do me a favour … no—two favours.” She was still trying to breathe normally.

“You’re in a great situation to be asking for favours.”

“I’m claustrophobic. Put me in a squad car. Not a paddy wagon. I’ll scream. I’ll go insane.”

Cinq-Mars looked at her. He saw that she was serious. “Sorry, but you should have thought of that before you threw the rock.” The response was a tough one, and the woman continued to gaze up at him as though another option might yet occur to the officer. “I don’t have a squad car,” he went on, “and I don’t have the rank to do anything more than put you in that paddy wagon.”

“Then promise me this—”

“I can’t make any promises.”

“Promise me. Get me on
this
paddy wagon. It’s nearly full. I’ll be at the end, near the window. It’ll leave soon. If you put me on the next one, I’ll get pushed all the way inside and I’ll have to wait. I’ll die in there. Please.”

Cinq-Mars nodded. Dragging her along with him, he shoved past other officers. “We need this one to go on right now. I can’t wait.” Other officers didn’t mind. The longer they spent in line with their prisoners, the longer they were out of the fray, where no one really wanted to be.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll put in a good word with Armand.”

“You do that.”

“My second favour …”

They were almost at the rear gate, and Cinq-Mars shouted at the guard to hold on, he had one more prisoner to shove in for this trip. The guard argued back, but Cinq-Mars pressed forward with his captive and the door remained ajar.

“What second favour?” he shouted in the young woman’s ear. “Tell Armand I’m under arrest. Get the word to him, all right?” “I don’t have access to the man—” “Just do it, all right? Trust me. He’ll thank you.” “What’s your name? I’ll have to tell him your name.” He helped hoist her into the back. From inside, an arm reached around her waist and clasped her, pulling her in.

“Get your cuffs back,” the guard commanded.

Cinq-Mars helped turn the woman around so that he could reclaim his handcuffs. She spoke to him over her shoulder. “Anik Clément. Got that? Will you remember? Anik. Clément.”

He got his cuffs off her. The door closed on the young woman. Cinq-Mars moved off quickly, not really knowing what he should do in the chaos of the street. He noticed that the parade remained in shocked existence, although wildly dispersed, and various segments had lost touch one with the other. Performers, bands and floats were continuing to come down Sherbrooke Street, those at the rear not fully cognizant of what was going on up ahead. He thought that he should at least stop the parade before any baton-twirling teenagers got hurt.

Then he heard a burst of screams and shouts behind him. Twisting around, he saw the tumult of bodies and cops flailing with their sticks close to the paddy wagon. The situation looked rough, but the police had the upper hand. He wasn’t needed. Then, in what seemed like slow motion, although it happened in seconds, he spotted a rioter opening the rear door with the keys, and prisoners inside the paddy wagon splurged out. For one quick instant, he caught sight of the girl, and she noticed him, then darted into the mob and into the dark night, away from the bright parade and television lights.

Cinq-Mars took three steps towards her, then let it go.

She was lost to him this time. In any case, she had given him her name. She undoubtedly regretted that now. Just to be safe—who knew what distractions might await him through the night—he wrote her name in his notebook before returning his attention to the streets. When he looked up, he gazed straight across at the prime minister scanning the situation. Interesting. A politician who hadn’t run for cover. Cinq-Mars then brought his hand down upon the back of a rioter, opened up the boy’s left palm until he dropped his rock, then gave him a shove to send him on his way. The rock he kicked down a storm drain, to keep it out of circulation.

Most of his fellow officers were busy handcuffing their prey and lining them up for transport to crowded overnight lockups, but order had largely been restored in this area and the mopping-up procedures were under control. Cinq-Mars helped out an elderly couple petrified that they might be run down by escapees or policemen. They both walked with canes. Although anxious to avoid any further unexpected adventures, they had enjoyed the spectacle well enough. He clasped the frail, stooped woman around the shoulders and shuffled along with her, while the diminutive old man took hold of his opposite elbow for balance. They made their way through a gap in the crowd towards a quiet side street. From there, they progressed on their own, undeterred by the steep incline. He watched them go, admiring the longevity of their affection for one another.

Before heading back to the bedlam, the young officer again took out his notebook. He had nothing further to jot down. Instead, he read the name inscribed on the page. Anik Clément.

Alone on the reviewing stand, Pierre Elliott Trudeau again took his seat. Momentarily, his good friend Gérard Pelletier, these days a cabinet minister who’d been down at Liberal Party headquarters prior to the fracas, joined him for a preliminary debriefing.

“I’ll be blamed for this, I suppose,” Trudeau remarked.

“You looked great on TV. The commentary was positive. A few journalists took cheap shots, the people-in-the-street interviews were largely negative. Overall, you looked good. The commentary will be helpful.”

Trudeau nodded and moved around as though preparing to leave. The parade was gone now, the big fight over, and only thousands of dazed spectators remained behind. The biggest story they recounted had to do with the rioters—some called them patriots—who’d been tossed into a paddy wagon and then escaped.
That
had been exciting.

“Gérard, this isn’t going away. It’ll be the fight of our lives.”

The tall man beamed. “Interesting times, Pierre. Would you rather be bored?”

The question did not demand an answer. They both knew that a confluence of events and forces had placed them in power in changing times. Two weeks before this riot, Robert F. Kennedy had been gunned down in Los Angeles, two months after the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. President John F. Kennedy had been dead for less than five years. The potential for attacks on leaders was now part and parcel of the stress of political life, and while the night’s foray had been limited to glass and rocks, who knew what the future might hold? He loved to debate. He loved to tangle on the fly with those who brought ideas of their own. He presumed that he’d continue to have that opportunity. Others, though, moved in the shadows and guarded their secrecy. For them, the discussion was closed. Out there, some believed in their own analysis, and while today they had tossed projectiles without much accuracy, no one could predict how their rage might escalate, or their range improve.

“I’m beginning to believe in your Cartier Dagger. The luck you’ve had.”

“Come on,” Trudeau said. “Let’s go win an election.”

Trudeau and Pelletier walked back up the steps to the library, to the relief of the officer assigned to the prime minister’s protection, and the two men departed behind curtains erected for this event as though they were moving off a stage. Another performance awaited them as the country went to the polls the following morning, their fate in the hands of the people once again.

She counted this among the best times of her life. No sooner had she broken out of the van with the other prisoners than one had shouted, “This way! Come on!” She had gone with him, running blindly, furious and scared. She was so relieved to be out of that crowded space that she could scream, and she remained utterly terrified that she might be stuffed back into the truck again. Almost immediately, five of them were on the move, running hard, leaping hurdles and sprinting through small openings in the clusters of people. They alerted one another to police sightings—all thrilling, all fun—and headed north, still on the run, where the crowds thinned out, and finally dispersed to being only stragglers. The group slowed to a jog, always glancing behind, then bent, exhausted, they stopped to catch their breath.

“Paul,” said one.

Another said his name was Jean-Luc.

“Vincent,” said the third.

“Pierre,” said the boy nearest her.

“Anik.”

“Let’s grab a beer,” Paul suggested, and they drifted onto St. Denis Street and the bar scene there. They entered a crowded subterranean spot where young people were talking about the night, for most had taken part in the events firsthand and perhaps more were claiming to have thrown rocks than had actually done so. One boy wiggled both his big toes, which poked out from holes in his socks. “I got so mad, I threw my shoes.” Everyone was euphoric from the snap of adrenaline.

The five escapees pooled their coins and ordered a pitcher. When the word went around the bar that they were the ones who’d bolted from the paddy wagon, new friends bought them beer into the wee hours. They were the heroes of the escapade, and Anik remained ecstatic. She had been longing for this. Real contact with people like herself, who shared the same ideals. The boys were in school—Paul in photography, Jean-Luc in political science, both Vincent and Pierre studying literature at different universities. They were high on excitement, and after forays to the back alley they were high on marijuana as well. A good night all around.

The conversation ignited her. Anik’s own friends had let her down. They had wimped out. She hadn’t expected much from them, but definitely something more than retreat. Tonight was the last straw. Time to change her friends. These boys, though, had not only joined in but had come prepared to fight, and one, playfully, was mad at her for beating him to the punch.

“I wanted to throw the first rock,” Jean-Luc exclaimed. “I was waiting for the pretty majorettes to pass by, the ones in pink. Why’d they stop right in front of me?”